"In which truth liberates" -Dreg
The crowd was very large at the golden gates of Ætsolai, now as the Sun rose higher in the sky. Gleaming guards bode them welcome; ahead, Phemelius dismounted and spoke with them. The carriage came to a halt at this city, its destination.
"Alright, servants!" the Prince shouted back to the others. "Crowd's too thick inside, so we're on foot to the Palace!" The riders all jumped down; Fia last, from the carriage's innards, and Den unconsciously noted the fact that she appeared not the slightest bit tired. In fact, she was all smiles, waving to the crowd, sword at her hip.
Phemelius hurried a group of Sun Elf guards to the back of their vehicle, shouting at them with an edge of pride in his voice; they hoisted the Box up once more. Captain Dreg and Corporal Jaskell strapped their old short-swords to their hips, so as to be the Prince's silent bodyguards. Then Prince Phemelius took his mighty Ax and led his group on through the throng of well-dressed Elves, he a proud celebrity, drinking in their adulation. Fia was to his left, and Den not far behind at his right, and guards flanking and helping to part the crowds, and then Getta, Jaskell, and the Box, with Dreg bringing up a distant rear with more Elven guardsmen. Through the gates they went, and into a lustrous city full of tall buildings, square street blocks, and a flood of Sun Elves gay and flocking to catch Prince Phemelius' eye.
Over the joyous din, Den heard the whispering voices of his friends Jaskell and Getta, with the Thief saying: "Sunnies loves us! Haha, not so big, and friendly!"
And Jaskell told him back: "Shame there aren't more of us roundies here. We'd blend in better. Whaddayou think, are they busy enough watchin' Phem, that houses here are empty?"
Den glanced back, and watched Getta weave into the crowd. He looked desperately at Jaskell, who at that (and with a grin Den's way) shouted after the thief: "Meet us at the castle, Getta! Gotta get your reward for the Job, right?" Getta squeaked something happily back, and disappeared into the swarm of bodies.
Den watched Phemelius, waving and smiling, and generally graceful in that fey and noble way. He realized with surprise that he hadn't spoken to the big Sun Elf during their whole trip from Adrovia. He, whom Den had joined the whole Mission for in the first place. But he was just a person, no greater than all the others… no, still no, Den thought with a smile. He was a wonderful person, same as all the others. And there would be plenty of time, when all was said and done, to speak with him. But why wait? Den's love of people had grown beyond Phemelius, but not so far as to leave the man behind; he was, anyway, a better friend than Prince. Who wouldn't be filled with joy at the sight of him? Den ran up and prodded his Elven arm.
"Phemelius!" he cried, swelling with the joy of the crowd, of the moment.
Phem looked down at him, and smiled open-mouthed. "Den! What's going on?" He spoke lower, clear but not as joyous: "I feel as though we haven't spoken in an age. Have you been alright?"
"Oh yes, more than… Phem, I thought you were the answer, and you know what, I was right! You are wonderful, you deserve all of this and more! But that's far from all: it's about all these wonderful people around us: Dreg, and Fia, and Jaskell, and Getta. Getta most of all, I was such a fool to him!"
"Getta is, well…" Phemelius grinned. "He's a Survivor. Easy to make friends with someone like that, because he already 'gets' it. An idealist, a believer, is much more stubborn; much, much harder to redirect. But they're good too, it's good to be firm sometimes." He met Den's eyes, and it was amazing: though his face stayed smiling to the crowd, his eyes glared sternly for a moment. "Some things are worth believing in. Worth fighting for. And Den, all this stuff about 'criminals, I w—I think Jaskell will have to speak with you more about this. A person is what's around them, what they have…"
"That's the most amazing thing of all!" said Den. "Or, I don't know. Jaskell told me about, you know, his Brown Religion?"
"His…?" Phem's face contorted, first into a grin, and then into an ugly sort of laughter—that is, the best sort: squinty and wide-mouthed and wrinkly—he roared and doubled over. "Brown as in excrement, hah! That's perfect!"
Den laughed along: "Hah, yes, but… it's strange. Maybe it's like… I'm afraid he's right, or whatever, it does sound very good. But still not quite right, like… he doesn't seem to believe in gods, or that they're tools or whatever. I know you trust him, Sir, is he really right about this? Are there no real gods?"
Phem ground his teeth. "Hmm. Well a god is a being you love and worship, and who has the power to change the world, right? Well, I've met plenty of those… so many I've lost count!" Fey was his grin.
"…but, uh… that's just… so what, you disagree with him? Gods are real, or they're some kind of people, and not tools?"
Phem frowned a little, he whispered to Den: "Eh, religion is definitely a tool. Or an obstacle, maybe… look Den, I do trust Jaskell, with good cause: I've been improved by his company. This whole, hah, Brown Religion of his has its merits. But I think, well, maybe he's a little too excited to call other people 'tools.' Or 'Shit-Eaters,' or what have you. In truth we all must serve a purpose, and it is good, perhaps the only good, that we serve other people, so long as they return that same devotion in kind. This is why I stick with 'Everything Matters': all your actions, and beliefs; everything you do or are a part of serves some purpose, and it's better to know what that purpose is. It's more about choosing your direction, knowing what you're a tool for, rather than pretending you're above it all. No one is. I am a tool myself, and better off for understanding that, and finding people who help me be a better one."
From over the crowd came the clear and mirthful voice of Fia: "Oh yeah, he's a tool alright!" She drew closer, grinning.
Phem rolled his eyes. He turned to face Den fully and, smiling deviously, thumbed back at Fia, saying: "See, she's more like Jaskell than I am. Thinks she's got it all figured out, you should've seen her when we met—"
"When we—" Fia scoffed. "Oh, this Sun Elf here! He hides it, Den, but he's the snottiest of all, this Prince. 'Knowledge is the greatest weapon'—hah! When we met, he had no idea how much of a simpering tool he was, and blubbered worse than you would when it all came crashing down!"
She nearly at his side, Phem whispered to Den: "She's right. Don't tell her I've said this, but she's the one with a right to be 'snotty,' if anyone. I was stuck a long time in my own arrogance; it's a trap that can catch any person, if they aren't careful."
"What's he sayin'?" Fia shouted to Den.
"Oh, something about 'anyone can get stuck in their arrogance'. I think he means you, Fia!" he shouted back. Fia rolled her eyes at the both of them, smirking. Then she looked ahead, and gradually became lost in her own thoughts.
