An Alliance of Mortals, page 9
part #6 of The New Earth Chronicles Series
“Of course, Councilor,” the young woman replied cheerfully. “Grandmother works herself too hard. We all know that.”
She lowered her voice and glanced around nervously. Her thick mane of pale blond hair fell over her face and Malfiess resisted the urge to grin at her obvious attempt at being discreet.
“The family worries so,” she whispered breathlessly. “Mother has spoken with my grandmother about her health, but you know how stubborn she can be.”
Malfiess nodded.
“I agree,” he replied softly. “So this is your chance to help her to rest for a bit. And the sooner you fetch the Elder her tea, the sooner she'll feel better.”
“Yes, of course. I'll go right now, Councilor,” Orilla exclaimed.
She turned and ran off, her waist-length hair flowing like a cape behind her.
Malfiess chuckled and walked off, heading toward the home of Callius.
The young scryer was living on the edge of town in a neat little house made of split logs. There was one window next to the front door and a row of wildflowers was planted along the edge of the front yard.
The councilor walked across the short grass to the door of the scryer's home and knocked several times.
After a moment, the door swung open and Malfiess found himself staring into the eyes of the senior healer, Miriam.
“Ah, good day, Malfiess,” she said with a warm smile. “How are you?”
“I am well, thank you,” the councilor replied. “And you? I'm surprised to see you here. Is Callius ill?”
Miriam laughed lightly.
“We are both fine,” she assured him. “I was just visiting. Come in, come in. I was on my way out anyway.”
She stepped back and Malfiess entered the house. Inside, a wide window filled the small home with light. A brown rug covered the floor and several chairs were scattered about. A rough wooden shelf held several books and, across the room, a fireplace built of round white stones held a stack of logs ready to be lit.
Callius had been sitting in a wooden chair beside the fireplace and, as Malfiess entered the house, he stood up and greeted his visitor with a shy smile.
“Hello, Councilor,” the scryer said in his soft voice. “Welcome to my home.”
“Thank you, Callius,” Malfiess replied. “Forgive me for taking so long to visit you.”
He looked around and nodded with approval.
“It is a good house. Sturdy. I hope that you are comfortable here.”
“I am, sir. Very comfortable.”
Miriam smiled at both elves.
“Enjoy your visit, Malfiess,” she told the councilor. “I have patients to attend to. Callius, I thank you for your hospitality. You are now healed and healthy. Eat well and get your rest and you should not need my services again.”
She shook a finger at him with a teasing grin on her face.
“And don't overexert yourself or I will come back and scold you. Understand?”
“Yes, Healer. I shall try to avoid that.”
“See that you do.”
She patted Malfiess on the arm as she walked out.
“Be nice,” she whispered.
The door closed behind her and Malfiess and Callius stared at each other.
“Please have a seat, Councilor,” the scryer said. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Malfiess walked over to the fireplace and sat down on a chair across from where the scryer had been sitting. He waited until Callius was seated again and then cleared his throat.
“Miriam says that you are well again. After you pushed yourself to your limits to open a portal and transport our people to this world, I worried that you might never recover. How are you feeling?”
Callius tucked his long dark hair behind his pointed ears and seemed to be considering his answer. His large blue eyes seemed to glow in the light of the sun as it beamed into the room and the red robe that he wore, traditional garb for a scryer, took on a bloody tinge. Malfiess thought that the slender young elf looked almost otherworldly as he sat there, quietly thinking.
“I am indeed well, sir,” Callius finally replied. “It took me some time to recover, that is true, but the ley energy of this world is so dense, so untouched, that its power has aided in my healing. As did Healer Miriam.”
He smiled wistfully while staring across the room at the sunlight streaming through the window.
“She doesn't understand my connection with the ley, you know,” he continued. “And frankly, I don't either. We scryers are trained to use such energies to do our work, to cross vast distances in our minds looking for dangers or communicating with our people. But I have done something that was once the sole purview of the keepers: I can open portals to transport people from one place to another. And I can channel raw ley energy to use as a weapon to battle our enemies. I can...”
His voice trailed off and he looked at Malfiess with wide eyes.
“I can do things that frighten me,” he whispered. “And I do not know how, Councilor. Or why. I am not a strong person. I was barely out of my apprenticeship as a scryer when tragedy struck our people, and now I am the only one of my kind left. Several keepers managed to escape Trillfarness, but they tell me that they cannot reach the ley lines that are concentrated around the core of this planet. I can, but I do not know how.”
He opened his hands and looked at Malfiess helplessly.
“What am I, sir? Why am I? Can you tell me that?”
The councilor looked at the young elf, his eyes filled with compassion.
“You are the one who arose when we needed you the most,” he told Callius. “This may sound absurd to others, but I believe that Trillfarness infused you with her power, so that you could save our people. Whether you believe that or not, the fact is that you did save us. Perhaps we don't need to know how or why. It is enough to know that you can help others, don't you think?”
Callius stood up and walked over to the window. He stared outside while Malfiess watched him with concern.
