The Goddess War Chapter 3: Witness


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The morning after Twyla had surprised Bemere, the mage was even shyer than usual. Bemere hadn’t had the patience to try drawing her out, so she, in fairly blunt terms, described what was going on with her body. Twyla, predictably, had blushed furiously, until her boundless curiosity had gotten the better of her. Bemere answered her questions about fae physiology as they rode down the slope, occasionally asking questions of her own. Bemere wasn’t at all surprised to learn that Twyla hadn’t ever dallied with a lover. What did surprise her was the maestra’s ignorance of all but the most basic facts about her own body.

“You’ve never touched yourself intimately?” The elf asked, shocked.

The mage looked away, already turning red. “The college requires that we devote all of our energy to the contemplation of the mathmagick. It’s common knowledge that the upper maestiri have lovers, of course, but they are from wealthy families. I am a no one and the Pale College is my only kin. I know all to well that it neither loving nor forgiving. Were I to get pregnant from some dalliance, I’d be forced to abandon another child, my child, to their rough care. I would rather die than do that. As for the selflove, I’m quite aware of it. It is easier that I keep it an unknown pleasure, rather than a nagging temptation.”

“That’s an impressive show of determination. Now I see why you’ve taken to the kyickmur so easily.”

Twyla flushed again, this time with pride. “I’ve always been a good student at least. I was curious, why are these called the counties? There’s no one here.”

Bemere pretended not to notice the change of subject. “Already this morning, we’ve crossed the territory of five different counts. Back when the high king ruled the clans, this land was divvied up and titles given to the high king’s children, or as rewards in court. Since the land was mostly empty, it was just a formality. There are twentythree different counties here, and for whatever reason, the titles have been carefully handed down, and have outlasted the high kings that created them. Now it’s tradition and no one would dream of changing it.”

As they headed down the slope, trees began to appear, and then larger woodlands. Twyla couldn’t help herself from asking Bemere more questions as they rode that afternoon. The first questions were fairly typical, about fae kinship and their long lives. Bemere began to actually enjoy answering the mage, curious at the reflection of herself, and the fae, in the young woman’s questions. She had always been curious how they were viewed by these people with their all too short lives.

“Who would you say are the most intelligent beings across the Allworld?”

“I can only answer for the lands I’ve seen or read about,” Bemere said. “Even with our long lives and wanderlust, the Plenilune have only visited a fraction of the Allworld. How should we reckon intelligence? Each race has their own gifts.”

“Hmm. Let’s start with the arcane.”

“What you would call mathmagicka? The Stonekin, of course.”

Twyla stared at her. “Trolls?”

Bemere laughed. “You seem surprised?”

“I’ve only seen a troll once, but it behaved like all of the descriptions I’ve read, the movements slow and lumpen, without fine coordination. They speak slowly, and poorly, if they can speak at all. They are recounted as ignorant of the world around them, without any interest in what’s going on around them.”

“Where did you see a Stonekin?” Bemere asked. “I’ve never heard of them frequenting Osh Caernon.”

Twyla smiled at the memory. “Someone had built a storehouse where it was sitting. They didn’t realize that the rock in their way was a troll, so it was included in the building foundation. There was quite a panic when it stood up one day. It began to walk away, but the pace was so slow that Master Johann and I were able to walk out to see it for ourselves. That was two full days after it had woken up, but it had only staggered a couple of leagues.”

“I saw Stonekin move quickly once,” Bemere said. “It is terrifying. Their is veiled in mystery, and not even the wisest of the fae comprehend them. Yes, their movement seems strange to us, but I’ve read that what our eyes see is only a fraction of their full existence. I’ve never understood what that means but maybe that is why they are content to remain still for so long. I’m curious, were you taught where the arts of mathmagicka originated?”

The maestra shrugged. “Not really. It’s assumed to be a natural ability gifted to some.”