Phem grabbed Den by the upper arm in a very friendly way. "Yes Den, but you've proven well as any that people can get untrapped… or no: trapped better! Bound by love's mutuality! You've done much to See, from many perspectives, and widened your view at every turn. You've grown, changed, and that's the hardest part." His eyes were twinkling as he met Den's. "For it is said that 'Change is a death, and death is just another change': that's why both are so frightening, so Gray. I've given you what I can, we all have, but you faced this, you felt the discomfort you needed to, and weathered many fears. And though you may trust my wisdom, still it is up to you to decide what end you serve; your place. Trust the best version of you, and the future yet to come, by the risks we all hold strong against, together."
Love's mutuality. That didn't sound so bad. Den whispered to the Phemelius, a person he so cherished: "I still don't fully understand, but… you love her, don't you?" He nodded back at Fia, who was staring blankly at the Palace up ahead. "Like… she's your One? That's what this has all been about, somehow… right?"
"I love all my friends," Phem said solemnly. "And it is a long list. I think… I think I am moved by an affection for all people. A challenge, but with people like you around me, Den, I think I can manage it."
"Challenge…" Den smiled. "Sure, it is a challenge in this world, Gray and Messy, where people kill for fear; are slow to trust and quick to look past the misery of other people. To name others Monsters, and shy from their own monstrosity. Like… like I have."
"I will make no excuses on your behalf, Den," Phem said with a huff. "But you are just one man, in a world of many. Jaskell and I, and Filstanek and everyone we've helped, we emphasize the history, the reality, because it does matter. The story, and who it is that tells it. 'Moon People,' and 'Sun People,' are neutral self-descriptors of peoples, and that is what makes them correct, accurate; better than those other words. Now, things as they are, the terms change also, to reflect another aim. How, Den Sorman, do you suppose things got this way?"
***
Den slowed a little. This was one of those questions. The goading, troubling ones, that Den never really knew how to answer. But no, he thought. Jaskell asks the really absurd questions. Maybe not nonsensical, but… too leading, too far, to where Den could only ask 'what?' confused. Phem's questions…
The Palace was on a hill, which they were climbing the base of, when Den beheld a most peculiar sight. Ahead of him, Fia reached down and grabbed Phemelius' hand tightly, looked up at him—it was a very sincere look, maybe even anxious—and then together they waved out and ahead once more, the crowd cheering the sight of them together. It's only right, Den thought. They are, well, IN Love… and it's not the Only sort of love that matters, as Jaskell said. But it's good, it's… Den fought joyful tears. Theirs was a love for the ages, and not because it was star-crossed, or noble, or even that it was between Elves. Because he was Phemelius, and she was Fia—because of who they were. Wise, and kind, and better together. Stronger Together. Still, there was something odd about the way she'd looked at him, that moment of fear. Crowds like this can be scary, he thought, flinching. But no, she was a Bard, right? He considered her fearless, mostly. He'd have to ask Fia about this later, or Phem; it must've had something to do with her secret misery, which she'd promised to tell him about.
...but no, don't get distracted! Phem's questions were not quite the same as Jaskell's, and not just because Jaskell seemed to delight in getting under a person's skin… especially when they were a 'Shit-Eating tool' to him. Phem… he asked questions which Den could answer, but which he always seemed to answer wrongly. But wrong in a good way… like when he had asked Den why he was so excited to serve him and the Mission, Den had answered 'because you're good!' And that was true, Den thought. Phem IS a good person. But it was wrong also. Den had meant Good, as in a superior High Elf, who should be obeyed without question; more like a god than a person. And the way he seemed exhausted by Den's answers, to always insist that he was 'just a man,' that helped… truly! Den eventually found a better answer: Phem was a person, no greater and indeed not much different than he.
But then,what was Phem saying now? This question he'd been asked, Den had an answer. How did things get this way? Because of people's stupidity, Den thought. Their pettiness, their regular old People flaws. Fear, and reckless anger, and thinking other people too strange to BE people. Because people can be foolish, like me… because of mistakes! If they could just fix those mistakes, help people see better, like Den had, with wisdom and kindness shared, and the right sorts of arguments… the right sorts of questions, they could save people from their own folly, and so fix the world!
But that was the answer Den gave, which always seemed to be the wrong one. I didn't exactly tell Phem this answer, he thought. But I did basically tell Dreg. He reasoned that the two had probably talked about it (as they always seemed to, with their strong bond of trust), and that Phem wouldn't have asked such a question if he didn't want to show Den something, if he didn't want to push further still. But to where, how am I supposed to see the wise answer from down here at the wrong one?No, the incomplete one, but regardless… what am I missing?
He realized that he needed Perspectives. How might the others answer a question like this? Dreg would probably agree; he had agreed: he seemed pleased by the idea of not using the Wall-Burner on the Moon Elves, and he seemed tired of violence more generally. That's his pain, Den thought to himself. He's stuck. Violence is all he knows, but he can't stand it. He knew Dreg, and this perspective: seeing violence against people as something to be avoided, aligned with Den's own. So either Den's Answer was right, or this perspective didn't help him see what new truths he needed to. He moved on.
Getta wanted everyone to 'Getta Nuff,' right? Den knew now that Getta was not a bad person, but he'd met his share of thieves, and he knew them to be, well… worse, when they didn't have enough. In Inemestrel and Tarlast, he'd avoided them. As a sell-sword, he'd even been paid to shoo them away. Even then there was some small, withered part of himself that felt guilt for keeping starving boys from his employer's bread. That part of him wasn't so withered anymore. Den realized that people needed enough to be better, they needed support. I did, he realized with shock. As gettas are starved of food, so was my heart starved of love for people. People needed help, not just for others to say 'do better,' but to help them along the way, with the tools they need: food, and water, and friendship and guidance. So everybody Getsa Nuff. This was a good insight, but not the insight to change Den's Answer.
Fia was always doing something surprising, something weird. Good weird, but Den could hardly predict how she'd answer a question like this. The only through-line was her idea of a 'web': that people all were connected, and those connections were best strengthened, through love and care and all those other things Dreg and Getta already provided to the Answer. But no, that's not all she said. Sometimes, she'd said, the bonds had to be broken. But why, when? Den saw this was a good lead, but Fia hadn't provided him much wisdom to advance along it. Den's Answer needed more.
Jaskell's shit-talk, his Brown World, seemed like it would have an answer. He had ideas about people who were wrong:the framework presented a negative view of 'Shit-Eaters', but 'Shitters' seemed even worse. Were they worth breaking bonds over? And even these weren't simple answers, for these were choices anyone could make. Anyone can be a Shitter, Den thought. And there is wisdom to the idea, for a Shitter can, at least in the realm of possibility, belong to any group of people: Elf or human, and so on. But Den thought: If anyone can be a shitter, we all just have to choose not to be! To be kind, and humble, honest and fair. To help people's wisdom up with facts, as you helped a getta up with food. As far as Den could see, this was a reasonable conclusion: encourage people kindly, give them what they need. If a one person was being shitty, that was when you broke the bonds, with them; you showed them what they were doing wrong, and then they'd have to listen, or they alone were not worth trusting.
