Chapter 2 - PART ONE: THIEVES UNDER THE NIGHT

"In which everyone's afraid of some dumbass" – Jaskell

Two shadowy figures trudged through rain-soaked muck in the alleyways of Inemestrel. They avoided the light of windows they passed, and especially kept their faces low; both were wrapped in dark hoods and cloaks. One figure was tall, and walked with level confidence and grace, as though no rock or puddle could offset its balance. The other, shorter but not so short, trundled along with much less grace; still quiet, creeping like a thief—though one stockier than normal.

As they approached the largest building on their alley, an inn with a public drinking-hole, the shorter, stouter one saw fit to speak, in low gravelly whisper: "In here, yer sure?"

"Yes," his companion responded in clear, high—but still masculine-sounding—voice. "The pieces are set. He is here."

Both men moved to enter through a side door. The short, stocky one extended an arm to stop his companion. "They're bound to recognize ya, lad. Find a dark spot to hide, you can catch 'em if 'e flees."

Quietly (but not over-quietly) the short man cracked open the backdoor and slipped inside. The tall one's eyes darted brightly towards the firelit windows, and about the alley's dark eaves from beneath his black hood. He stepped back into the moonlit shadows.

***

This was a horribly rainy night, the kind that makes one wish for a warm tavern, a beer, and a bit of song and company. And as such I (Denbas Sorman, who is most often known as 'Den') was in the closest thing: a musty little pub called The Howling Moon in Inemestrel, a smallish city of Newandrale, the northeastern-most of the Human Lands. Den sat in the dark eaves of this bar room, alone in a small corner booth, slurping at a tin tankard of diluted grog.

Dim orange light danced from a wide hearth; its disheveled, ancient mantle sagging and dusty. Closest to the firelight was a somber band of musicians; or, well, 'band' is a bit over-generous. One gray-creased old man blew all the wrong notes on a crude wooden flute. Another, red and crude of face, patted at a goat-hide drum. The music didn't do much for the atmosphere, drowned as it was by drunken muttering and the crackle of the fire.

Den's clothes were slovenly, his stubble and medium-length curly hair unkempt. He still kept a soldier's dagger under his tunic; the thing was probably rusty, now. He didn't look like someone worth robbing, because he wasn't. His coin-pouch was thin, nearly empty. Clients provided him dull old spears and barrel lids for shields, but those didn't see much use either. When he did feel anything, he felt about as useful as those.

He became aware enough of himself to stare around at the other patrons, his mouth agape under a cold red nose and glassy, squinting eyes. Mostly, they were people like him: a few bar-maids and dull locals, men of various ages and in various stages of drunken un-death, quietly (and not-so-quietly) gulping down what little was left of their coin for the week. It wasn't easy to see some of the old drunks in the darker corners, but there wasn't likely to be anything worth seeing. He heard one man snore, and another knock their tankard to the ground. The smell was heavy: sweat and warm brew.

On that note, Den's next draught from his cup came up empty. He knocked on his table and tossed the forthcoming maid a pair of Beams—the smallest denomination of the King's Royal tender—as she took his used cup from him. It was a beautiful system, these drafty old pub-hovels had. You didn't have to actually talk to anyone.

He continued to sweep around the bar stools and booths with his tired eye sockets. And, well that was interesting, if not surprising. A few local guards of a more official sort were huddled in one of the larger corner booths. Wolf-Brigade; they were Lord Benail's men, not that the standard meant much here. The Lord's coin could only stretch so far; these men's uniforms were, well, they all bore the same wolf's head coat-of-arms. But beyond that, 'uniform' wasn't the right word; they were patchy, poorly knit; metal bits dinged and rusty. They were about as disheveled as Den, and the men beneath likely less disciplined even than he.

Still, they were together: whispering and chanting and snickering among themselves. Actually, there was something surprisingly furtive about them; usually local guards like these were rather brash and shouty, looking for an audience; a maiden to annoy. These ones were certainly not a kindly sort, but they were making a rare effort not to be heard by prying ears like Den's—their eyes darted around, they were hushed; no doubt what secrets they were keeping were serious ones, to make wary such unserious men.

Another barmaid passed Den by (one unfortunate to be serving the group of guardsmen) and then Den spotted something odd from the corner of his eye. All these bar patrons (and the tender and the maids) were dressed mostly in drab grays and browns, deep blacks and yellowing whites, and earthy off-reds, with the occasional rusty button or brass clasp short on luster. Den caught sight of bright color: a flash of magenta fabric, a darkish pink but still vibrant and unusual. He blinked to focus and beheld the item properly: the pink was a scarf of fine fabric, new-looking and immaculately clean. And below it, a bright turquoise waistcoat; equally clean, crisply pressed, lined with glimmering golden filigree. He looked up to the head to find the wearer of such fine and unusual garb, and by the short white hair and long pointed ears knew he was seeing an Elf. Not surprising; when Elven travelers did venture all the way out here, they came with the means for cleanliness and finery.

He took another moment to realize that this garishly-dressed Elf was an Elf-maiden; High-Elves always came across to Den as androgynous, with high-set cheekbones and narrow, ageless, beardless faces on each Elf, man or woman. Especially so for the lower-class ones who came out here for reasons beyond glorious Warleading. But this Elf-lady was wearing clothing that struck him as especially befitting of a man: a tight waistcoat covering a puffy white blouse, plain-looking beige trousers, red-brown leather boots, and of course, that scarf. Her hair, too; Den couldn't remember many Elves, man or woman, who cut their long white locks so short; it looked more like a human man's haircut: short, messy, crescent-shaped half-curls tressing not much further than her ears or neck-nape. She seemed to be talking to the 'musicians'... or trying to, anyway.

Den was mystified by this occurrence, and it seemed he wasn't the only one. A few more curious eyes were poking out of the darkness at this unusual Elvish arrival, and the Elf-maiden had also attracted the attention of the Wolf-guards at Den's right. These men were not above heckling (or worse) any women they caught sight of, but High-Elven ladies were another matter; a curiosity, and one not to be trifled with. Den looked again to the Elf and noticed now she wore a sword-belt; a short, curving saber sheathed at her side. All the Elves he'd seen were skillful warriors; even Elvish maidens could be trained to fight.

Abruptly the Elf-lady turned, and was now facing the dumbstruck pub-crowd, Den included. Her make-up, too, was odd and garish: her lips and lower eyelids were painted sparkling teal to match her waistcoat, and her cheeks seemed to glimmer, as though they too were specked with gold filigree. It was eye-catching, even for an Elf — an entertainer? She pulled a round string instrument from behind her—finely crafted of dark wood, and also lustrous golden-lined—and deftly strummed a cheerful chord. Her hands were gloved the same pinkish silk as her scarf. And to the crowd she spoke, her voice already musical, poetic:

"Good evening, weary travelers. This cold night drags me, douses the soul-fire of Elves and humankind alike. Would that I were warmed as you, by fire, song and spirits. Although…" She turned a mischievous eye upon the sorry music-men behind her. The voices of Elves, clear and fey, seem special-made for mischief. "…it may be that one facet of that triptych now as well is dampened. But herein is the calling of my kinsfolk, to sing, and by the magic of our music lift men's souls. Do any of you fine people know a song?"

If blinking did produce a loud noise, the Howling Moon would then have been a great crashing cacophony. But it does not, and so there was a long moment of silence. Then to the silence a voice, one of the Wolf-guardsmen, called out: "The Bar-Wench from Jorfellim!" This prompted supportive jeers from his companions, and some of the other drunks.

The Elf-maiden looked back at the willowy old flutist (that is, the man who played the flute) and, when he and his drummer nodded, turned back and raised her fingers to the strings of her instrument. It bears mention that, while Inemestrel had fallen on hard times, it was a Human city of middling repute, and most Human settlements faced similar hardships. Such as Jorfellim, which was never much to look at and now, by Den's reckoning, was nothing short of a wretched slum. That is, a town known for poverty and an exceptional degree of ill-repute. The Elf musician played the song's opening chords, and her voice raised into song:

"My travels kept my night from dream,

And u-under bridge and o'er the stream,

'Neath leaky roof and sagging beam,

I sat and drank in Jorfellim,

When I beheld a Maiden there,

My drink told me that she was fair,

Took her to bed up creaking stair,

But in the cold of morning's air,

I saw her! I saw her!

And gasping, then, I left her,

I left her! I left her!

My little Bar-Wench from Jorfellim!

And in the night you'll hear her cry,

Though no man heeds or tells her why:

'O Fa-ther, Fa-ther, why has he departed?

That trav'ling man has tookmy heart,

Though I wish we'd never be apart!

I love him, I love him!

I wish he'd come back to Jorfellim!'"

The jolly little tune filled the room with a bright warmth. Already Den could see men swaying their heads to the rhythm, and found he was unconsciously doing the same himself. There was humming, and drinks held aloft, clanged against each other and quaffed heartily. The Elf continued, louder and more excited now:

"Through wood and road, o'er hi-ill and dell,

My travels day and night had fell,

Before I reached… Inemestrel,"

(This was clearly a pandering improvisation by the Elf, and it brought raucous, patriotic cheers.)

"And in the square around the well,

A merchant's daughter I did see,

A lovely maid, and prim was she,

A right wife for a man as me,

And doubtless a hearty dow-uh-ry,

We courted! Consorted!

Until we got to rowing,

We fought, so I left her!