“That’s mostly true, except it’s not natural for us. The spells the geomancers use are simply the fragments of Stonekin language that humans manage to pronounce. The ritual with all the stones and ribbons? It is likely a coarse representation of some parallel action of the Stonekin, like you might gesture with your hands as you speak. I often wonder if anyone in the Pale College has the slightest clue about the powers they are constantly fussing with. So far, only you Humans have been mad enough to use it. For whatever reason, a Stonekin must have decided it was a good idea to teach Humans long ago.”

Twyla shrugged. “Maybe someone just asked.”

“That is both possible, and terrifying. You look very pleased with yourself just now.”

The mage grinned. “Because I know something that no one else in the Pale College does. Not even Maestro Johann. Thank you, Bemere. I am immensely pleased with our conversations.”

It was Bemere’s turn to laugh. “You scholars are just as mad in your own ways.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Twyla assured her.

The rest of the morning passed pleasantly, neither of the women were in any particular hurry and the sun was warm on their shoulders. When they stopped for a meal, Twyla first performed the stretching and bending exercises of the kyickmur. The maestra was a diligent student, impressing Bemere with her mind as well as her willingness to accept discomfort. The elf woman was already feeling her libidinous urges growing and had to force herself to avoid looking at the other woman’s body for longer than necessary.

Later that afternoon, they were beginning to look for the last wayhouse before Grand Locks. It finally appeared in the distance, but instead of the lonely cluster of buildings they’d expected, they found a large encampment crowded around it. She took a cylinder from a saddlebag and peered through it, studying the encampment.

“What is that?” Twyla asked.

“Military, looks like a small army,” Bemere said. “But I don’t recognize those banners, and where could they even be headed, this far off the plains? This is an interesting surprise.”

She leaned back and retrieved her journal from a saddlebag and used a bit of lead to make notes.

Twyla was nervous. “Do you think they’re attacking the locks?”

Bemere looked away from her spyglass long enough to give Twyla a comforting smile. “Not a chance. There is an Imperial detachment with them. The emperor’s treasuries depend on canal tolls and he takes a dim view of anything that would upset the boat traffic.”

“That’s a relief then,” Twyla said.

Bemere lowered the spyglass and looked to make sure Twyla was paying attention. “Battles aren’t the only danger around an army. Please, stay close and keep your eyes sharp.”

Twyla swallowed and nodded. Bemere leaned back to replace the journal and returned the spyglass to whatever pocket it had appeared from.

“Let’s ride ahead, it would be best if we were well away before evening comes.”

“Why do you think the imperials are here?”

“Armies on the move have the unfortunate habit of devastating everything in their path. In return, those that they brutalize, create milita to harass and ambush armies. That’s destructive enough, but often than not, they become bandits, adding even more misery, and so things spiral out into chaos. So, even before the canal was here, Imperial legions hired out their veterans to keep the soldiers and locals from each other’s throats. They’re strictly neutral about the fight and expect everyone to honor their neutrality.”

“Or they get the stuffing knocked out of them by the legions?”

Bemere laughed. “Exactly right. Thankfully, that hasn’t been necessary very often.”

“That must look odd, soldiers just watching other soldiers battle it out.”

“A few years back, I actually saw two opposing armies escorted to the battleground by Imperials from the same legion. The escort all camped together while the armies fought, then split up to escort each side back home.”

Twyla chuckled. “That is a very civilized way to run a war.”

Bemere smiled oddly. “I agree. Add enough civilization and, with luck, someone will finally realize there are better ways to get what you need.”

“And then?”

The elf looked at her. “I’m sorry?”

Twyla smiled. “From your tone, I was expecting you to say ‘…and then we can finally get to work’ or some such.”

“Ah, it sounds as if you’ve reached the chapters on politics in Cejum Orpharides,” Bemere said.

Twyla flushed slightly, but less than the elf had expected. “I was curious why you were called Moon Fae. You don’t stay up all night and you don’t seem to watch any of the moons except when you worry about weather.”

“It doesn’t sound like my warning to keep a sharp eye was necessary,” Bemere said. “You are correct, we don’t have anything to do with the whirling celestials up there. The name has more to do with the fact that we are the Silver, as the High Elves are known as the Golden.”