Den didn't really understand POWER. Once he'd thought that Gods handed it down, to the righteous and the pure, but now, without having given the concept much thought, he'd settled unconsciously on the idea that everyone had an equal share… or no, worse: a fair share. So hasty was he to forget his own Shit-Eating, that he neglected the value of his own Perspective, and did not ask himself the question: who was I eating all that shit for? If someone did ask that question at this time, he'd likely answer: Phemelius, the Good Prince. The one who'd proven himself worthy of his station. And therefore, who proved all noblemen worthy of their stations, or at least that they could be worthy, if they were good people. That is not an accurate understanding of Phemelius as a person, and frankly quite a leap, but there was something Den didn't know about Phem, and Den did not ask that question of himself. Maybe he did not knowingly avoid it, but it was more reassuring to lay upon a clean continuity: that Phemelius, as a Good Prince, justified all past Shit-Eating, and not that the lies Den once believed, the foolish hatred, had been serving a purpose, one he didn't yet comprehend.
He did reconsider Phem's perspective; how the Prince might answer his own question. He'd added a wrinkle to Jaskell's shitty ideas, that everyone was a 'tool,' or could be. That was more reassurance than challenge to Den, who'd always been comfortable enough serving others. But Phem, from all his wisdom, had also added a challenge, for he'd just now said: 'you are but one man, in a world of many.' The notion went against Fia's web, in a way, but there was also truth to the phrase, and a purpose to saying it: it made Den feel small. He thought to himself: I am just one man. In a web with so many others, what can I really do? And he thought back to Inemestrel, when he was alone, and didn't seem to have much influence at all in the web, no strong bonds of mutual friendship. If I was alone once more, he thought. Could I change the world? Or can we six, even? His despair grew stronger, for he answered: Maybe not. If people won't choose to be kind, in my opinion, what right have I to force that perspective upon them? Den had been wrong very often. He felt great shame at how he'd acted against the Moon Elves in Signestad, knowing now that they were people, and people Jaskell cared about—people he was starting to care about. If he'd succeeded in using force then, he would have done something monstrous. In uncertainty and shame he swam, and settled on: I must try to be kind anyway. If I help enough people, with my friends, and everyone does; if we just give love and wisdomto everyone as patiently as we can, and so elevate the lowly, we can fix things… we will!
Phemelius did not bring this shame upon Den out of some low sadism—he loved the man, and wanted him to improve. But Phem was not one to allow sentimentality to impair his choices, or maybe it was that he knew how to twist that sentimentality against itself. For he was a part of The Mission, which served his love of all people in a realistic way, and could prioritize it over love for singular people—himself surely included. He had shared in many facts, many disparate perspectives, many sources of wisdom, to help build this Mission's basis upon the love that was his foundation. Den's Answer was stagnant, for he had not reached this, Phemelius' Certainty—the reason Tafal-Abbawz, the Moonish people, called this Sun Elf Eantahr. Phem had once shared his singular conviction with Fia as a simple statement of mutual exclusivity: "There are no good Princes."
How could such a thing be, and held in the head of a Prince? This is a matter of flat Webs and un-flat Pyramids, who are enemies—the two Gods Health and Use made tangible—and of POWER, which requires the latter. That if a pyramid isever to become its healthy form The Web, it must be flattened… in two directions. Fia never found a way out of alignment with the perspective. Phemelius—a Prince who also aimed to do good—never tried to, and would not allow it so, not once he'd reached his Certainty. Beneath it all: the fake smiles and true sorrows, calm-delivered wisdom and pleasant warmth of fellowship, below even his struggles with what to do about 'Shit-Eaters' like Den and most other human people, all the people in the middle—at his core Phemelius was absolutely, unshakably, fanatically CERTAIN. Eantahr does not mean 'certain' in Moon-Elvish, it means: what a Prince would need to be, to be good. To DO good.
***
So rapt was Den in his wayward, incompleteideas, that he lost track of the present reality around him. He hardly noticed their entering the gold doors of the palace of Ætsolai, as the Sun dropped past its zenith; it made from many large blocks of pristine marble, stepping upwards from a sprawling base to a high tower at its center, which at its peak held a pointed block of solid gold, inscribed with the raised image of a rising Sun, one almost like an eye. He did not feel the excited eyes of its inhabitants and visitors cheering for the arrival of their beloved Lost Prince, nor the offers of the castle's many servants: food and rest and private rooms and fresh clothing. Nor did he see Phemelius, smiling, brush them all aside and press on; on straight towards the Throne Room with no delay.
When they did at last reach it: the Throne Room of the King, and its high, wide oaken doors began to creak open inwards, Den especially did not notice Captain Dregal stand at resolute attention, as far as Sun-Elven guards would allow him forwards, and salute Commander Phem, saying: "Best of luck in there, Sir. War goes on, for just a little longer." While staring straight ahead, past Phem, in a soldierly way.
Nor did he hearPhemelius' reply: "Forever, perhaps. I am glad that we go on." As he patted Dreg once on the shoulder and went in, and The Box followed, and the doors hinged closed once more, and outside Fia and Jaskell were silent, and Getta (who'd returned just in time) smiled proudly. Only the slamming of these mighty doors shook Den out of his pondering, and then he looked around. At those shut doors, at Jaskell and Dregal standing dutifully, and Getta grinning. Where's Fia? he thought at once, and then he caught sight of her brightly-clothed form slipping away down a far corridor. Unthinking, he rushed after her.
***
When all was settled, and Fia and Den had left their sight, and two Elven guards stood at silent attention, barring the doors, Dregal grabbed Getta firmly by the shoulder. He led the wiry Thief around the bend of a nearby corridor, brought both to a halt, and pressed a hefty cloth pouch into Getta's hands, whispering harshly: "Time to go, Getta. Job's done."
Getta could tell by its jingling sound that this pouch was stuffed full of coins: gold Suns. He stared intently at it, eyes wide. "Go?"
"South. Quickly, and stay as far from the port as you can. And Getta," Dregal spoke with hasty firmness: "Don't say anything. Not to anyone."
Getta separated himself and his new sack of coin from the Captain, pressed a finger to his lips, and began to walk away. "Ey, Cap," he shout-whispered back. "What's boss gettin' up to in Big Room?"