My stubborn sow from Inemestrel!

And in the night she's known to cry,

Though he's old and as confused as I:

'O Fa-ther, Fa-ther, he'd better not come back here!

Why did I ever let him start?

I'm glad that he's gone and we're apart!

I hate him! I hate him!

He'd best stay gone from Inemestrel!'"

By this point many around the bar had begun to loudly sing along—as best they could, given their drink-saturation. It was an old, common song; only the locations changed (and the rhymes to match) so it wasn't hard for a bar-regular to slur together some stanzas. Den, though, did not sing; he didn't think himself much of a singer, and was sober enough to not want to taint the precious tune with his own hoarse slurring.

But by his own talents he had seen something during that stanza: the faintest glint of some metal in an odd spot before him. The glint had not been on Elf ahead or the armed guards to Den's right, but somewhere, bafflingly, in the empty space between. The glint had flashed only for a second there... maybe Den was just hallucinating. He looked again at the guards and—well, he hadn't noticed until now, when the man sat up, but near the edge of the group was a man of clearly higher rank; he had a hooded cloak, and a real sword at his hip; likely he was the captain of this little band. His guardsmen were all entranced by (and mostly singing along to) the Elf-lady's ballad, and didn't notice that he been slouching a moment, and now sat upright. The captain's head flopped forwards… was he bleeding?

Den noticed an arm on the guard-captain's right shoulder, and connected it to a shadowy bar-patron who sat slightly away from the guardsmen; he wasn't one of them. When he looked at the arm, it withdrew with quiet speed, and then the man attached to it stared hard at Den from beneath a heavy black hood. Den cocked his head, squinting, confused; and then, sobriety rushing back, snapped his eyes back to the Elf-singer. An assassination! The song continued; now the music slowed, and the Elf took on a quiet tone; the people were entranced. None saw what Den had: the guard-captain, dying or dead.

"And the-en, at last, my jou-ourney ran,

To Æ-Ætsolai, the go-olden land,

Where E-elven Kings, and su-unlit sand,

Do fi-ill the heart and wa-arm the hand,"

Den ventured a glance back at the guard-table; one of the guards had noticed the state of his captain and was tapping at others. The shadowy figure who'd been propping up the wounded captain was nowhere to be seen.

"Be-eheld a lady fai-air and true,

A Pri-incess Elf, with re-etinue,

And fo-ortune, title, e-eyes deep blue,"

The guardsmen were standing now; some of them were staring at the little knife in their dead captain's chest. And yet, one of them stayed shrinking into their booth; Den noticed he was not wearing the same uniform. He was a thin and sullen little man, and Den spotted a finer shirt beneath his drab guard-cloak. Was he a nobleman?

The Elf-maiden took a hearty strum, and tapped her boot, heel to toe to heel again, with a faster rhythm. The crowd cheered and prepared to match her sudden increase in tempo:

"—Got one look at me, and I was through!

We courted! We courted!

But I brought scandal to her,

She needed to be rid of I,

My Elven Princess from Ætsolai!

And then to the King she shouted, cried,"

The Elf-singer drew a golden saber from her side, and with its back edge drew at her instrument's strings like it was the bow of a harp. Den realized she was dancing about the room; jumping now between tables, and that the guardsmen, too, had drawn swords and were struggling to follow her. Den stood, though he knew not why. Most people were still singing. They must have though the commotion to be part of the show.

"Which, hearing, His Highness met my eye:

'O Father, Father, this common fool attacked me!

He's trying to steal and break my heart,

Get guards now to tear his flesh apart!

He loves me! He loves me!

So let's keep his head in Ætsolai!'"

The Elf-maiden continued to jump around the room, dragging at her strings, as the crowd whooped and laughed at the song's punch-line, but then she swung her instrument and struck the head of one of the guardsmen with the edge its heavy end. He fell down flat with a thud. With a gleaming hiss her sword flashed outwards; the Elf smiled wildly. She tensed into a duelist's stance, and then the guardsmen were upon her. The room fell quiet except for the sounds of metal hitting metal, and Den rushed towards the scrum. In a panic, drunken locals tried to scramble out the doors. A firm hand took Den by the shoulder and heaved him backwards; he fell on his behind on the sticky wooden floor, and sat momentarily stunned. He looked up at the one who'd thrown him down: the shadow-assassin-man, who was grabbing and stabbing guardsmen with a short infantry blade and shoving his way in towards the Elf.

Den stood again, and this time grappled for his knife. But why, some far-off part of him shouted. Who are you going to fight here? What is happening? Well… Den took a moment to try to force some thoughts through his beer-soaked brain. On the one hand, the Wolf-guards had authority here, including the authority to arrest him, and bar him from what little work he could find. On the other hand, the singer-lady was an Elf, and he'd sworn to fight for the High-Elven King and his cause.

By the time he'd made up his mind, stood, and drawn his knife, all of the guardsmen were on the floor. The shadow-man had a hand on the Elf's shoulder and was trying to lead her out, while she wiped her blade on an errant bit of guard-tabard and then, well, then her eyes caught Den standing and staring back at her. Shadow-man turned also, and held his sword point-first towards Den. The bartender, hoping not to be noticed, was crouched and creeping towards the door of his back-storeroom.

"Wait!" Den shouted to Shadow-man. His hands shot up, and his dagger clattered to the ground. "I'm not— I'm not one of them. I was going to help you!"

Shadow-man stopped, and glanced back at his Elvish companion. She shrugged and began to walk out. Shadow-man spared another glance Den's way and then, apparently satisfied, sheathed his shortsword and turned to leave also.

"Wha—?" awkwardly, Den retrieved his dagger from the floor and hurried to follow. "Wait! Who are you people?"

At the doorway Shadow-man stopped, and turning, thrust a black-gloved finger towards Den's face, shouting: "Stop! Stay ten minutes here, then leave and never speak of this."

Startled, Den stopped and caught the man's eyes. He looked tired, but serious enough that the order would be enforced. Shadow-man left without another word.

Den stood still for a minute, maybe two. The room was silent. And then he realized, grinning, that the man's threat was empty. This occurrence was… a Thing! A curiosity! This is what Den had been waiting for! Four years of hopeless, pointless drudgery, any chance of a soldiering career dashed, his dreams of glory, dead. What more did he have to fight for than to understand this mysterious, stupefying, delightful surprise? And if this shadowy man would run him through (for some reason, Den believed the man would not), what else did he have to die for? How could he go back to the same gray nothingness, not knowing?

Utterly confident, Den swung open the door, triumphant. Cut-off were the bartender's words shouted after him: "Hey you! Tell your friends th—" as the door swung shut. The garish Elf-singer and Shadow-man seemed to have a partner (or maybe a leader?): a taller shadow-man stood between them, looming over the low nobleman with whom the now-dead guards had been conversing. The three outlaws noticed Den immediately, and the original (shorter) Shadow-man walked over, hand at sword-hilt.

"Wa-wa-wait!" said Den.

"What're ya, stupid, kid?" Short-shadow-man drew his sword.

Den backed away now, arms outstretched plaintively. "I just— I know these guys aren't the best… I'm… I was a soldier!"

Den held out his dagger by the blade, so that the harmless end faced the shadow-men and Elf. Its hilt matched the style of Short-shadow's sword. The stocky, cloaked brigand stared at the dagger, then up at Den. He didn't seem to know what to make of this lost soul yet. The other two were still engaged with the nobleman: tall-shadow-man's slender, black-gloved hands gripped the frightened old noble by the collar. Den couldn't hear what either said. He turned back to Short shadow-man. "Look I—…I'm just curious, is all. And, well, lost, I guess. Ever since we let the Prince get taken—"

At this Short shadow-man perked up, and glanced back at his companions, who apparently hadn't heard. He sheathed his sword. "You were in Gorlitenza durin' the Doomed Offensive?" he asked.

"Well, uh…yes, I mean, it wasn't my proudest moment. Really it was the last time I ever felt like I could do some good, you know, like things made sense. Now it just feels like… hey, you're a soldier too, right?"

Short-shadow drew closer. From behind, his tall companion spoke with a clear high voice, with vigor: "Oi, who is that, a contact?" He was staring at Den. The garishly-dressed Elf-maiden whispered something to him, and Tall continued: "…why is he not dead?"

Short-shadow sighed, and put a wide, yet gentle hand on Den's shoulder. "Listen, kid, you don't want no part in what we're doin'. Just go on home and forget what you saw here. This ain't yer War anymore, awright?"

Den lit up, "Aha, so it is a Secret Mission! I just knew Lord Benail's men in there were rotten, why, there has to be some—" Short-shadow was holding his forehead in one hand, and shaking his head back and forth, "Hey… hey! I can help you guys. I know Inemestrel better than anyone, and you're clearly—"

There was a thud from behind the shorter shadow-man, and Den peeked around him to see the nobleman dead on the ground of the alleyway. The tall one was walking towards him while the Elf-maiden surveyed both streets beyond. Tall addressed Den directly, and Den could just make out the tip of his chin from beneath his cloak-hood's shadow: "Don't you fear us, boy? Any common thief can acquire a soldier's sword."