“I read something about the seasons but I had trouble with some of the symbols. It looks like he says the Silver were moons, and then it got really arcane with number glyphs I haven’t seen before.”

Bemere sighed and shook her head. “I do wish Madeline hadn’t gifted you that twaddle. You’re aware that the moons control the seasons?”

“I read about the idea a long time ago. Something about different amounts of light?”

“Right. Cejum wasn’t happy with the interest the court had with the politics of other races. In those passages, he’s accusing the court of meddling in affairs of others, like moons changing the seasons. It’s a terrible analogy, Cejum’s political discourse was even worse, if possible, than his pontifications on the valour. Inaccurate, oversimplified and overblown throughout.”

Twyla frowned. “I thought that’s why you were here, as a spy.”

“Twyla, you would be an astounding diplomat. Yes, I am here as an Eye, which is a far more polite way to say it. There are dozens of envoys, all across the known lands. We watch and document what’s happening outside of our borders. Those reports create a picture of the Allworld that the Selene, our queen, uses to guide the course of our civilization.”

“Where does the meddling come into it?”

Bemere sighed. “There are have been certain adjustments made in the past. But you see? He’s oversimplified his inaccuracy. It was not for our benefit alone, it has helped Humankind as well.”

“I’m confused again.”

“The Pretender’s succession war was a disaster for everyone, but for the Plenilune elves it was nearly a death blow. We sent troops to our allies, not fully understanding how long that war could last, or how many of us would never return. We don’t have children as quickly as humans, so the Plenilune are diminished and our lands will suffer for a very long time.”

“That’s awful,” Twyla said.

“The Selene knew that Human wars would be the doom of us all. There were very few paths forward from those dark days. We could have withdrawn within our borders, but even if we’d been willing to abandon our allies, that path is just another type of death. So, to protect ourselves, She ruled that we should know everything we could about all of our neighbors. Sometimes there are situations that require…adjustments, to ensure as much stability as possible, for everyone.”

“I feel as though I’m seeing behind the curtain at a theatre. How long ago did your queen make this decision?”

“I don’t remember exactly, less than a Human generation after the last of the companies returned home. Maybe fifty years after the Pretender was defeated.”

Twyla was silent for a dozen rods, thinking about that. “What about now? It doesn’t seem like things are very peaceful,” she finally said.

Bemere glanced at her, a slight smile on her face. “When was last major war?”

“Like the succession wars There hasn’t been…oh, I see. But there’s an army right in front of us. There’s fighting, every warm season.”

The elf shrugged. “Humans are a rowdy bunch and no plan is perfect. Instead of the seasonal formal battles, imagine constant fighting everywhere, season after season, year after year.”

“That makes sense, I guess. I would have thought that you’d make us more like the Fae.”

“Since you are Humans, that would be quite difficult. We don’t want to control you, just keep your constant mayhem and destruction to a minimum. You must be your own people, with your own glories and horrors.”

“Have I mentioned how much I enjoy our conversations?” Twyla asked and Bemere laughed.

As they approached the camp, a few of the soldiers noticed them but no one seemed to care. The path had widened and was almost a road now and one side, the buildings of the wayhouse were almost lost in the middle of a large tents. On the other side of the road, the forest was thick and wild looking. Here and there, soldiers were gathering dead wood for their fires, but they were too intent on their tasks to pay much attention to the riders.

Ahead of them, a group emerged from the tree line. They were struggling to hold a small figure that was putting up a terrific struggle.

“What are they doing?” Twyla exclaimed.

Bemere had already spurred her horse into a gallop, its thudding hooves threw up gouts of grass and dirt. Heart in her throat, Twyla spurred her horse after the elf.

As she neared the group, Bemere seemed to fall from her saddle and Twyla gasped, thinking her companion had fallen. Instead, Bemere twisted her body and rolled, somehow landing on her feet. She sprinted at the knot of people, the toes of her boots digging into the turf just as her horse’s hooves had. Somehow, she now had a sword in one hand, held trailing behind her.