Dregal shook his head. "Either you're soddin' here with us, or safe away."
Getta shrugged, and slipped away without a second glance back. Once he'd disappeared through some dark doorway, Dregal muttered to himself: "She may never say so, but she'll be glad you got out."
***
Den followed down the corridor and around a corner. He called out after the footfall-sounds ahead "Fia! Fia—"
The stepping stopped. "Shh," came a hushed sound from her lips.
Den caught up to Fia; she was climbing up the wooden bracing of a hallway-threshold, wedged between opposite walls by the strength of her feet and hands. Up, up, up she went towards a jutting bit of in-built roof—or at least one rafter beam which hung down into this high hallway. She got on top of this rafter and kicked a wooden panel which formed the wall above it; Den could see a sliver of open space, a hole, revealed atop the stone wall. "Come on," Fia whispered, and she reached down towards Den from above. "Let's have a look, as the eagle sees."
Confused but curious, Den glanced in both directions then took the woman's hand. Between copying her own trick pushing at either wall, the helping hand lifting him, and a few jutting wall stones for footholds, he managed to scramble up and join her; she stepped back and he flopped onto the sloping beam beneath her. There was a quite high open space here, through the hole, and now Den understood: these rafters went up over the Throne Room, with plenty of open space above and below. Another day of 'spying,' though this time of a friendlier sort; it reminded Den of climbing trees as a child, to watch the pastry ovens over the walls of Judeckar the Baker's home in Tarlast, or to get a better view of Elven parades. Arms extended at his sides, he found his balance and followed Fia along the rafters up, as though they jumped between the wooden ribs of some titanic stone beast.
They reached a very high place and, no less than ten meters below, could see the Throne, the King sat crowned upon it, Phemelius kneeling near the door before Throne's steps, and behind him, the Wall-Burner's Crate. Fia put one finger across her lips—shh—and they both watched at the proceedings. The distance and the high ceiling of this hall quieted the voices of the Sun Elves below; Den could only hear their statements muffled. The King stood and descended from his throne, head held high and regal. Phemelius stood, and—what's that!?
The Wall-Burner's container seemed to open of its own accord. The sights within nearly cost Den his balance: his jaw dropped. There was no Wall-Burner within, only Moon Elves, very clearly dressed for battle. Fia watched Den intently; he tried to shout, but found pink-gloved fingers clapping strong around his mouth. She met Den's terrified eyes and whispered: "We have to get out of here!" And then: "Shh! Shh…" as she slowly removed her hand from his face.
"—I understand they're people!" he hissed. "Whatever pettiness is the cause, this is a danger… a fight! Phem is down there! Wehave to help him!"
She shook her head, and pushed his shoulder as she stepped past him. "If we're to help, we'll need reinforcements. Come, to Dregal and the others."
Fia held his arm and pulled him back down the rafter; first Den escaped the grip, looked back and set eyes on careful-creeping Moon Elves, then he shied away, and kept his eyes forward. What would I do, jump down from the rafters, breaking my legs? We need a plan, and fast! He hurried on to catch up to her.
At the hole above the hallway where they'd entered, Fia lay along the rafter and extended a hand; Den understood, and slid himself off it, legs first, helped down by her assistance. From back on solid flooring he looked back up at the Elf maiden, who made no movements of her own to descend; she regarded him grimly, and he knew. "What are you doing!?" he cried, as she retrieved the wooden panel which once covered the passageway.
"The Right Thing," she muttered bitterly from that high and hidden place. She clapped the panel back forcefully, kicking it flat to the wall, and then was gone from sight. Her footsteps, quick on the rafters, disappeared above.
"Fia!" Den properly shouted; repeatedly he tried to scrabble back up to the rafters, but found himself incapable without help. He did, once, manage to jump and fling himself up near the plank which covered the hole, but upon knocking it, found the cover firmly sealed to the surrounding woodwork. Help, he thought. I need reinforcements! He charged back down the hallway towards the doors, and his people. Face flush and sweating, eyes as hard as gemstones.
Upon their re-entry into his line of sight, Den called out to his companions: "Dreg! Jaskell! Phemelius is in danger! Moon Elves in the Throne Room!"
This caught the attention of the Sun-Elven guards. They first widened eyes at Den, and then each other, before they each turned to the Door, and found it quite unshaken by their shoving. It was the last thing these two Elves would ever do.
***
Phemelius of the Sun Elves entered the Throne Room of Ætsolai's keep, the hall of King Ambidon IV, his first cousin once-removed, with Elven King's Guards in golden armor hauling the Wall-Burner's Box behind him. The King sat on a golden throne some four meters above the floor. He wore lustrous robes of gold-painted silk trimmed deep crimson, and an exquisite, diamond-adorned Sungold diadem over his flowing white hair. And on his face were the first little wrinkles of aging, for the King of the Sun-Elves was now nearly five hundred years past his birth. The wisdom of those many centuries sat soft upon his noble brow; regal he was, head held high, gaze calm. About the room there were high windows of glass tinted red, gold, and blue, golden candelabra and a great gold chandelier, as well as many frescoes and tapestries depicting the glories of High-Elven nobility, victories and myths. The King's Guards set down the weighty wooden Crate and then stood tall and soldierly.
"Leave us," said the King. The guards filed out through doors behind the throne. In the room there were only King Ambidon, Phemelius, and the Box.
The younger Sun Elf knelt before the throne. "Uncle," said Phemelius. "I have returned to you with—"
The King raised a hand slowly, silencing this younger member of his Royal family. "Enough, Duke Phemelius. Yes, I am aware of the passing of your father, as I am aware of the weapon you bring before me today. The Wall-Burner's return does not stoke my soul, nor even does the sight of Ket-Blaskar, your birthright from out of the ancient days. They are but trinkets compared to the true treasure…"
The King stood and smiled magnanimously. "...you, my nephew. A Warrior the likes of which my Kingdom seldom sees. I was worried for you during your brief disappearance. My son has his strengths…" Slowly, King descended the steps down from his throne-dais. "…but you are an Elven warrior-noble, a Hero. Ket-Blaskar suits you well, in this your rightful place." Ambidon looked up at the tapestried marble walls of his throne room, "And once this War is won, you will have your own halls to decorate with your deeds, and a place forever in—"
Ambidon heard quiet scuffling and glanced down at the floor where Phemelius stood. The Box's lid was open behind the young Sun Elf, and there were beings climbing out of it: Moon Elves, with dark assassin's garb and bits of Moonsilver armor.
The King gasped and pointed Sardolias, his ruby-Sungold rod, down at them. "A trick! Phemi, behind you! GUARDS!" None came, or would.