Young Sorman shook his head. "It's not just about weapons. You guys are clearly soldiers, real soldiers; it's about the way you carry yourselves. Speak, use the sword, just the way you stand, y'know, you—"

Den squinted. Tall turned subtly away from him, but Den had seen well enough to perceived the shape of the man's jaw, the lower half of his face. Den stepped closer, and the tall man stepped back in kind. Den found the short one's hand pressing him firmly at the shoulder; any further step would not be allowed. They both wanted to keep the identity of the tall man a secret, but—"Prince Phemelius?"

Now six eyes swiftly swiveled and locked onto Den. This startled him, but he dropped to his knees, tears welling in his eyes; their immediate hostility was confirmation enough: "My Prince… you're alive! Oh, thank the Lord Emolelei, highest of the gods! I thought—"

"Silence!" The tall one hissed a harsh whisper then, standing over Den, pulled back his hood a bit so that Den (and no one else) could see his face. And there indeed stood the Elvish Prince Phemelius, son of Moliesvar, heir to the Burning Ax. "Stand, Human, and do not speak my name again. Tell me yours, and stop your blubbering. I have no use for simpering bent-knees among my soldiers."

Den stood at attention. "Yes, My— … yes, yes Sir! Guardsman Denbas Sorman at your leave. What are my orders, Sir?"

The Prince and Shadow-man shared a glance. Then the shorter Shadow-man extended Den a hand, removed his hood, and spoke: "Captain Dregal Shennistane, third company of the Raven. But, uh…"

Dregal was a stocky man, and short, as is already known. His thick beard and thinning hair were black and graying, his face scarred and weather-worn, his nose a broken knob. He looked older than most soldiers; why it was that he'd survived, and the ways he nearly hadn't, were both self-evident. He was a rough-and-tumble sort, knobby and hard like a thick oak.

Prince Phemelius crouched a bit, so his face was near Den's eye-level. Only the slightest bits of his long, white elf-locks, his shadowed green eyes, were visible under his hood. "Denbas," said the Prince. "We do have a Mission, one extremely well guarded. Few men or elves now living have heard tell of our quest. You may join us, on two conditions: follow my commands, and the words of my companions absolutely, and trust that, while we may now tell you very little, all will be revealed to you in time."

"…okay. And you can just call me 'Den,' by the way. What do we do?"

Phemelius heaved a sigh. "For now, follow us. We have what we needed from Inemestrel, and are moving on." He marched now towards the alley's ending, pulled his hood low. Dregal watched Den follow and fell in behind.

"What about you?" Den asked the other Elf, the singer. "What's your name?"

The Elf-maiden smiled jovially, and extended her own hand to shake. "You can call me Fia. Did you like my song, Denbas?" Den shook her gloved hand.

"Oh, yes, and you can call me Den like everyone else," said Den, smiling back. "That was quite the performance, especially the ending. Where'd you get a Sungold Sword?"

She chuckled. "I'm an Elf. And anyway, this is one of the common ones. Like they give to foot-soldiers? I haven't managed to make it light up yet, y'know, that magic they're supposed to do?"

"Oh yeah, well, I'm sure you will someday soon. There's magic in that instrument of yours, anyway."

"Oh, my Lute?" She brandished her gold-trimmed lute. "Well, I guess so. But it's not, like, fiery-light magic. I'm not even sure I can do all that."

"Oh it's real, I've seen it." Den recalled his childhood awe. "General Mo— well, it was the Prin—…uh, his dad, actually. He lit The Ax ablaze using only his Elven magic powers, and, y'know, you're a High Elf too!"

"Den…" said Fia. "Try not to talk about…" She leaned and cupped a hand to whisper in Den's ear: "his dad around him. Sore subject."

"Oh… oh, shit!" Den was mortified. The General's mortal injury was his own failure, and the Prince probably felt the same way. But worse, because, you know, it was his father.

"Here we are!" Dregal said, and the four were in the end of some alleyway. Den looked up and beheld: a stout wooden horse-cart, the kind that might carry hay bales, or many boxes of fruit. And beside it, two men: one, mid-height and lean, a soldier-type close to Den's age, red-haired and sullen, and another, short and wiry, hunched, with messy waves of matted blond hair, and wearing a knowing smirk. They both wore hooded cloaks similar to those of the Prince and Captain Dregal, though wiry's seemed a bit worse for wear.

"Who's-iss sod?" the wiry fellow asked. He was missing a few teeth.

"I am D—" Den was cut off.

"This here's Den. He's excited to join our cause," said Dregal, and the Captain stepped up into the cart. Fia and the Prince were already in the cart-bed, fumbling with a cloth-wrapped lump on the floor by the driver's seat.

"Denbas Sorman. I'm a guardsman of the Stag Company. Or, well… I was."

"Den-bas?" Wiry laughed. "Whakinda stupey name's that?"

Den frowned. "Just call me Den. What about you, then, what amazingname do you have?"

Wiry grinned cruelly. "I'm 'Getta,' Denbas. And this sod's 'Jaskell'. Hes a corp'rl, ain't that swell?"

Jaskell rolled his eyes, grunted, and stepped up to join the others in the cart-bed.

"C'mon Denbas," said Getta. "We're rollin' out, spear-sods or no!"

Den stepped up into the cart. Fia and the Prince were now sitting in the two seats at the front, ready to depart. Seeing this, Den sat next to Jaskell in the bare cart-bed; Getta and Dregal sat opposite them.

The cart lurched to a roll. "Real Big fancy, huh Denbas?" Getta asked, knocking on the worn planks beneath. "Call this 'The Royal Treatment'."

"Better than walking, I guess," Den answered. The cart bounced over some bump of the road, and Den was bounced a centimeter or two upwards, then painfully back down.

"Hah! Not faster, I tell'ya." Getta leaned his head beyond the cart to look ahead at the old horse that drew it. "Get goin', ya lump!" The Prince shot him an annoyed glare.

Den turned to his right, and extended a hand to Jaskell, "Hey. I'm Den by the way. I think we have a lot in common, soldiering for the Prince and all." He nodded at Getta, thinking: and being bothered by this 'sod'.

Jaskell just stared at Den, arms crossed. Den smiled awkwardly, and after a moment, slowly lowered his hand.

"He don't like talk," said Dregal. "From anyone."

"Okay…. and what do we have for supplies?" Den asked, now addressing Dregal. He was still drunk, but his stomach felt empty.

"We got what we need." Dregal's words were tersely spoken. Den recognized officer-speak when he saw it. Whether they were well-supplied or starving, the Captain didn't want Den to know. Den eyed the cloth-covered lump resting by the cart's front wall. Surely, they had rations in there…

"Ah!" said Getta. "Don't worry 'bout the loots. You'll get yer split. Prince Dour doesn't like guys near... it. Why'd ya think they put Corp'rl Cower back with Getta?"

"…it?" Den looked at Getta, puzzled.

"Yeah, 'it'. What, y'think 'e lost it?" Getta nodded at Prince Phemelius. Dregal was looking at nothing in particular between the two men, such that both were in his peripheral vision.

Den's eyes widened. Again he stared at the cloth supply-lump, though he could see neither shape nor lustrous surface of the 'It' he now could name. The Ax.

"...so….what," Den said to Getta. "You're, like, a thief?"

"We all buggerin' thieves," the thief replied with a grin. "But soldier-sods stand too straight fer thievin', on accounta sticks stucked up 'em. Need real getta, with sticky fingies and smarts."

"...wait, what did you call him? 'Prince Dour'?"

"Yeah," Getta said, and he pointed to each other cart-rider in turn. "Prince Dour, Cap'n Sour, Corp'rl Cower, Miss Smiley, and Getta." Getta looked thoughtfully at Den. "And you, Denbas… guess yer Sour too. Sour-man, hah!Denbas Sour-man, the stinkin' truth!"

Den sighed and sent a pained look to Jaskell; the Corporal now had his eyes closed, and his head laid back along the cart's rim. Den rested his own head back and thought for a minute. Dregal seemed to be doing the same, and Getta eyed Den deviously. At length, Den leaned towards Getta, and whispered: "Is she a soldier too? Fia?"

"Eh. Guess yah. She'd make good getta, if not makin' nicey song-noises s'much." Getta prodded his hairy chin. "Not bad fer Elf-sods."

Den crossed his arms. This 'Getta' fellow (and Den now understood this as a title—'Thief,' essentially, in getta-speak—and not the man's real name) seemed to lack all class, sense, and respect for authority. He was going to try and start a conversation with Captain Dregal, ignoring the thief, but Prince Phemelius spoke first, to all the riders. Jaskell opened his eyes.

"You had all best get some rest before sunrise. Fia and I will take tonight's watch." There was a great weight of authority in the words of the Prince. And, well, Den couldn't deny that there was also a dourness, though he figured the Prince had earned it. Den lay his head down on the hard wood of the cart-bed, squirming and curling into a fetal position to try and find a comfortable way of laying. He was used to bad beds. Getta sprawled out on his back and began to snore. Jaskell laid his head back again, shut his eyes, and slept. And Dregal, surveying the other three once more, and sparing a glance at Phemelius, was the last to roll to his side and fall asleep.

***

Phemelius and Fia sat in silence for some time; long after their four companions were fast asleep. Phemelius was first to break this silence, but only barely: "I know you don't—"

"A human!? Really, now." Fia's face looked quite annoyed indeed, quite serious. "With the task this close at hand, you're bringing some stranger into the mix? Oh, I know you like a challenge, but this is a new low."

"He will help us. He's sworn as much." Phemelius' eyes were focused on the road; he flicked the reins in his hands.