Then she was in the group of men, her blade flashing up once before she had a grip on the prisoner’s spindly arm. She pulled the captive around as she spun and stopped, putting herself between the small form and the group of shocked soldiers. One of them screamed, gripping his forearm before falling to his knees, staring at his hand laying on the ground. It still gripped the length of knotted rope he’d been hitting the child with.

Twyla managed to maneuver her horse around the knot of shocked soldiers and jumped to the ground behind Bemere. She was horrified to see how small the rescued captive was. Who would attack a child?

In front of Bemere, the soldiers were hurriedly drawing curved short swords and Twyla heard shouting from the camp. More men appeared from the woods, but Bemere’s eyes were locked on the soldiers in front of her.

“Who leads here?” She demanded.

Twyla knelt beside the child and as it looked at her, she froze in surprise. This was no child, nor even a human.

“I will ask once more,” Bemere demanded, her voice impossibly cold and hard. “Which of you is the leader?”

“Up yers, ye pointyeared cunt!” The newly handless soldier screamed. “Now we gots two extra helpin’ of gash tonight, and I’ll be chopping your tits off! Take ’em!”

Without a sound, Bemere charged them again. Her sword came up as she dashed through the group again. There was a black blur of her blade and a ringing sound as the elf as spun past the handless man. All of them gaped as Bemere came to a another statuelike stance on the other side of them. In their midst, the handless one made a gargling noise. His head fell backwards and his body slumped to the ground, his neck threequarters cut though.

“I am Serah Adda Bemere,” she said loudly. “If any of you whoresons were so blessed to catch a glimpse of my cunt, you’d find that it doesn’t have ears, pointy or otherwise. Now, who is the next senior?”

“Uh, that would be me, ser,” a skinny woman with ropy arms said. She dropped her knife, slowly raising her hands. “We’re city watch. Rest of you throw ’em down.”

The rest of the blades thumped to the ground and Bemere waved them away from them, in the direction of the camp. There was the sound of riders hurriedly mounting up. Still staying between the group and their blades, Bemere went to where Twyla was carefully bandaging a deep gash in the gnome’s calf. Bemere sat on her heels and whistled a greeting in gnomish.

The female gnome whistled a reply, gesturing at Twyla.

Bemere smiled slightly and patted the air as the sound of galloping horses drew nearer. More of the soldiers were coming out of the woods, their chatting falling silent as they saw the scene in front of them. Twyla glanced up from her bandaging and saw them drawing close, looking uncertain, but their hands on their knives.

She stood up and threw the gray traveling coat off her shoulders, revealing her maestra’s robes.

“Take another step and I will blow your heads straight out your asses!” The maestra snarled.

The soldiers, who had already been advancing as slowly as they could, were more than happy to stop a safe distance away. Twyla glared in the other direction, but they were already staying a safe distance away from Bemere’s blade. Grumbling to herself, she knelt back down and wet another cloth from her canteen to clean the dirt smudged on the gnome’s face.

The riders galloping from the camp weren’t as bashful. Four of them slowed to a trot but didn’t rein in until they had surrounded the Bemere and the others. Two of them dismounted, one of them was a middleaged imperial cavalryman. Several scars crossed his face, badly healed enough that they twisted his expression into an evil looking sneer. The other rider was a rangy woman who stayed near him, her hand near a knife hilt.

“I am Sergeant Sestian Atious, Imperial Cavalry,” the man announced in a gravely voice. “Put up your sword.”

After a long moment, Bemere knelt, produced a cloth and laid the sword on it. She rose to her feet gracefully. “Sergeant, I am Serah Bemere Gwynnestra, Knight of the Silver.”

“The Silver?” He asked, not believing what he had heard.

Bemere pulled an ornament from the collar of her shirt and held it out to the man.

He took it and examined it closely.

“Well met then, Serah,” he said, handing it back. “I am a sergeant of the Tenth Cavalry, and this camp’s provost.”

“It’s wine, not glory, for the weary and immortal Tenth,” Bemere replied.

The man’s eyebrows went up but he merely nodded. “What happened here, serah?”