The Moon Elves began a low chant in their own language. A blast of fire burst from the ruby tip of the King's scepter, but never reached its distant target; the face of Ket-Blaskar intercepted the shot, smashing it to quickly-extinguishing curls of fire. Phemelius charged at the King; head down and shadowed, Ax raised.
"Oh, no!" cried Ambidon. "What sorcery have they wrought upon you?" He crouched low to sideways face Phemelius, and jumped left to dodge a strike from the great Sungold Ax. With Sardolias, the King blasted fire again at the Moon Elves near the door, but but now there was a shimmering aura of pale green moon-magic rising around them; a barrier. The fireball shook this shielding and it disappeared; the Moon Elves behind remained unharmed. Their chant's rhythm built in speed and vigor. Ambidon felt a rush of air behind him, and whirling leapt just away from another deadly chop of Ket-Blaskar. Phemelius then tried to strike the King's head with the handle end of the Ax, but the King caught the blow along the handle of his own weapon, and tried to meet the young Elf's eyes. Phemelius wouldn't look up. He swung the head of his Ax back towards the King; with his staff, Ambidon sent a wider burst of flame at Ket-Blaskar itself. By the force, Phemelius bounded backwards but was not burnt; the Prince had a pale barrier of moon-magic around his body also, which shimmered more brightly at the heat and force of the sun-magic strike. On his knees, Phemelius skidded to a halt back near to where the Moon Elves stood. He rose to his feet and walked back towards the King, Ax brandished.
The King stood tall, wiped sweaty hairs from his brow, and smiled warmly. "You have the strength, Phemi. You can fight this. Dark Elf trickery is no match for the might of an Elvish champion. There is no more fitting a test of your greatness—release their shackles, show your power!"
The younger Sun Elf stopped a meter or so away, and at last looked up to meet the King's eyes. One hand behind, his Ax held straight out to his right, seething rage upon his face, and in his words:
"You KNEW."
Ket-Blaskar burst brilliantly aflame.
***
There in the dark forests of the far East, Prince Phemelius continued to struggle in Moonsilver chains to no avail. Ahkt-Elskein-Hayapheada, Knife-Sister of the Moon Elves and his captor, grinned cruelly into his eyes.
"You have to stop this madness," the Prince ranted, his face soaked with sweat. "Surrender, or use me as hostage, or kill me, but… The War needs to end!"
"Surrender?" The Moon Elf peeled back her full, pale-green lips, still smiling. "Why would we surrender, Sunling?"
"For the sake of your people!" His voice was hoarse. "You're losing this War. You're too smart not to see it. Without peace, you're all going to die!"
"You fear this? Why such pity, for we, your Enemies? This War has ended many of your kind, and your human pets. My knife has taken them." She drew her argent dagger and slowly, deviously waved it between her eyes and his.
The Prince sighed weakly. "I'm… I'm sick of it. The 'glory,' the losses, all the killing. Things can't go on this way. I can't go on."
"Ah. 'Sick'. And what, Ax-Prince, do you believe comes after this sickness?" She stared into the distance for a long moment. "But no, this is not your greatest fear: that Foolish Night Elves will scuttle your attempt at diplomacy." She spat the word.
He looked up at her pleadingly. "All that has been, all the rage and pain we've earned out there, it doesn't matter anymore… you must see! Who's 'foolish' or 'monstrous,' who started it, all our differences and grievances and long-held grudges—we could fight forever and still solve nothing." He looked at the Knife-Sister pleadingly. "And now, if your people and mine can't find a way to live together, you won't have a people. You stand to lose more than anyone!"
"'Differences'? There is but one, Princeling. The One Above All."
Exasperated, the Prince shook his head.
Hayapheada sheathed her weapon and cocked her head at him. "But… hmm. No, this is not your greatest fear either. Loss of all the poor Innocent Night Elves."
"What are you even talking about!? This isn't about what I fear… this isn't about me at all!"
"It is tonight, little Spark. Fear paralyzes. By it, you have shied from the greater truth. I would see you strengthened."
Phemelius eyed her warily, searching. "What do you want? What are you planning to do with me?"
"With, hah! We shall see. You have uses. But you must reach further, bravely, silly Prince. You must ask your father the General: 'How did this War begin?' Only then may you find your path to peace."
She leaned down to look into his eyes. "And… you may have further uses yet. Anything you might do would benefit my people. But when your worst fear is realized, if you do that which most serves our dire need, you will have earned my trust."
Phemelius looked down, breathing heavily. "I… I don't understand."
"Your denial does not move me. You do, and you will. Even my discouragement encourages you, for no eyes pierce the night's veil further than the eyes of Ukki-Elloal-Karahaladea, my Brother-in-Shadows. He sees all endings, and shares these visions with his Sister. If you see all your truths and temperaments to this conclusion, my conclusion, it will be your ending. And at so young an age."
"What do you want from me!?" Phemelius met her gaze wildly. "It doesn't matter. If I live, if I die, no matter what I do… there's no—there must be peace!"
"Not for you. Even from your Sun-blindness, you've seen that." The Knife-Sister pressed her palm onto a knot of silver chains on the Prince's back, and hummed a sharp note. With a flash of pale light the bindings loosened and fell to the ground at Phemelius' feet. He stood, looked at his now-freed hands, and then back at her, mystified.
"Go, Sunchild. Ask. The work is not yet finished."
***
Den watched in horror as Jaskell and Dreg removed their blooded arming swords from the necks of the fallen Sun Elf guards. "What are you doing!?" he shrieked.
Jaskell turned on him, and there was now a wild and sorrowful rage in the Corporal's face, his red face tightened by the same. He smiled through it all, and screamed: "Of course he's in danger, you idiot! All this shit, these tales of Heroes and Monsters—where do you think it came from!?" Dregal looked down and away in sorrow.
Den stepped back from the red-faced, menacing man. "Jaskell... what are you—"
Jaskell smiled wider, and tears began to stream down his face. "What sort of a person is a King? A Duke, a Prince? What does it take to actually win a throne, to keep it? How must The Web be RUINED to support one?"
Den stepped aside and Jaskell carried on past him, to the far wall, onto which he slammed curled arms, and head down upon them. His shoulders shook, and Den heard Jaskell sobbing loudly. He turned to Dreg, and implored the man: "I don't care about any of that… Kings, Heroes, fairy tales… this is real! Dreg… Phem and Fia both are in grave danger!"
Somberly did Dreg reply: "He knows. We've always known. We can only pray they've brought more danger than they face."
***
There was an excess of quiet in Gorlitenza, on the night that would bring its General's defeat.