"Oh—oh, and why do you think he'd swear this to you?" Fia shook her head. "We don't even know who he's really loyal to. What he is, how much shit he—"

"So, what, then," he spared a glance at her. "We just—" and he ran a finger, straight and swift, across his own neck.

"We just get rid of him. As in: drop him somewhere, and none the wiser. He doesn't even know anything!"

"He knows enough. The humans don't know it's me yet, but they know of our actions. He could help them connect the pieces."

"...well then. That's that."

"I don't want to kill him, Fia."

"He's—" Fia stopped herself, glanced towards the back of the cart, and leaned close to Phemelius to whisper harshly: "he's of Them. Whatever potential you think he has, it's buried beneath a blazing mountain of monstrosity and lies!"

Phemelius lowered his eyes. "Your… experiences have given you a strong dislike of his kind."

"…so what, then? Am I being irrational?"

The Prince thought about this for a few long seconds, and then spoke calmly: "No. It means that you have a clearer understand of the stakes."

"Exactly. Because if this goes wrong, we…" She pointed at her own chest for emphasis. "—WE bear the consequences. Not some sad little drunkard pawn."

"I know you think I pity them too much." The Prince's eyes were set. "But this one is different. Or he can be, I don't know…"

Fia put a hand on Phemelius' shoulder. "Come on. What is this really about?"

He hung his head lower. "I've been thinking about what you said, when we first met. About… the future."

He paused. Fia looked away, and set her jaw, but her eyes were wet and teary. He looked at her until she turned and met the look. She forced back the tears.

"And when… we're done," he said, "I know things will be different, but… it can't be that we do to them what's being done… you understand? My hope, it's not just that things will be better for…"

She nodded slowly.

"...I want things to just be better. The humans don't have enough to know what they're doing. Not most of them, anyway. This is 'really about' what I've been saying. This 'Den'… I know he's… lost. Lacking. But if he can learn…"

"It's a risk, Meli. We already face many."

"A risk… to The Mission?" He eyed Fia knowingly. "I will take responsibility. If it needs to happen; if at any time you say so, I will get rid of him."

"…ah, so it's on me, then. Yes, that does sound easier for you."

Phemelius clutched a fist to his head. "No, I—…I can tell the difference. I know you can too. We're maintaining the same walls—your walls. The Mission. You know how things need to look for that."

"That's quite the wrinkling, all to say: 'I don't want to kill him, but I will if you say so, Fia!' My my, you royal-types are clever." She was smiling.

"You could just—" Phemelius quelled his anger, breathing heavily. "We both know there's time for this to develop. And his devotion could be of use to us. I choose to wait and see. But tell me if you seriously disagree, and we can decide another course. I just want you to be—"

"Nope." Sheinterlocked the fingers of both her silk-gloved hands behind her head and lounged back. "Waiting sounds good to me. You're lucky that you're so clever; don't need me to be direct and boring to get my point across. Apparently, you can see through all my delightful nonsense well enough."

"Fia. I just want you to be honest with yourself." The Prince looked quite sad now.

She sat up slowly and hung her head, sighing. "There are two truths. That's the conflict, in my own mind as much as yours. So… maybe this 'Denbas' could get there too. Share our misery."

Phemelius laid his head slowly, gently on her shoulder. "I'll give the pity, wise one," he said gently. "They're yours to hate."

Fia smiled melancholy towards the top of his resting head. She laid her head on his, and together they watched the Sun blaze up from beneath the horizon, pink and gold and brilliant.

***

Den awoke in the back of an old wooden horse-cart, as it bumped and battered him along the road. Wha—Oh yeah, right.Not some liquor dream.The Sun was rising. There were no smells beyond the grass and dirt of the field they trundled through. Getta and Captain Dregal were both snoring. The man next to Den… Jaskell, still sat upright with his eyes closed, breathing peacefully. Phemelius and Fia sat up front on the closest thing to real seats, both facing the road ahead.

Fia looked back at Den. "Ope! Morning, stranger!" She waved pleasantly at her new human passenger, then turned and nudged the Prince. "Let's stop and do breakfast. I'm starving!"

The cart turned off the road and into the fields that lined it. They looked like fallow farmland, thought its grasses and plants were stomped flat and wheel-rutted. Either this was a popular camping-spot, or it was used for some kind of outdoor festival on days less muddy than this. The horses went up and down a small hillock, such that the cart riders' view of the road (and the road's view of them) was greatly obscured.

Phemelius found a dryish, grassy spot and pulled the horses to a halt. He spun and stepped into the bed of the cart, gently kicking the Captain before kneeling to paw at the cloth-wrapped supply-lump. Dregal sat up sharply. "Up an at em, men! We'll have grub, and no less'n two eyes on the road. Sorman!"

Den was staring at the bundle as the Prince rummaged through it. "Uh, yes Captain Shennistane?"

"Just call me Dreg. Now, step down and watch the road!"

Den hopped out the back of the cart, stretching and yawning. "What am I supposed to be looking for?"

"Anyone. If y'see a traveller, hurry back and gimme details."

"Yes Sir… uh, Dreg."

Dregal shook his head and joined the others in setting up camp. Jaskell came from a nearby wood carrying kindling, Getta had dug a little impression and was starting a fire, and Phemelius brought a cast iron pot. The stout Captain set about trundling a few nearby stumps and small boulders to ring the makeshift fire-pit. Fia, perched on one of these, strummed a few chords on her Lute.

Den didn't see much of anything on the road. Right, left, right he swept his eyes, squinting to try and peer through the far-off treeline and into the twisting road within. He nearly jumped when a hand grabbed his shoulder; it was Jaskell. The man clicked his tongue and curled a thumb back at the cart-camp, with an accompanying sidelong nod of the head.

Den sighed. "There's no one out here," he said, and after one last bored look from Jaskell, he stalked off towards the smell of food.

The camp looked quite complete now. The cooking pot sat on burnt-down lumber embers; Den could smell vegetables and salted meats within. His stomach grumbled. Dregal sat stirring and poking at the stew, Fia and Getta were sitting and watching it hungrily. By the cart itself, Phemelius had set the thick beige bundling cloth up into a small tent, which he was now walking back from. "Tent's good. If anyone needs more shuteye, we're doing an hour or two here."

"That's you, golden boy," Fia called out to him. "You're bad at hiding it. Grab a bite and go get your beauty sleep." Getta snorted.

Phemelius narrowed his eyes. "I'm fine. And anyway, these…"

Dregal shook his head, held up a bowl of stew, and nodded at the Prince. "We're good, Sir. Off with ya!"

"Well, if you're all gonna—"

Fia swept up with her hand. "Go!" The Prince's shoulders slouched. He took the bowl, began to slurp at it, and walked off.

Getta smiled at Den. "See? Dour."

"Come on." Den felt irritable himself. "He's been up all night."

"—and anyway," Dregal added hurriedly. "He's got a lot on his mind. He's got a right to be a little 'dour,' I say." The Captain doled out food for the other three, then himself.

The food was good, hearty, nice and warm on a cool spring morning. The energy got Den's mind moving. "So, Getta tells me we'll be thieves. What is the plan here, exactly?"

Fia was focused on slurping her stew. Dregal shot a glare at Getta, then answered: "Yeah, that's about right. Bit a' thievin', bit a' spyin', and a little soldierin' too." His sentences always seemed so final; he looked back at his food the very second this one left his lips.

"Oh… kay, but… thieving what?" Den looked around at the others, who were pointedly trying not to look back at him. "Come on, you all know, right?"

Getta was licking the bottom of his bowl. "Getta," barked Dregal. "Go send Jaskell back here, it's yer turn t'watch the road." Getta huffed, tossed his bowl over onto the ground at Dregal's feet, and slunk away.

"Dreg." Den was getting upset now. "I just want some idea of what we're actually going todo. Or, like, the objective? What my role might be."

"Ye'll know when ya need to," answered the Captain, and he added: "ask Phemelius if y'want more'n that."

Den huffed. The Prince is asleep, and it's not like he'll answer, either, once he wakes up. This was a secret mission. This was a purpose. The Lost Prince was leading him… knew his name! But that didn't mean it felt good to be 'out of the loop'.

"Dreg," Den asked, and Dregal looked up, still cagey. "How did you meet the Prince?"

"Huh? Oh, he's been my Commander for years. Since he was a boy, and I nearly a boy myself." Dregal snorted a laugh. "Now I'm turnin' into an old man, and he gets to stay young for a few more centuries. Elves, right?" He shot an amused glance at Fia, who rolled her eyes.

"How about you, Fia?" Den asked.

She smiled. "He came to me, if you can believe it. Must've liked something about my skills; and here I was thinking an Elf like him couldn't appreciate good music. Getta's right, he's a real downer."

"Well, you're pretty good with a sword, too, for a—I mean, you fought good." Den looked around awkwardly.

"Hah!" Fia whipped out her golden saber, twirled it once, then re-sheathed it with as much ease. "Yeah, most of us Elves don't get out enough to practice. Luckily I'm low on Golden Castles to sit in, so I'm stuck relying on violence to keep my affairs in order. Sort of like a man." Dregal shifted awkwardly.

Den looked at her wide-eyed. "Oh no, I didn't—I mean, you're not like other—"

"Hey Den?" she continued, smiling at him with eyes un-lidded."You're into me, right? Like, romantically… sexually?" Dregal looked down at his bowl with the force of a spear.