“This group was abusing this gnomish woman. Seeing her peril, I attacked them immediately. I judged the one I saw beating her would forfeit his hand.”

The sergeant glanced at the nearly headless body. “And you missed?” He asked dryly.

“No. After I took his hand, I identified myself. In return, he ordered his companions to capture myself and the maestra.”

“Your sword was out?” The sergeant asked.

“It was but they didn’t seem impressed until I used it again.”

“You say they were abusing the little one there.”

Bemere squatted down and whistled to the gnome and she held out her arms. Twyla was just finishing the bandage on her leg, but the rest of her limbs were badly bruised and scraped. Sounding very much like an indignant sparrow, she gestured to more bruises forming on her face.

“Do you need a translation?” Bemere asked.

“That won’t be necessary,” the sergeant said, voice grim. He stood up and went to the little group of disarmed soldiers. “What’s your side of this?”

“Willum caught it spyin’ on us,” a man said, voice sullen. “We ‘ins bringing her to the cap’n is all. Then the pointyear murdered Willum for talkin’. Jes’ talkin’!

“Hold your tongue there,” Twyla snapped, on her feet. “Were you taking her to your captain before or after the ‘extra helpin’ of gash tonight’?”

The imperial sergeant looked back at the angry soldier, eyebrow raised.

“Them’s rights of conquest, we did nowt wrong!” The man insisted. “It ain’t even a person! You imperials is bein’ in bed wit’ all dese pointy eared devils! Nod take all o’ ye!”

“Who is here from their company?” The sergeant called.

Most of the crowd was from the same company and the sergeant instructed them to take Willum’s body and the knives back to the imperial camp. As the small group was rounded up by the other imperial guards, the sergeant turned to face Bemere.

“Serah, and Maestra, I do not see any fault of yours here. However, rape and murder are serious matters. There will be judgement and I’d ask that you come and give testimony.”

Twyla had a sinking sensation in her stomach but Bemere nodded as though it was fair request. Bemere sat back on her heels and spoke with the gnome woman for several seconds, explaining what was going on. She shrugged and replied and Bemere called her horse back. The gnome struggled to get to its feet and Twyla immediately scooped her up in her arms. Bemere wanted to laugh at the look on the gnome’s face but didn’t say anything. When they’d got her settled on Bemere’s saddle, the pair led their horses toward the army’s camp. The sergeant walked nearby them, his aide following, leading their mounts. Behind them, the prisoners, their thumbs bound together, walked in a sullen little knot, between two imperial horsemen.

It was hard for Twyla not to ask what was going on, or if they were in trouble, but the sergeant was close, barely two rods away, and she managed to stay quiet. The adrenaline from earlier had disappeared, leaving a heavy core of worry behind. But Bemere walked sedately, like they were invited guests.

There was a smaller camp separated from the main force by a few rods. It was far neater than the collection of tents and leantos, consisting of wedgeshaped tents set neatly in a long row, making something like a street. There were a dozen or so imperial cavalry troopers, some making adjustments to the camp, and others taking care of the horses hobbled near the tents.

At one end of the camp there was an oval pavilion, much larger than any of the wedges. Beside the entrance to the pavilion was a banner pole set into the ground. The banner was the seal of the empire over a stylized prancing horse. At the bottom, several Old Empire glyphs were arranged in an arc.

The pair hitched their horses to a rail while the sergeant went to the closed door of the pavilion and slapped the fabric twice. Someone called for him to enter and he disappeared inside.

The gnome slid out of the saddle before Twyla could pick her up again. She whistled at Bemere who finally did smile.

“She is grateful for your kindness,” Bemere told Twyla. “But it is not their way to show weakness, especially in the middle of a Human army.”

Twyla flushed and nodded. The gnome limped over to her, and patted her arm, twittering something. Together, the trio walked to stand in front of the pavilion. The sergeant was just emerging, followed by a darkhaired imperial officer. His tanned skin, black hair pulled tightly back into a queue, and the meticulously groomed beard marked him as a southerner. When he saw Bemere, his eyes widened.