"How it started?" Duke Moliesvar gave a bemused smile. "You've known this, Phemi. At every parade we chant of the First Sundering, in every story—"
"Not a story, Father." Phemelius' eyes were hard. "I want the truth. You have lived six hundred and eighty-seven years. Surely you know better."
"So this is what they tormented you with…" The old Duke rubbed his chin. "This is an important day in the growing of each Elven Lord. You recall to me my own youth, when I too sought broader truths. We are a prideful people, my Son, and our pride is our strength. However, it can also stretch us past good sense."
"Why, Father? Why do we fight them?"
"…And that scholarly mind of yours. Like the warrior-poets of yore, such noble potential! I knew that Master Filstanek was a dour little renegade, all his sickening smiles… I suppose you'll be needing some good direction, here." Moliesvar put a hand on his son's shoulder. "There's truth to the stories, but I should be proud that you've realized we wouldn't trust the humans with everything."
Phemelius looked up apprehensively.
"They fear the Dark People, but they don't really get it. These humans haven't been around long enough, poor little things. This War, why, we tried to make peace with those caveling creatures! You've studied them, haven't you? It's not just jealousy, nor even their Dark Gods—they are, and always have been fanatics, who in their barbarity cannot understand the ways of the world. A King is a King! They didn't just seek to fight us, Phemi—their little coven of conjurers—they set about corrupting our very subjects! Oh, their plans were clever, that is certain. You've seen their cleverness!"
Phemelius averted his eyes.
"Yes—a-ha! They don't have greatness—even their 'magic' is but trickery and little chants—so they set about scheming to rob us of ours. Our people, our wealth… our very land! All this they would bring under their cultish domination, were we not to defend ourselves. Our great and ancient houses, our Gold, the divine purity of our bloodline; all of this they've sought to tarnish or take… and by Emolelei, they have taken."
Phemelius looked up as a sick dog might, and rasped out: "What of the end of the War? Will the Wall-Burner really… defeat them? All of them?"
"I know, son. The battlefield has brought you glory, honor… and pain also, I have not missed it! Like a Heroic Commander of old, you feel each Elf's loss as your own, and even show the human soldiers clemency. My son, I could not be more proud of you! But yes, the time has come. Worry not of all the sorrows soon behind us. Your deeds will be remembered… you will be exalted as the Hero who brought Peace!"
Phemelius, squinting, held the bridge of his nose in his fingers. "What is to become of us, Father? And the humans…"
"Humans? Oh, don't worry too much for them, Phemi, they can tend to their own affairs. Maybe too well, this little upstart human 'Lord'… but us?" The Duke smiled. "Phemi, this glory will not shine only on the faces of our subjects. We have secured our House's place in history by our valor; your valor! And spoils, oh the spoils we'll receive for this, our hard-fought victory!"
"…spoils?"
"The lands, son, don't you see? Why, you'll be rewarded with your own manor-lands, and won't have to be bothered with a doddering old grand-Elf like me." Moliesvar chuckled contentedly. "Who better to rule a new Human nation? And this 'Moon-silver' of theirs will no doubt find a use, as rare curiosity if nothing else. And then there's all the Gold they've stolen from us!"
"I don't understand, Father."
"You do, son. Or… you will. You've been out on the battlefield too long now, faced hardships even I could not understand." Moliesvar put a hand around his son's shoulders. "When all this business is behind us, and you're drunk at a victory Feast..." He grinned and poked Phemelius on the chest. "...and beholding the lovely Elf maidens—" The Duke then cocked his head thoughtfully, and added: "...or human girls, I won't judge… why, there will be nothing but prosperity, and delight, and easy times beneath the holy Peace we High Elves have fought so hard to win."
With a resigned look, Phemelius shrugged out of his father's arms and walked over to the window. "What will be the strategy, then?" he said. "We'll want to be ending it quickly."
"That's the spirit!" Moliesvar walked over to the window, clapped Phemelius on the left shoulder, and joined him in leaning over the sill. "Well, Phemi, I should like to hear your opinion on this. You have battle wisdom of your own—wisdom that grows, each day! Their encampment lies nearly due East." The General pointed straight out into the starless sky, and Phemelius, to his right, followed his father's gaze. "And you know of ours at our feet." The Duke pointed down to the right, where the Ducal army camp, with banners emblazoned with shimmering golden sunbeams, was just waking up. "But there is another force; I sent spies out Northwards…" He pointed to his left, out over the shadowy trees of the East. "…and there is a way through, to encircle them. They'll see it coming, of course, but the Wall—"
Moliesvar turned; his son was no longer at the sill to his right. He thought he'd heard something, and he had—footsteps—but now there flickered a new light.
The burning edge of Ket-Blaskar descended on the Duke.
***
King Ambidon IV was shaken to silence, for the moment.
Burning Ax in hand, Phemelius continued, his voice rising with his anger: "We've given the Humans all manner of incredible lies, to fuel their righteous Holy War. Even our own people, wise to some trickery, take the comfort that it's a Messy War, a two-way slaughter—that it's regrettable, all these horrors we and the humans Have To Do for the sake of 'Order'. But you, and your fathers and mine, you always knew BETTER!"
Phem swung his flaming Ax—a swift and clean strike, which the King was able to duck from only just in time—and already the Prince whirled the weighty Sungold weapon for another.
"…That this is not Righteous, not Defensive, nor even some Sad Necessity—that WE started this war, and keep it burning, for nothing! For conquest! For our own GREED!"
The chanting of the Moon Elves rose with Phemelius' ranting. The King snapped out of his shock and began to blast magic fire point-blank at Phemelius, his body and his head. Ax twirling, the younger Sun Elf was able to deflect some of the fireballs, but some got past his weapon.
And before they could burn him, these shots of magic fire scattered; for it was that the same pale glow of magic which protected the Moon Elf insurgents still surrounded the young Prince. He charged in with a burning chop, and his unimpeded attacks caught the King off guard; as Phemelius struck, the King lurched back and tried instinctively to block with his scepter. But the blazing edge of Ket-Blaskar caught the rod below its ruby head, and Sardolias, the staff of the King, was sundered. Its gemstone clattered to the ground and rolled away; Ambidon fell flat onto his backside from the force of the blow, and was caught staring at his own weapon's empty golden handle, a new, smoldering scar marring the tip of his cheek.
"And these humans…" Ket-Blaskar ceased burning, and Phemelius spoke with a sad, pleading tone: "Cousin, they came to us for help. They were running terrified from whatever horrors their own homeland wrought upon them. And seeing opportunity,we tricked them: we gave them only the worst parts of our War. The lies, and the War-front, and all the pain and terror and hatred we stoked towards our Moonish kinsfolk. We put them between ourselves and conflict we inflamed, and we kept the benefits. All this wealth in our Kingdom, these lands, and loyal new subjects enamored with our putrid gifts and 'protection'. Who in their desperation, would accept that they were lesser to us."