"Um…"

"It's okay. Be honest with me." She had very bright teeth.

"Uh, yeah, I mean, you're a—" Den was red and sputtering "—I mean, I'm not, but, uh you're a very beautiful Elven maiden. And other stuff too, like the music, and, uh, soldiering… with the sword, but it's not like—I mean, I'm not saying—"

Jaskell plopped down next to Den, looked at the struggling young Sorman, and threw back his head to laugh. The once-quiet Corporal extended an open palm to Dregal, who thrust a bowl of stew into it. Den shrunk into quiet embarrassment. He glanced again; Fia was still looking at him, smiling, staring flatly.

Her smile dropped. "Well, get over it," she said. "Not gonna happen." She went back to licking her bowl.

"I don't—"

Dregal extended a hand at Den. "Kid, just—just leave it be." Den returned his attention to his own food. The four sat in silence for several minutes.

"Whelp," said Dregal, slapping both knees. "My turn on road-watch. Jaskell, you're on pot'n'bowls. Sorman, snuff the fire once we're done with it." He trudged away towards Getta.

Den looked at Fia (who was slurping at a second helping, smiling pleasantly) and Jaskell (who Den caught glancing at him, between bites of his own stew) and sighed. Stuck with a soldier who only opens his mouth to eat or laugh at me, and an Elf-maiden I just offended. Nice going, Den.

"Jaskell," Den ventured, and the man glanced at him. "H-how did you meet the Prince?"

Jaskell shook his head. "Me. Dreg. Phem. We fought together." He scooped up a hard hunk of meat and gnawed at it. Like Captain, like Corporal. Den had trouble remembering a pleasant conversation with an officer. And this one had called Phemelius, Prince and heir of Orevictorum, 'Phem'.

From behind Den, Getta crept around the fire-pit and to the stew-pot. He scooped with the excitement of a man who'd never eaten, and spindly fingers implying the same.

"Getta!" Den exclaimed with joy he himself found surprising.

Getta looked up with surprise from his food-getting. "Whatsit, Denbas Sour?"

"I'm—" Den sighed. "How did they find you, Getta?"

Getta sat down at Den's left. "Oh. In the gutta. Had shinies I got. Dour saw, gave me jobby. Don't want that, but Dour's a Princey! He's got lots to get. Why?"

"Get, yeah. What do you think we're getting, here, this 'job'?" Den noticed the other two pop a simultaneous glance at Getta.

"I dunno. Sour-cap says Getta'll 'know when ya gotta'." He leaned closer to Den. "Must be some Elf stuff. Pokeys, or trezzhas or some. What else Elves gotta get from normal guys?"

Jaskell snorted. Without looking up, Fia asked: "What about us, Getta? Aren't we 'normal guys'?

"Nah. Dour's a Prince. And Smiley, yer not a guy. And weird. Not just girl weird or Elf weird. Weirdy weird."

Den looked at Getta like he was missing his head. But then, he's a street kid. Or maybe adult? He doesn't know what you're supposed to do; proper manners when in the company of Fairer Folk. He still crossed his arms. "What's wrong with him being a Prince? He's greater than a 'normal guy,' if anything."

"Nahhh," said Getta, waving his hand dismissively. "Bigs are worstest. Elf, humie, don't matta. Normals toss some scrappies, or be scared a' ya. Bigs wanna kick ya down, lock ya up, or putcha in grave suit you sods like t'wear."

Den struggled to parse the getta-speak. "'Grave suit'?"

"Yeah, y'know, wolf or birdy on the belly. Fer marchin' 'round and get stabbed in. But suits don't go in graves. Keep fer next corpse, ha-ha! Bad fer Getta, though. You sods enjoy."

Oh. "So you don't like Princes, or Lords—'bigs,' whatever—but you went along with Prince Phemelius?"

"Oh, yeah, he's okay, just Dour. Like hero Princies from the stories. Chucked me a whole Sunny just for listenin'. If 'e's that easy, gotta be good for more, 'swhat I thought. And free grub!" Getta held up a very clean bowl.

Den shook his head, still annoyed.

"What, didn't Sun you too?" Getta narrowed his eyes at Den, then smirked. "Ohh, sneaky. You'd be good getta."

"What?" Den looked around at the others. "What?"

"Don't worry Denbas. I won't blab. Nuthin' worse than gettas who can't getta-nuff!" Getta took to a great shuddering belly-laugh at his own joke, Fia and Jaskell smiled at each other, and Den was quite un-amused.

"I did not join this mission just to get some reward. Maybe there'll be a salary, or a commendation, but I would serve the Prince never daring to covet even the dust from his boot," Den said, sniffing.

"Pfft, even for sods yer stuck up. They get bigger sticks, new-sods, y'know, fer—?" Getta made an up-thrusting motion with his fist.

"Oh, shut up, Getta." Den set his bowl down at Jaskell's feet and tromped off.

He was going to just join Dregal on watch, but then Den saw the Prince emerging from the makeshift tent.

Stretching, Phemelius yawned, and then smiled sleepily when he caught sight of Den. "Hey. You like the food?"

"Yeah, it was good. Not sure I'm a 'valued member of the team' yet, though."

Phemelius looked over at the others. "They, uh… they know what they're about. And being miserly with details fits the nature of a Secret Mission."

"It's probably my own fault," said Den. "I keep prying about them, and the Mission and everything. I just want to know what's happening!"

The Prince studied Den very closely. "You wish to know the objective?"

"Yes!" Den met the Prince's gaze. "I mean, yes. If it's okay."

"Peace," said Phemelius, and he stood tall to stare out at the distance (Den realized that the Prince very often hunched his shoulders; it was part of his 'dour'). "We're going to end the War."

Den's eyes widened. "How?"

"You'll see soon enough. And Den—" Phemelius gripped his shoulder. "No Mission could be more important, nor require greater secrecy. Few men could better cope with being in the dark, as you are. Do not take this challenge as an insult; in time, you will rise to the occasion."

Now this was the sort of noble-speak that made Den's heart swell. He felt comfortable around the Prince; he knew the others weren't so bad, really, but were more like himself: low, flawed, temperamental. Human. "Sir. Is Fia a Hybrid?"

Phemelius scoffed. "Wha—what makes you say that?"

Den eyed the others round the fire. "I don't know; I was thinking. Getta was saying that she's 'weird,' and pardon the insult, Sir, but there's truth to the notion. She doesn't really carry herself or dress like an Elf-maiden. And that hair; not only is it short, but it's so curly, as is the hair of no pure-blooded Elf I've seen." The Prince had very long, straight hair, like most of his kind."…but many of us humans have curly or wavy hair. And, forgive me again, Sir, but she seems so naturally chummy with humans. I mean, with your men, of course, but also, with the crowds at the Howling Moon—the tavern, I mean. Is she one, sir?"

"Hmm," the Prince stared at Fia. "I guess I don't know for sure. You'd have to ask her."

"Are you sure that I should? I think I've already said something to offend her. Hybrid or no, she's still an Elf-maiden."

Phemelius gripped Den's shoulder and pushed him firmly towards the ring. "Don't worry about it. She knows by now that you aren't trying to be rude."

Den walked gingerly over to the fire-pit. Wait, was that an insult? Jaskell walked past with dishes in hand, said to Den: "Snuff and spread," and pointed to the fire. Oh, right. Den always tried to follow orders, but remembering them was another story.

The other two were still sitting by the smoldering coals: Getta had removed a nasty little shank from some hidden fold in his rag-clothing and was sharpening it on the smooth face of a boulder, and Fia seemed to be tuning her filigreed lute. Cautiously, Den sat near her. "Fia… are you a Hybrid?"

Fia looked up at him, a bit shocked. "That's… a very direct way to ask that question, Den."

"Sorry. Well, uh, are you?"

"I've seen people take great offense at such directness… especially proud maidens…" She held her lute in one hand and scratched at the side of her torso, near to the pommel of her sword, with the other. "A person's lineage is their own business, way I see it."

"Of course! And I wouldn't mind it." Den laughed nervously. "I mean, I'm fully human, so I don't really have much right to look down on anyone."

"Oh," Fia said flatly. "Well that's nice."

"And like you were saying," he continued, his tempo increasing. "It's more about, uh, your abilities, and choices and stuff, than what sort of thing you are, right?"

Fia blinked, and looked curiously at Den, her head cocking back and forth like a bird's. "You want to understand?"

This look was almost as frightening to Den as her gleaming grin; he shied away. "Uh, yeah. I mean, if that's alright with you."

"Well!" She stood, and strapped her instrument behind her back. "First of all, the word isn't 'Hybrid'. That sounds like some oddity, or some kind of disease. You say 'Elf-human,' or maybe 'human-Elf' if you really want to be self-important about it."

"But what does it matter?" Den asked, and he was genuinely curious. "I mean, 'Hybrid' is correct. It means, you're, like, mixed, y'know?"

"One's nicer, believe me. I bet you've seen a bunch of Elf-humans running around like they're mad at the world, punching and yelling and giving dirty looks, right?"

"Well," said Den. "Plenty of people are angry. Or… ill, or whatever."

"Yeah, and some people are on edge because everyone calls them 'Hybrids,' like they're some kind of plague to be avoided. And, y'know, maybe they feel like they're caught between two worlds, and belong to neither, or something like that. Lost."