“I will be damned,” he said. “I was sure we’d be far enough north to be safe from elfish plots and intrigues.”

Bemere bowed slightly, not looking too surprised. “You wound me, dear captain.”

He laughed as he walked quickly to embrace her. “Adda Bemere, it is an unexpected pleasure.”

Behind him, another man emerged. He was older than the first, with as much silver on his head as black. Out of the corner of her eye, Twyla noticed all the imperial troopers stiffen.

“By the gods, Lews! You said this was far enough north!” He thundered.

Bemere did look surprised then and she let go of the first man to bow deeply, hand over her heart. “Lord Marshal Vercingetorix. I cannot express my delight in finding you here.”

Like the first man, he went to embrace her tightly, even adding a kiss on Bemere’s lips. Twyla glanced at the sergeant, and from the look on his face, she decided that she didn’t have to worry about being in trouble.

“My lord, allow me to present my traveling companion, Maestra Twyllian ap Tur. Twyla, this is LordMarshal Egan Vercingetorix of the Imperial Senate, and CaptainSerah Lews Trelawney of the Tenth Legion’s cavalry.”

Both men bowed to Twyla, hands over their hearts and she returned the bow, feeling clumsy.

“A maestra? Don’t tell me the Fae and Osh Caernon have finally kissed and made nice,” the Lord Marshall said.

Bemere smiled at Twyla. “Sadly, no. The maestra was researching at the Brynjarl Sands and kindly agreed to accompany me over Gateman’s Notch. We are on the path to Grand Locks. I had no idea anyone was moving an army this early in the season.”

“Indeed. These northerners have ice water instead of warm blood. But Sestian says there’s trouble with Understone folk. What happened?”

As Bemere explained what she’d seen and done, soldiers from the main camp began to arrive, gathering around the open area in front of the pavilion. Finally, several well dressed men appeared, shoving their way through the crowd. At the same time, corpse of the man Bemere had slain was brought and put on the ground. Twyla felt her mouth fill with spit as the head flopped back and she saw daylight through the gaping mouth. The Gnome woman said something in a low voice and Bemere took the mage’s arm.

“It’ll be over soon enough. Look at the horizon and ponder kyickmur forms,” Bemere said softly.

Twyla nodded, swallowing against her rebellious stomach.

Lord Vercingetorix introduced them to the three captains of the army companies. Then he had Bemere recount her for them. As they looked at her in surprise, it was obvious that the captains didn’t quite believe what they were hearing.

Then the Lord Marshall sat on his heels in front of the gnome and asked something in a language that Twyla didn’t understand. The gnome did however, and the two of them spoke for several minutes. Finally, he bowed as best he could, hand over heart. She stomped twice in reply and he stood back up.

“I will have our conversation translated and sent to your tent,” Lord Vercingetorix said to one of the men, a man with blonde hair and long waxed moustaches.

He nodded back, still paying more attention to Bemere. Next, the Lord Marshal went to the prisoners and asked for their side of it. There were equal parts anger, pleading and indignance, but the Lord Marshal heard them out. Finally, he turned to the blonde man.

“Captain Gwyllam, do you have anything to add?”

“The dead one’s a trouble maker,” he said with a surprisingly squeaky voice. “Nowt else to say, yer justice is beyond reproach, LordMarshal.”

The older man bowed briefly before marching to the open space in front of the tents.

“Every morning, and every evening, you have had the laws read to you to keep them fresh in your mind,” he said loudly, gaze sweeping over the crowd of soldiers. “The utter idiocy of this unprovoked violence, and abduction, against an innocent person, marks each of you with the stain of barbarism and banditry. Not only have you put your own comradesinarms in peril, this stupidity has endangered the peace that exists between the Imperial Consul and the Understone Principalities. Hear my judgement!

“The two of you had no part in this, you are free to go. Tonight, reflect closely upon your gods and the pleasure they take in defending innocence and punishing wrongs. You four that laid hands on this person in the commission of this crime, six lashes each.”