The councilor knew how fragile the young elf was. He was a vessel of tremendous power and yet slight of build and delicate of mind. Could he handle the responsibilities that the Council asked of him? Malfiess did not know the answer.
“I suppose you are right,” Callius said softly as he watched several elves passing by his house. “There is no one else who can do what I can. I hope to be able to train likely candidates to manipulate this world's ley lines one day, but there is no time for that now.”
He turned and looked at Malfiess.
“So I will do what must be done, sir,” he told the councilor. “What other choice do I have?”
Malfiess rose and walked over to stand beside the scryer. Both of them watched their fellow elves going about their business. Several small children ran past, chasing each other and screaming with joy as they played.
Callius smiled fondly at the sight and Malfiess glanced at him.
“You have a good heart, my friend,” he told him. “I know that you do what you do because you care. We cannot ask for more than that from you.”
“You came because it is time to set up the link to the dwarves' capital city?” Callius asked.
“It is. Are you feeling up to it?”
“Oh yes, I am,” the young elf assured him. “The healer has been very kind and through her efforts, she has helped me to regain my health. I am ready to make the attempt.”
“Excellent. Let's go then. Amelda is waiting for us in the Council hall. She is very tired from her efforts today, meeting with the humans and the dwarves, but she wants to wait until you have set up the link before resting.”
Something in his voice caught Callius' attention and the scryer turned to look at him.
“Is the Elder unwell?” he asked anxiously.
Malfiess hesitated and then he nodded slowly.
“It is not well known, for obvious reasons, but Amelda is slowly failing. Day by day, she is becoming weaker and less able to perform her duties. But during this time of confusion and trauma, she does not feel that it is proper for her to step aside. She sees herself, rightly so in my opinion, as an example of stability and strength for our people and she feels that, if she steps down from her position, they will lose confidence in the Council.”
“I had no idea, sir,” Callius said. “She is a great leader, to put her own health in jeopardy in service of our people.”
“She is. And the sooner we return to her and you create that link, the sooner she will be able to get some rest.”
“Then we should go immediately,” the young scryer exclaimed.
He hurried to the door and stepped outside with Malfiess following closely on his heels, both of them eager to get back to the Council hall.
Chapter 7
The battlements that protected Nottinghill Castle rose almost thirty feet above the ground. The ramparts topping them were at least a dozen feet wide and protected by shoulder-high parapets on either side, with slots cut into them where archers could shoot down at any enemies attacking from outside or from within. A dozen ballistae, huge crossbow-like machines that were modeled after weapons given to the populace by the dwarves in the early days of the reconstruction of the castle, were stationed strategically around the battlements. Crews manned the weapons at all times, scanning the skies for threats from above.
Goblins riding monstrous bats. Wild wyverns and griffons hunting for prey. All were potential attackers that the humans had to guard against. And of course, there were the dragons.
After the old race of dragons had been wiped out by a coalition of humans, dwarves and elves, a new generation had been born from a small clutch of eggs hidden away by the doomed dragon queen. A clutch that might have spelled the end of the handful of people who had survived the destruction wrought by their predecessors.
But Argentium, an ancient dragon who followed the tenets of the lords of Light, raised these new primals himself. And because of his teachings, they did not grow up to become the same evil, twisted creatures that had once obeyed the gods of Chaos and almost destroyed the human race. These primal dragons were their own masters. Still dangerous, still unpredictable, but not raised to hate the mortal races, the dragons now avoided both Nottinghill Castle and England itself. But no one knew how long that would last, and so the skies were constantly scanned for the vast webbed wings of dragons as well as other dangers.
The day after the historic meeting between leaders from the three mortal races, Malcolm found himself walking the battlements, checking on the ballistae and gauging the morale of the troops manning the walls.
He found a level of optimism that surprised him. The average warrior who defended the castle was not someone who looked on the bright side of life. They were mostly level-headed and fairly grim people who faced the possibility of battle on a daily basis. But word of the successful meeting had spread like wildfire throughout the populace of Nottinghill and now even the troops were feeling a sense of hope. And to Malcolm, that was very refreshing.
“Good morning, Commander.”
Malcolm smiled and returned the salute of one of his captains.
“Good morning, Daniel,” he replied. “Lovely day, isn't it?”
Daniel Timmins was a large man who was wearing a standard set of plain plate armor with a blue ribbon tied around his right arm denoting his rank. His head was bare and his bright red hair whipped around in the wind that blew over the battlements. He had green eyes and a crooked nose that had been broken some time in the past and he always had a cheerful expression on his face. He was both respected and beloved by the warriors under his command and Malcolm counted himself lucky to have him.
The redhead looked up at the clear blue sky and grimaced a bit.
“Yeah, if you can get a tan, it's grand,” he said irritably. “For a pale lad like myself, it's just another chance to get sunburned. Lovely day indeed.”
Malcolm chuckled and Daniel grinned at him.
“But nothing's swooping down at me, trying to bite my head off,” the redhead joked. “So I'll say it's a fine day. How are you doing?”
“I'm good,” Malcolm told him. “After yesterday's meeting, I'm probably feeling more optimistic than I have in a very long time. It's a strange sensation.”