"That… makes sense." Den smiled. "Thanks for trusting me with this, Fia. I'm sorry for being so blunt."

"I guess, uh, you aren't trying to be rude, Den." Fia smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry too, for yanking you around like that. But I'm seriously not interested in you. At all." She definitely looked serious.

Den nodded. The booming voice of Captain Dregal blasted into his ears from atop the hillock: "Alright, you lot, Prince wants us rolling out in ten. Sorman, get that fire sorted!"

Den jumped into action. Fia smiled off at him, and then seemed to grow very sad. Then angry, and then back to sad once more. She wandered off towards the cart, where Phemelius was packing.

***

A well-laden traveling cart bounced down the field-lined road towards the forest. Dregal and Den sat against its left wall, Jaskell and Getta were on the right, and Fia and Phemelius sat up on the front seats. He the Prince broke the settling silence: "Fia. You were awake all night also. It's your turn to catch some shuteye."

"Huh?" She frowned at him. "Nah, I'm good. I could do a hundred more nights."

"Fia…"

She crossed her arms.

"Come on now, miss," said Dregal, "It's only fair that each of us get what we need. We've got plenty of eyes for the road, you'll be safe."

She huffed, turned, and stepped down into the cart-bed. "Fine. Where are your loyalties anyway, Dreg?"

"Why, with Commander Phemelius, of course." Dregal smiled. Jaskell climbed up towards her spot at the front.

Fia curled up into the cloth bundle at the front of the cart. Den noticed that there were other, smaller bundles within, including a long, straight thing wrapped in thick black cloth.

Den craned his neck out at the road ahead. "So where are we—"

"Sorman," said Dregal. "She could use some quiet to help her rest. We all could. Save your breath." Officer-speak again. The other three men were quiet (Getta was picking at some scab on his arm), so Den stayed quiet also. There was much to think about, and it was looking like he'd have a lot of time to do so. He figured there were some things one could learn about a person without their saying (or, that they might be particularly resistant to speaking about), that therefore required one keep eyes and ears open.

He'd already gotten a good look a Captain Dregal; his right ear a pocked mushroom of old scars, his broad face a mess of bones mended ersatz, stocky and scarred and a little bit portly, balding and middle-aged. What of this 'Jaskell' fellow, the quiet one up front? The man certainly had the look of a soldier: lean and muscly, nearly as tall as the Prince himself, his spiky reddish hair swept back in a neat, short cut befitting the profession. Squinting, Den saw a thick scar—one healed enough to be but a raised distortion of his skin's usual tone—running down the back of the man's taut neck, where it disappeared into the neckline of his mail shirt's leather undergarment. Not so odd; soldiers tend to collect such near-death injuries. Still, characteristic, and there had to be some kind of story there, even one as simple as 'Darks almost got me'.

Den felt something to his left, and turning saw Dreg staring blankly into the distance. A quiet intensity; Officers see without looking, he recalled. Well it certainly wouldn't be polite to stare at a sleeping Elf-maiden, so what about this 'Getta' fellow? Den had seen his fair share of street urchins, and this young man was not any great redefinition of the concept (he couldn't be so young, the way his face was wrinkled and scuffed): long messy hair matted with dust and grime, gaunt and hunching, wide-peeled eyes cocked with a certain desperate, amused insanity; frankly, Getta reeked of dried old sweat and probably worse things on top. He smiled and winked at Den, who flinched uncomfortably. No good trusting someone like that. At least he seems to like me…

***

The day dripped by; Den very much ran out of things to look at. Even the trees all began to appear the same after passing so many hundreds. But then, I shouldn't be surprised, he thought. Most of soldiering is standing around and trying not to doze off. Doing nothing in motion isn't so different. This was, somehow, part of The Mission.

The cart approached the edge of a town; emerging from the forest, Den and the rest became flanked on both sides by seemingly endless plains of fresh-tilled earth, so the air was thick with that soddy scent of compost rot. Spring was not so long begun; it was the time of sowing. The sunbeams were golden over the rolling land, as their source sunk over the town's buildings into the West. And from that distant bundle of homes and workshops there came the smells of food and fire. The sum of all these pleasantries served to put Den's mind at ease. "Alright, we'd best stock up," said Dregal gruffly. "Fia, Jaskell, let's be—"

Fia stretched, yawning. But it was the Prince who cut in, from ahead: "No, Dreg, you will stay back with Sorman. The rest of us can figure out supplies. Isn't that right Getta?"

Getta grinned. Phemelius brought the cart to a gentle halt along the side of the road, where the field-edge grass grew thick. All six jumped down from the cart; tromping, yawning, adjusting clothing and weapons atop. Fia breathed in the late afternoon air with hands on hips. Getta cracked more joints than Den thought a person could have.

Phemelius patted their tough, weathered horse on the snout; the Captain was there next to him, whispering, and Den heard the High Elf mutter: "—could probably use some sword practice—" to his man. A bitter sort of truth: Den hadn't been given much training beyond 'use this to stab the other guy' in his time as a guardsman. This Dregal, who wore twenty years of battle-scars, was probably just the sort of man to be trained by.

Two Elves, a thief and a soldier with a persimmon-hued shock of hair departed up the road; the Prince muttered something else to them, to which Jaskell responded: "Hmph. Yes, alright Commander Phem."

Captain Dregal watched them go, an anxious smirk faint on his lips. Den watched him sidelong, and when the others were nearly out of sight, the stocky older soldier regarded him: "Oi, Sorman. You ever done much trainin' with a soldier's sword?"

Den kicked a pebble down the dusty road. "No… I guess not. They just gave us one. Think my Sergeant said something like 's'just a shorter spear! You lose the real one, poke the buggers with this,' or whatever." He smiled sheepishly.

"Right," said Dregal. He clambered back up into the bed of the cart and retrieved two sheathed swords from their bundle of weapons. "Stabbin's not a bad place to start," he said. "These little double-edgers are made for pokin', and that's best. Lots a' time for the other guy t'get close while yer swingin' it." He pressed one scabbard into Den's hands: a plain, and somewhat edgeworn thin tube of leather wrapping a surprisingly light flat of steel. Then he led his young ward into the fallow grass beside them. "Best to use one of these with a shield," Dreg continued. "So you can keep away from arrows, and maybe catch the other guy's weapon in close. Then you just—" Dreg held up one forearm across his eye-line, as though holding a shield aloft, and stabbed abruptly around the imaginary shield at several angles with his sheathed sword in the other. "…get 'im where ya can." Den nodded and copied the action as best he could.

"Good," said Dreg. "But we ain't got shields. Not with us, anyway, waste of space. Hopin' we'll have surprise on our side, to stab anyone we've gotta without need for fancifyin', just like you would with that knife you got. Failing that, might end up doin' somethin' more like a sword duel." Dregal adjusted his footing so that only one shoulder pointed Den's way, and held his sword point-first towards Den. "You see, with any weapon…" Dreg crouched slightly, and rocked his weight slightly from one foot to the other. "Fightin's more about what yer doin' with yer legs than anythin' else. Gotta have yer feet planted but not rooted—crouch a little. All yer power comes up from legs, and then the waist, little from yer shoulders; yer arms and hands are just an extra bit a' accuracy, like the finest kinda wood-file." Den took a similar stance.

"Duelin's a bit complexer… may be that Fia knows more about the finer points." Dreg turned slightly away from Den and lunged, knees moving forward with hips, shoulders and sword-point in conjunction. "Still best to stab with it; you get the most reach with the tip. Reach is the name of the game: best to stab the guy when 'e's too far t'getcha back. But; it being best, other guy might see it comin'." Dreg took a step back, still in battle-stance, and pointed his sword directly at Den's eyes. "You gotta imagine a line between yer shoulder and the enemy, that's Yer Line. Most reach, best way to kill'em. Show me yer line." Den pointed his sword at the shorter man.

Dreg darted forwards and, with his own weapon, slapped Den's sword down and away. "He's gonna wanna knock you off line. Whether he can lead yer sword, or bend-jer arm, or get you steppin' uneven so you stumble—anythin' to make his line beat yers. Line back up." Den raised his sword again, his arm flexed stronger, determined. Dreg came in and slid his blade along Den's, then pushed up and left; Den was dragged by his sword, and as he struggled with footing, Dregal twisted his own sword and poked the wider part of the younger man's sword-forearm; Dreg stepped back. "Good to grip tight—but not too tight," he said. "Then it's a matter a' muscle and balance." He turned his body chest-forward and placed the base of his sword's blade on two of his fingers, balanced. "Each sword's got a Middle, where there's the same weight on one end as the other. Below the middle ya got strength in the catch, and can bend the guy's wrist; above it, he's got the same on you. And that's good; reach is nice, but that balance means a short sword like this can get the better of a long one, leverin' so close to your hand. Line up." Den pointed his sword again, stepped left and right watching for Dregal's next move.

"Yer not so short, least not compared to old Dregal," the Captain said. "But it's more 'bout the length a' the weapon." Den tried to stab in at Dregal. "Good, you gotta move! Always attackin' or reactin'; if you stop, yer gonna get poked." Dreg's sword nudged Den's just slightly off his line, and wrapped around in a crooked cut, to slide along Den's forefinger. "That's it: you either force yer way in, or get 'round the other guy's weapon. Yes, yer either pushin' or you're dancin'—best case, you know how to do both, and which's best when." Den tried a few more stabs; each time Dreg found a way to redirect the blow, or sneak in and strike before being struck. Den sighed, exasperated, sweating.