"…and for what?" Phemelius' anger began to rise again. "We alone could end this War at any time, but no, and why? So we can keep bickering over the scraps? Taking what we can, lying to keep taking, eating and drinking and fucking for our own selfish pleasure, each of us little conquerors, so far removed from compassion and togetherness that all we can do is fail to fill our empty hearts with things!? We are lost, DOOMED if we continue along this path. If we kill ALL the Moon Elves, and ALL the Humans, or bend all peoples to our sickly will, still we will be: clutching, rotting, BROKEN," Ket-Blaskar's flames awoke once more, "HATEFUL, TERRIFIED, LOVELESS, BLIND—"
"ALL DARK ELVES AND ALL TRAITORS SHALL DIE!" This shout was the King's, who had now been inflamed to anger of his own. With his words, an enormous Sungold chandelier above the two Elves shuddered, began to blaze in a spectacular web of fire (that is, more wholly aflame than a chandelier would normally be) and, anchors snapping, fell from above.
Phemelius had been glaring at the King, and looked up when he heard the chandelier's chains clanging. It was all he could do to raise his Ax flat over his head and leap backwards before a mountain of burning gold landed on top of him with a thunderous clatter. The Moon Elves, far from the falling danger, were taken aback, but stood firm and continued their singing. Their magic buffered the falling gold's shockwave puff of flame from them, so that they remained un-burned. Each one narrowed eyes at the pile of broken metal, the flames. Both Sun Elves were beneath it. A death unseen is no death at all.
A very large fireball burst from the smoldering pile of Sungold, and there within it was the King, his robes burned away to reveal glistening plates of Sungold armor. He flew across the room and impaled Ra-Jesvei, the searing sword of the kings of Ætsolai, through the Moon Elves' magic barrier and into one of the chanting casters. This Moon Elf woman slumped dead around the blade. Shocked, the others turned to face King Ambidon, and their chanting gained a guttural growl. A few of them drew Moonsilver weapons.
Phemelius erupted from the metal rubble and charged the King, shouting wildly, his skin and clothing now freshly singed. He swung his Ax, and its scorching Sungold blade—which could cut through any other material as a red-hot knife through wax—was caught by the fiery edge of the King's own greatsword. Both weapons held; the two royal Sun Elves locked eyes, and now each one knew the game. Ambidon swung his sword behind himself to stay the Moon Elves and around to slash at Phemelius, sending the younger Sun Elf backwards, stumbling. Arrow-like tendrils of moon-magic shot at the back of the King and dissipated against his shimmering plate armor. He swung his sword in wide arcs around himself, and one such swing sent a crescent-shaped slash of magic fire at the arc of Moon Elves, interrupting their magic barrier; both magics, fire and pallid glow, were broken. The Moon Elf behind this clash of magics merely stumbled back and continued his part in the song, restoring the glowing shield before him.
The battle continued in the same way, six against one, for a many long seconds: the King dueling Phemelius and keeping the Moon Elves at bay simultaneously. Ket-Blaskar, as an ax, was heftier: even half-force strikes could send the King off balance, or knock away his sword, if timed and angled just right. But Ra-Jesvei was the swifter weapon, at no cost of striking range; thus the King could match Phemelius at mid-distance and hurl burning slashes of sun-magic at the Moon Elves around him. Being the one-against-six was certainly more work, and neither Sun Elf could hold forever. The Duel of the Highborn was a matter of endurance, cleverness and will. One mighty cut nearly got Ambidon; he swerved, and Ket-Blaskar sheared a sliver of Sungold off his left pauldron.
The Moon Elves did what they could to guard Phemelius from the sword, but a Sungold weapon in full fury their magics could not halt; the best they might manage was a turning of the King's strikes away from the Prince's body by diverting Ambidon's own bodily movements, so the sword followed, off its line. The Sun King's will was strong, his mind and body sharp as his sword. Dodging and blocking, he maneuvered around the Prince, so that his traitorous nephew stood between the Moon Elves and himself. He swung for Phemi's knee, felt the will of chanting Moon Elves pulling at his wrists, and changed direction so the sword swung upwards. There he found his mark: Ra-Jesvei's searing edge hit Ket-Blaskar's handle just below the first flare of its head, and the inert Sungold (only the Ax's blade burned) was no match: the disembodied head of Ket-Blaskar sputtered out as it cleft itself into the marble floor with a thunk. No sooner had Phemelius realized that he was, in essence, disarmed, did Ra-Jesvei's burning tip impale itself—through the middle of Ket-Blaskar's handle, and a fresh-formed shield of moon magic—into the low center of the Prince's chest. Phemelius gasped and staggered to one knee. The chanting of the Moon Elves continued, but they held back, watching, waiting.
"Such empty pride, foolish child," said the King. "And what, you die for Them? After all your kin have done for you, you'd rather lose this War among the low and barbarous, rather than reap the glory of your own heritage?"
Blood dripped from Phemelius' mouth. From heavy-lidded eyes he looked up and past the King's left shoulder. Smiling faintly, he said: "I fight for all of us…"
Ambidon wheeled; there was no noise behind him. There was, between him and the throne, another Moon Elf: not two meters past the King, approaching slowly through a pile of smoldering Sungold scrap, was Ahkt-Elskein-Hayapheada, the Knife-Sister of the Moonish people, with her Moonsilver dagger in her right hand, and a Sungold saber in her left. She still wore her magenta scarf and gloves, white blouse under gold-trimmed turquoise vest, and plain orange-brown trousers, but now her moon-magic disguise was released, so her face was returned to her own pale-green skin: her eyes as large as they'd always been, her nose and chin and cheekbones round and wide, her hair in its usual straight spikes to just below her brow. She smiled cruelly, with tears in her eyes, and her clothes and skin and hair were stained with fresh blood. The Knife-Sister joined the chant of her Moonish allies, and by the singing did her knife begin to glow. Staring at her in shock, the King of the Sun Elves tugged at the hilt of his sword, which did not budge. He looked back down at it and there around the blade were Phemelius' hands holding Ra-Jesvei in place; his chest, still bleeding, held it also. The dying younger man grinned venomously, the full heat of life summoned to his eyes and all his muscles for one moment more.
King Ambidon bared his teeth and screamed; Ra-Jesvei burned more brightly, scorched Phemelius' hands and chest to char. Only then was Ambidon able to yank the weapon free, and in the same motion he, twisting about the waist, swung it in a mighty two-handed arc over his head and down towards Hayapheada's shoulder, blazing like the Sun.