Daniel leaned back against the parapet behind him. He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at Malcolm.
“And here I thought that you were the most optimistic person in Nottinghill,” he said with a crooked smile.
“Did you? Hmm. I must be a better actor than I thought I was.”
Malcolm turned his head and looked down the wide ramparts, watching dozens of armored warriors going about their business. He stared at the closest ballista for a moment, noting the stack of iron bolts neatly arranged next to the machine. The three man crew was busy oiling its gears and he nodded in approval.
Daniel followed his gaze and frowned at Malcolm's intense stare.
“Are you expecting an attack from the skies?” he asked curiously.
“Hmm? Oh. No, not really,” Malcolm replied as he looked back at Daniel. “I just wanted to be sure that this new atmosphere of hope hasn't taken the edge off of our troops. Constant vigilance is our job and we shouldn't allow what happens at a political level to influence that.”
“The political level?” Daniel said. “I thought that we had left politics behind when the world fell to the dragons.”
Malcolm snorted and pushed his braids out of his face as the wind whipped them around his head.
“Politics will never die, I'm afraid,” he said heavily. “I may be a member of the leadership group, but Tamara and Sebastian are better suited to deal with our new allies than I am. They have to be careful not to ruffle any feathers with the elves and the dwarves. Not to mention the Fay, of course. Their queen, Ellas, is a volatile little thing and poor Chao is stuck keeping her placated.”
He shook his head.
“Politics,” he repeated.
Daniel grinned at his commander's expression.
“Don't worry, boss,” he told Malcolm. “As long as you do your job, I don't think you'll be fired by the high mucky mucks.”
Malcolm gave him a sour look.
“There are days that I would welcome that, to be honest,” he said. “I'm just a simple kid from the country. I never asked for any of this responsibility. You'd be a better choice to lead the troops than I am.”
Daniel held up his hands.
“Oh no you don't!” he exclaimed hastily. “You'll not saddle me with that job. I'm happy to follow your orders and lead the people under me, but I'm not the man to handle all of the minutia. Schedules? Troops rotations? Tactics? No thanks. You're stuck with this job, boss, like it or not.”
“Thanks a lot,” Malcolm replied.
He turned his head up to the sky and scanned it for a moment before taking a deep breath and smiling.
“But it is a lovely day, isn't it?” he added.
“So you've said,” Daniel laughed.
“Yes, well, if things are all in order up here, I'll head out and walk the perimeter. Do you need anything?” Malcolm asked him.
“Some clouds would be nice,” Daniel replied with a wink.
“I'll see what I can do. Carry on, Captain.”
“I will, Commander.”
They grinned at each other as they saluted and then Malcolm walked off, heading for the stairs that led down to the courtyard.
Daniel watched him leave, his smile fading as the big man disappeared from sight.
“Stay focused, my friend,” he whispered. “We need your leadership, now more than ever.”
Hundreds of miles below the Earth's surface, in the ancient city of Kingstone, Shandon Ironhand sat on the iron and stone throne of his ancestors and dealt with an unending stream of petitioners. Beside the throne, the king's seneschal, Falder Oresmith, stood quietly with a long list of names in his hand. Next to each name was the reason that they wanted to meet with the king, and Falder informed Shandon of each person's request.
As two merchants bowed to the king and strode off across the throne room, its vast space echoing with their footsteps, Shandon leaned over to speak with his seneschal.
“How many more today, Falder?” he asked wearily. “My arse is numb and I could use a mug of good ale. Or two.”
Falder smiled at the king's mournful expression. The dwarf was wearing a white tunic with long loose sleeves and plain black leather trousers. His long, exquisitely curled mustache bounced comically as he chuckled in sympathy.
“Good news, my lord,” the seneschal told Shandon. “Those two were the last petitioners on today's schedule. You are now free for the rest of the evening.”
“Oh joy,” Shandon said dryly. “You know, I once thought that, as the king, I was supposed to be the one who told others what to do. But it turns out that I follow your orders, not the other way around.”
He stood up with a groan and stretched slowly, the gems and gold beads braided into his beard jingling merrily. The king wore an elaborate breastplate made of heavy silver and inlaid with the royal crest, an axe and a hammer crossed with the words 'Children of Stone' etched below them in ancient dwarven script.
Shandon watched as the tiers of stone seats that allowed the commoners to observe the king while he was working were emptied of spectators. They trickled out of the room and he stared at them thoughtfully for a moment.
“We seem to be more popular these days with the ordinary citizens,” he said as the last person exited the room.
“Your people support you, my lord,” Falder told him as he rolled up his long list and slipped it into a pocket of his trousers. “While your late father was a good king, he didn't inspire the citizens as you do. They feel reinvigorated and excited by your rule and they have great hope for the future.”
“Do they?” Shandon said as he descended the dais, Falder walking beside him. “Well, that's good news, I suppose. Have the notices about our new allies gone up around the city?”
“They have, my lord. And orders have been sent to all cities and towns to post the same notices in all public places. In a few days, the entire empire will learn of them.”