"Don't worry kid, it'll just take more trying. I'm a nasty old swordsman who's blunted the tip a'this pig-sticker in more'n a few young men. Oh, and that's another thing." Dreg stepped back again. "If yer gonna be slicin', or slashin', or cuttin' or even choppin' like an ax, you gotta make sure the edge is hittin' the target straight-on." He spun his sword about its length-line, demonstrating all the ways the edge could point. "As you can guess, slappin' a guy with the flat won't more'n sting, while the sharp bit's bound to split him open. It's sort of a scale between the two, see—" He chopped once with the edge greatly off-center. "...bad angle like this won't do much at all, and if yer only close—" He chopped again with the edge nearly straight down. "—ye'll only mostly cut'im. Cleaner the better." He made a few slashes, down and left and up and right, with the sword perfectly thin to the direction of the swing. "That's just another reason the stab is easier: only one way in, no matter how yer twisted."

This was a lot of information; Den wanted to learn the hard way. "Alright, can we practice some more?"

Dreg sighed and matched Den's stance. "When it comes to slashin', kid, less is more. Sword should be plenty sharp to slice without much oomph. Don't show me any big ridic'lous ax-swings, or I'll show you a sword in yer chest." Den charged in and found his sword again turned downwards somehow; he bent it twisting in towards the crook of Dreg's elbow, but not before the man's scabbard-point found Den's throat. Dregal stepped back, and in his next attack swung out as wide as he'd been warning Den not to; seeing opportunity, Den stabbed in low, and Dreg flipped his sword over for an inward down-stroke, batting Den's blade downwards. Den recovered, stepping back, and brought his sword up from a low hold, pushing the end of the Captain's sword inwards with the superior leverage of his own blade's base, and sliced downwards towards Dreg's head. Seeing this, the shorter man ducked and brought his weapon up and along Den's blade, sliding until his guard caught the other and swept it away. Continuing the motion, Dregal twisted at the waist, and with his guard yanked Den's trapped sword clean out of the young soldier's hand; it landed quietly in the grass. He pointed his own sword at Den, who now could only surrender, hands raised.

"See, that first bit's called 'the feint'," Dreg said, while Den retrieved his weapon. "A fake attack to getcha lookin'. A duel is a thinkin' man's game, y'see, and that's the trouble: can't consider yer options until you know all of 'em, and how to make 'em happen. Ain't long you got to consider anything in the field. For now, let's see you—"

"GO! Dreg, get the cart moving! We gotta go!" The voice was familiar enough, and up from the field ahead (and not the road) there she was: Fia dashing towards the men and the cart beyond. Dregal was already hustling towards their vehicle; Den gawked and stumbled after him, nearly dropping his weapon from shock.

Dreg jumped into the driver's seat and thrashed their tired old horse with a long thin switch; the cart lurched as Den scrabbled, bent-belly, over the side wall. "Wait!" Den shouted. "What about the others? Where's the Prince?" The cart was moving: the Captain steered them down into the field, so they rode—jostling more than ever—parallel to the distant line of buildings, where firelight flickered against the setting darkness.

As she bounded up into the cart—two leaping steps placed carefully on a nearby stone and the side-wall—Fia pointed up at the town. Den sat up and saw two others: Getta, nearly arrived, peeled with hunching gait up towards them from the right, and Jaskell, further off to the left, and turned right to meet the path of their accelerating getaway. Both men were carrying heavy sacks and handfuls of further goods: root vegetables and apples, dried meats and cheeses, a whole hen freshly wrung. Getta seemed to have added a few extra coin-pouches to his belt. There was a cacophony of shouting in the distance.

As Getta reached them, and Fia yanked him up and in, Phemelius at last came into view. It was then that Den realized just how extremely the Prince had been hunching, or crouching (likely both) in that black cloak of his, for with it now trailing over his back, the Elf was evidently very tall: two full meters at least, long and lean, with equestrian limbs to match. The torchlight grew behind him, as did the shouting. Phemelius' head—and so, his ears—were still hooded, but now Den could see his clothing: a rather simple tunic and leggings as any peasant farmer might wear. And not a flattering fit for an Elf so high: he was as an adult wearing children's clothing, shins half-exposed over his tall and fine black soldier's boots, cuffs tight at the elbows. On the other hand, his great stride-length meant that he was handily outpacing whoever was after their little band of thieves, charging down the countryside like some spindly, black-winged insect. Corporal Jaskell reached the cart and vaulted into its bed from behind, scattering his cargo as he splayed face-first.

Dregal snapped the reins with the furious might of a whip-drying washerwoman; their horse snorted and pulled harder, on they sped. Getta set about securing cargo towards the front of the cart, Fia (in the front seat) and Den (along a wall) sat up watching Phemelius run. Den heard a strange creaking noise behind him and turned, looking up; there now stood Jaskell, standing steady in a bouncing cart and heavily drawing a longbow, aiming townwards. Den marveled, then looked back out at the buildings: human men with tools and torches bustled out from the hamlet's grimy alleyways—some stopped short. One arrow whistled swiftly overhead; Den watched it impale the wall of a far-off farmhouse. It must have whistled louder for the cleaver-wielding man whom it very nearly hit, for that man stopped even shorter, face pale. A warning shot. The pale man shouted and the others dove behind building-corners and beneath the grasses. As Phemelius reached them and jumping flipped into the cart, Jaskell drew again.

Den stared and held his breath. Phemelius rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled up towards the front of the cart, and breathless shouted: "SPREGATIM!" Which seemed to affect their pull-horse, for the cart jerked, stumbling even Jaskell (though he held his arrow firm from loosing), and they bolted swifter still. Denbas saw the startled eyes of one man through the grass beyond, and then their cart breached the treeline: they were free. Dregal found them a road, and after a few more minutes of silence, save the rapid clopping of hooves, bode their trusty beast to slow to a gentle trot. Den sat heavily into the cart bed, stunned. Phemelius took over for Dregal driving; the stout man rolled back into the cart, grabbed an apple, and chomped a bite from it.

"...So this is The Mission, then," Den said, bewildered. "We're just stealing from random human towns? Food and coin from innocent farmers?" He squinted at Getta, shook his head, then looked pleadingly at Captain Dreg.

Jaskell scoffed; Dreg put a hand on his Corporal's shoulder, turned to Den: "It isn't—"

"Many of our supplies were fairly traded for," said the Prince from ahead. "But my loyal Corporal seems to enjoy the chase, for reasons beyond me."

"Pfft. Getta was already lightening loads unseen," Jaskell said. "I was just his distraction."

Den gawked at all three. "What—… we're soldiers of the realm. What is this, some game to you?" he asked Jaskell.

The man tilted his head back to stare scornfully at Den. "It's good farmland, isn't it?" he said. "Rich, yeah? Their Lord in Joriantum gets a nice cut, but there's plenty to go around. Win-win for all the inno—" Dregal elbowed him in the stomach, frowning.

Den could only stare. "What in Emol's name are you—"

"Sorman," said Dregal. "Been a long day for all of us. Save the bickerin' for daylight."

"But—"

"Heed your Captain," said Phemelius sternly, and still looking ahead. "You and I have watch tonight, Sorman. There's much to discuss."

My commanding officer, Den thought. Well, there was military precedent for 'liberating' supplies from the homeland, as gruffly as need be. This was a soldierly mission, for the good of Newandrale, Elves and all mankind. Wasn't it? Were they really noble soldiers, this messy band of six? The Prince certainly was, and Dregal seemed alright. Getta clearly wasn't, and Jaskell… well, maybe Den could see why Prince Phemelius would want a longbow archer around, despite ill-temperament. Both men had brought them supplies; supplies they'd likely need, if the Prince was desperate enough to allow such unbecoming means. And as any heroic leader might, he had been the last to leave the danger: a courageous bulwark between his men and harm. Den could guess—correctly—that whatever foolishness this Jaskell had done to draw a mob, Phemelius was there to forestall ire, and focus it on himself so the rest could escape first. He was the real 'distraction,' as it were.

Admiring their Commanding Elf, Den caught sight of their sixth, sitting quietly, and that did give him pause. This Fia, strange as she was. Normally he'd support the idea of a fair maiden being furthest from harm, but this was no ordinary maiden. She was a capable soldier in her own right, if last night's scrum was any indication—perhaps many or all Elf maidens (or Elf-human maidens) were. What praise he'd give the Prince for being last to leave, it would seem to him that she deserved the opposite for fleeing first. Even Getta, selfish as he was, didn't make it out before her, and brought food. There was something behind that smile of hers, and more than mischief… she might be selfish, Den realized. Who exactly was she, anyway? What was she after?

Den leaned in close to Dregal and whispered: "What's the deal with this Elf-human woman, the singer? I'm not sure if we should trust her."

Dreg stared at him for an extra second. "She's…" he glanced down, then met Den's eyes again. "She'll do whatever she can for The Mission, Sorman. You can count on that."

"She didn't exactly stay behind to make sure the others got back safely, like the Prince did. And why don't—"

It's said that Elves have exceptional powers of listening. Phemelius spoke loud enough for all to hear clearly: "We each serve The Mission in our own way. Fia hurried back to get the cart moving, which quickened our escape."