The weapon stopped. Ra-Jesvei, the Sword of Kings, found itself caught on the burning edge of a simple Sungold sword. Her saber aloft and caught, blade to fiery blade, the Knife-Sister looked into the King's eyes, said: "Hey. Fuck you," and plunged her glowing knife up through his plate armor and into his chest. Ambidon choked on his own blood. She thrust the knife up further, then tore it back out, the Sun Elf's life-juices spurting from the puncture. And then, King Ambidon IV's eyes went milky as the Moon, and he fell to the ground, his life departed. The blood slipped off Hayapheada's knife in bubbles, as water off wax-lined tarpaulin cloth.
The Knife-Sister spared one last look at the body of the King, and seeing him well and truly dead, ran over to the dying Prince, and cried out: "Meli!" She knelt beside him, removed her gloves, and cradled Phemelius the Sun Elf in her arms, delicately avoiding the smoldering hole in his chest.
Phemelius cracked his eyes open and, beholding her, smiled and spoke in the language of the Moon Elves: "Nuznaph, Yaphi. Muhkatyasht Abbawzeyn bahtkaa at'awl nismiy, yamwuteyna seadayn eylKoan."
And Yaphi, only more distraught, fought tears to speak to him in the native tongue of the Sun Elves, which she also had mastered: "Noled isthekeru, Meli! Komuthro taela yukose trofiar tusto!? Kæos, skyssimian nomrotsiar!
Tears twinkled in Phemelius' eyes. "Ahktaynaph. Awn 'Lam yutjat ahktray,' eala ei'hleit hal'leam ahktiy uhkirean munifahk."
Yaphi shook her head. ""Stolduf, da æmn! Skustohiak kuonka sendiar." She leaned down and kissed him on the lips, and kissed him a second time, then whispered more closely, faintly, to his face: ""Kæos… mekysanes kæos isthekeru emia, nom lokketro…" She saw him coughing, trying to speak, and waited breathless, hung on each of Meli's words as her chin trembled.
Phemelius smiled at her, matching the tears which ran down his face. ""Lamahkterphishakalkuktalphi, eadhav. Fia ephaaHayapheada. Ladadh… ulseph—ab'an… a-ah—…"
The Prince drew his last gasping breath. Then his body went limp in Hayapheada's arms, and she allowed herself a long moment of unbroken grief: her head and mighty shoulders low on his, shuddering, crying wildly, and beating upon his cold flesh with pale green fists. The life of Phemelius Eantahr, Traitor-Duke of Orevictorum and Sunchild, departed also.
One of her warriors, a man named Aaleseal-miph-Adyudhi, first put a hand on her shoulder, comforting. When Hayapheada stood, he bent down lower and closed Phem's eyes. In accented humanish, he said: "Rest, Tefil-Koan. Your fight ends." Yaphi sniffed. She and the others set about to mourn their fallen Moon Elf warrior also, in a low chant. The music rose from grief to cold determination.
***
"Bring danger, what… Dregal, did we bring the Moon Elves here? If Jaskell…"
Dreg looked at Den with pity. "This was always The Mission, Den. Kill the King, tear down the power of the Sun Elves, and End The War. I'm sorry. And Fia, she's—"
The once-sealed doors of the Throne Room flew open. Out came six Moon Elves, five of which were dressed as Den had earlier seen, and would in any case have expected: in black, assassins and warriors, and mages of the night. The only surprise among those five was the long Sungold Greatsword of exquisite, ancient make that one Moon Elf wielded: Ra-Jesvei, the King's Sword. More shocking still: the sixth Moon Elf in the middle was dressed in Fia's clothes: pink and white and turquoise; gaudy, vibrant, impossible to mistake. From her Moon-Elven face—her enormous eyes inflamed with drying tears, but steady—she spoke with Fia's voice, though it took a graver tone than usual, to him: "Den Sorman. Our friend Phemelius gave his life for the saving of my people. Your service to him is ended. Now you must resolve your place in Swib-Keilsat, The Web of All." Hayapheada cast a hard and shiny something down before Den's feet, where it clattered to a halt, and then she met his eyes once more. "Flee or fight."
Den peered over her and into the Throne Room, where three bodies lay: a Moon Elf woman, King Ambidon, and Phemelius, there beyond the empty Box. The Moon Elf with the sword looked over the other humans, and nodding handed Ra-Jesvei off to Jaskell, who took it and immediately set the blade aflame. More footsteps came from down the corridor, and all crouched readily, beheld: some more Moon Elves dressed for war, a Sun-Elf woman in steel plate armor, and several humans, including Tandric Ellaberg. At the sight, the Knife-Sister and her warriors relaxed, and a brief but friendly greeting was made between the two rejoined groups.
Den looked down again at what Hayapheada had dropped at his feet: her golden saber in its scabbard. One of the Moon Elves, a man, said: "Almaliz lam yanikhtasdubadh, Yaphi." The Knife-Sister looked to all the others, brandished her glowing knife, and smiling let out a whooping battle cry. She led them: Elves and Humans, shouting and singing and dangerous as one, charging down the hall; they all went, everyone except for Den… and Dregal.
The Captain took Den gently by the shoulder, and he said: "Listen, lad: there's still time. You can—"
Den picked up the sheathed saber, and then from the corner of one eye he caught a glinting from beyond a nearby window: out along the distant northern shore, where the night was nearly black. He edged towards the wall, rested hand and scabbard on the sill, and squinted out into the dim gray of nightfall.
Dreg ran to join him. "Sorman! You can still…"
Den's eyes widened. Hardly hidden by the dusk, just outside the city's northern walls, stood an army, an enormous force of People: many Moon Elves and many thousands of another sort of creature, with White skin edge-tinted purpley blue, and rows of feathery black hair: Sea Elves. And there were several humans also, and even some Sun Elves among the throng. Before them all, closest to the city and in the center of this crowd, was a massive, hollow, and open-ended Sungold pipe with spirals in its barrel. Oliostesmai the Wall-Burner glinted in the first moonlight, and a terrible jet of flame spewed forth from deep within its hollow. There was a great shuddering crash, and the North of Ætsolai, Den's face included, was for a moment flashed with a heat as bright as daylight. The outer wall of the city fell as scorching rubble. Darkness returned.
Dregal grabbed his friend wildly. "Den, listen to me! You have to go now! The damn War's comin' HERE, I… I promised Phem I wouldn't let you fall today. C'mon, let's get—"
Den Sorman drew his sword.