There was a long moment of silence. The Prince is surely the fastest on his feet, Den thought, having seen all four run but minutes ago. If alerting Dreg and I was the only aim, there's reason for him to be the runner. Something about the matter, and the way Prince Phemelius spoke about it…

Dregal laughed. "What a day," he said, and he tapped Jaskell's bow on the bed behind him. "Wouldn't want to be that poor sod-tiller up there, eh Jas? He was one stiff breeze away from a new earring!"

"Bowey turned ghost, and 'e wasn't even juiced!" said Getta, grinning. "An'is clink-pouch was thin. Not two beamers he got, and that's two more'n's in 'is hairy!" The wiry little man rolled on the floor giggling.

Jaskell sighed, curled his lip, and glanced at Den. "Meh. Could've given him a closer shave." Den saw his eyes glint. "Wouldn't that've been a—"

The Captain yawned loudly. "Uff, and plenty to leave me wanting shuteye. Hey Fia, you got a tune for sleepin' to?"

Fia swiveled to face the humans, half a potato in her hand. "Oh, me? Yeah, I think I could manage it." She smiled, and reached down into the cloth supply-bundle to find her lute.

Den tapped Dregal again. "Hey," he whispered. "I thought you said your Corporal there didn't like talking. Why does it seem like he lives to cause trouble?"

"Nah, I said he don't like talk. As in hearin' it, from other people." Dregal eyed Jaskell, and spoke loudly enough for the man himself to hear: "Once he starts talkin', the trouble is shuttin' him up."

Jaskell swallowed a bite of carrot and stuck his tongue out at Dregal in a shocking display of officer disrespect. Dreg shook his head. Jaskell turned to face Den, peeled his lips back to reveal a bright smile, and winked. Idiot, Den thought. But good with a bow, and that man had been, what, twenty yards away? Jaskell was reasonably tall, too, and not entirely lanky. Den glimpsed at the man's hearty shoulders, his lean and hefty biceps, then felt the comparative inadequacy of his own thin limbs. This archer could be the ideal soldier, if he wasn't an obnoxious, rot-smile thief. Resolving to avoid the man whenever possible, Den averted his gaze and took a hunk of cured meat Dregal offered him. Bear leather would have been easier to chew; Den managed.

***

Fia was clearing her throat, tapping the strings of her lute and tuning it. Dreg gulped down a bite of meat and leaned back to address her: "Oi, troubadour! You been pickin' at that thing all day, whaddaya say y'make some music with it 'fore we all nod off in boredom?" She rolled her eyes at the stout little bearded soldier, who grinned cheekily.

"Very well," she said. "I have a song for you dark-haired peoples tonight. And our towering Princeling. I sing of the Moon and his wisdom, for it is wisdom that he sires in all of us, his children in the night." Fia plucked gently at the strings of her instrument, and sang with a voice soothing and fey:

What does the Moon bring to us, what are his gifts?

The Moon-father glows for us,

Brighter than the stars, closer,

His gift is not warmth,

But he pulls us, though we can't feel,

He's with us there, quietly,

A god and a servant,

And though he's always watching,

He'd rather be here, sharing low,

And though you might fear him, high,

He fears you, so he can share that too.

Her voice slowed and quieted, softer still with each chord:

The Moon's light is subtle,

Alone is he in the night,

His will is reflection,

That cold, quiet, we might see,

The crisp of darkness, soft-rimmed,

Shining humble, stark and clear,

And as he moves past, lonely,

So we persist by distant light,

And when he smiles down on us,

It's so to remind, that you can smile too.

Her song lent the night a certain tranquility; Den looked up at the crescent of the Moon, which on this night was indeed alike to a toothy grin. He closed his eyes and breathed, at peace.

"...thank you, Fia," said Phemelius. For a very good song. Now," he said, and turned back to the others. "Let's you all get some rest. You too Fia. Den, come up here with me."

Fia stepped down and brushed past Den without a word. He climbed up; the passenger seat was little more than a jutting board, and not one long enough to balance upon comfortably. The others shuffled then stilled. But for crickets, rustling leaves, and the occasional amphibian croak, the world fell silent around them.

***

"My Prince," said Den. "About this—"

"Just 'Phemelius'," he replied. "Or 'Commander,' if you must."

"Okay, Commander. About this mission…"

Phemelius turned to look at Den. "The Mission is dangerous, Denbas Sorman. Until now we have but moved through Newandrale covertly. In days soon to come, we will face a danger far greater than angry mobs of artisans and farmspeople."

Den had been paying some attention to the direction of their travel. Ever southward they'd went, and now, having skirted the town, eastwards. Towards the War Front. He shivered. "The War," he said. "My—Commander, are we to go into battle? To face the Dark Elves once more, and end the War through bravery and bloodshed?"

"Night Elves."

Den blinked. "What?"

"The histories call them 'Night Elves,' and there is wisdom to those ancient days." Phemelius raised his chin and looked out into the night. "I am not merely some brute soldier, Denbas. I spent much of my youth studying ancient Elven tomes, as all the wise should. To understand tactics of friend and foe alike, that I might better see how to fight, and when. For what is a warrior without wisdom? A fool."

Den looked up at the Prince. "I guess it makes sense to study warfare. And even to try to understand… Them. But what does it matter how we refer to The Enemy? They're the same creatures either way." He scanned the dark trunks of the forest around them.

"What does it matter?" Phemelius asked wistfully. "It's a question I've asked, also, of many things. Eventually my teachers became fed-up enough of my incessant skepticism to reveal the critical truth: Everything Matters. Everything you say and do and see, each thought in your head, each drop of drink that passes your lips. The people around you, the focus of your attention." He looked placidly at Den. "...and yes, even what you call The Enemy. Words matter too."

Den tried to consider what the Prince was saying, but ended up just fidgeting nervously.

"What," asked Phemelius. "What is it, Den? What troubles you?"

"Well, it's just…" Den frowned. "I know that your great deeds are worthy of note, Commander. You are a noble son of the High Elves! But me, I'm just one human… how much could my actions really matter?"

Phemelius looked down the dark road, smiling calmly. "Enough to care, Denbas Sorman," he said. "Enough to try. Can you manage that?"

Den, too, stared into the distance. "…I suppose so, Commander Phemelius. In your company, I suppose that I might."

Phemelius sat up even straighter now; he curled a fist, and his eyes gained a certain hardness. He exhaled heavily, and in a voice like smooth ice he spoke:

"There is a weapon in the city of Signestad. A Sungold weapon of unmatched power, which in recent days was wrought by smiths of my homeland, inspired by knowledge which your human kin discovered, on the channeling of energies from incendiary powders. A weapon to End the War. In your tongue it is called 'The Wall-Burner,' and the naming is precise."

Den looked up at the Prince with a shocked and silent awe.

"When Gorlitenza fell, the Night Elves took it from my father, and more recently still, the Human Lords of Newandrale took it from them, and secreted it away from Elven eyes; kept it as their own. We are going to take it back. And then, Denbas Sorman, I will be welcomed back to the land of my birth. By this weapon will my fame in the West be restored, and the War ended. This theft, from the leaders of your kinsfolk, is The Mission."

Den hung his head. This Mission was a confirmation of everything he'd long suspected: his own people were bereft of Elven grace, to the degree that Prince Phemelius, noblest of all Elven champions, needed to work as a low spy, a thief in lands that once welcomed him—lands he and his gracious Elven forefathers had spent centuries protecting. Den's country, his people, even Lord Benail himself could very well be lost to Darkish sorcery or their own petty human flaws. The prospect worried him most severely.

And yet, The Mission was Hope. The War had caused grief to the Prince, perhaps even shame, and now he had a chance to be restored in the eyes of his kinsfolk—in his own eyes, too, most certainly. With his Greatax Ket-Blaskar burning at last, he would deliver righteous justice upon treacherous humans and monstrous Dark Elves alike. So too could Den restore his own tarnished honor, aiding the works of one so noble, whom he'd once failed to protect. The end of the War would not just mean peace, it would be a brightening of Emolelei's Light into the world: an end to the Enemy, a restoration of Elvish glory; even the most ignoble of Den's own low people would be driven to rise as darkness fell. The Mission would enable all of this. Den could see their success: he at the Prince's side, a new sunrise where all would be set right in the world. There was no choice.

Denbas Sorman sat upright, and clapped a fist to his breast. "It will be done, my Prince."

Phemelius sighed. "Don't do it for me, Den. I… I'm just one man."

Den looked confused. "Huh? Wha… of course it's not just you, but Sir—Commander—you are an Elvish Hero! I know, you're humble, as befits that label. No doubt you will be called the greatest hero of our age once you complete this Mission. Loyalty to you is loyalty to The Mission, to our God, to Goodness itself! What else is there?"

Phemelius spent a few seconds thoughtfully licking the front of his teeth. Smirking, he glanced up at the sky. "I think Fia had some good ideas in that song of hers. For the Moon, then, and for quiet. For life lived long and droll, a sharing of peace for all those who seek it." He raised a fist to the Moon.

Den raised a fist too, but couldn't help but be confused. There was no great glory in the Moon, no invigorating pyre. And what sort of a hero prayed for 'droll quiet'? There was more to the Prince's wisdom which he did not yet understand; Den felt this should've excited him, the Elvish mystery, but he saw no way of understanding it; Phemelius took to ignoring his human companion's questions. Eventually Den stopped asking. Two men, a human and an Elf, watched the night road.

A Moon smiled at them.