The four soldiers were led away, and the LordMarshal went to stand directly in front of the last man.

“As for you Jors Hansfulder, you are guilty of assault, kidnapping, attempted rape, and acting in direct disobedience to the laws of this expedition. Is there anything further to be said in your defense?”

“Them’s crimes against people,” the man spat. “Them rocksuckers ain’t no kind of person, they be stupid beasts.”

“Your intended victim has requested trial by arms. Do you accept?”

The lone man looked surprised and then grinned nastily. “Oh, aye. You turn me loose with a blade and this’ll end right quicklike.”

The LordMarshall nodded to the man’s guards and one of them cut him free. The other took one of the knives they’d collected and handed it to the man. The gnome twittered and chirped to Bemere and she handed the gnome a broad bladed knife. Then Bemere guided Twyla out of the cleared area.

“She’s wounded!” Twyla hissed. “And that bastard is three times as big!”

Bemere squeezed her shoulder. “Watch and learn why the LordMarshal is so deeply concerned with keeping peace with the Understone.”

Twyla glared at her but turned to watch. The ratfaced man leered at the Gnome, crouching into a knifefighter’s crouch. She stood and watched him, bandages very white against her graybrown skin, looking ridiculously small and alone. Jors Hansfulder faked a charge but she stood her ground, watching him. He sneered, holding his blade low and stepped forward.

The Gnome launched herself in a blur. As she sprinted past the man, he screamed and had to balance on one leg. The Gnome’s blade was bloody and they could see bright blood flowing from the back of his leg. Dons. Jors Hansfulder regained his balance and hopped around to face his opponent. She waited for him to finish before charging again, breathtakingly fast.

The human swung his blade but the gnome easily dodged the clumsy attack, grabbing his belt and using it to flip herself onto his back. Jors Hansfulder made a noise between a grunt and a scream as the gnome landed on his shoulders and yanked his hair back, baring his throat. Her blade a blur, she sliced across his neck three times. The condemned man gurgled, dropping to his knees, and the Gnome drove the knife into the top of his skull, burying it to the hilt. There was a sound from the watching crowd, something between a groan and a sigh.

Eyes rolling back, Hansfulder collapsed to the ground. The gnome withdrew the knife and cleaned it carefully before limping over to return it to Bemere.

“I am the LordMarshall Vercingetorix,” he said loudly. “Return to your camps and remember this. You will follow the law!”

Twyla stared in horror at the man’s skull, unable to look away. Along with the blood, a part of the brain oozed out and plopped to the ground. She clapped a hand to her mouth, feeling her stomach clench.

“Bring her over here,” a man’s voice said.

Hands took her arms and guided her around the pavilion. Twyla barely made it before bending over and heaving up everything she’d eaten.

“Keep an eye on her?” She heard Bemere said. “I’ve got to deal with the gnome and LordMarshall.”

“You go ahead,” a gruff voice said, but Twyla was too busy vomiting again to worry about it.

“I assume your companion is not a battle mage,” Vercingetorix said when Bemere rejoined him.

“Nothing like it, she’s one of their scholars,” Bemere said.

The gnome woman asked Bemere if she was free to return to the forest. Bemere translated the request and the LordMarshall knelt in front of her and made a long and flowery apology. Bemere saw just a hint of a smile on the gnome’s face as she made an equally flowery speech, declaring his justice fair and swift, emphasizing her words with a hard stomp of each foot.

Bemere climbed aboard her horse and the gnome used her leg and hip as a ladder to settle into the saddle in front of her. The gnome nodded to the two imperials and Bemere nudged her horse into a trot.

“Maestra,” someone said and a water bottle was held out.

Twyla mumbled her thanks and washed out her mouth several times. When she straightened up, she saw the sergeant with the evil looking face.

“Sestian Atious,” he reminded her.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know the proper title for a sergeant, but thank you.”

“You’re welcome, and any title given to me likely shouldn’t be repeated in polite company. I’d be honored if you’d use my name, Sestian.”

“And I’m just Twyla. May I borrow a shovel to clean this up?”

“I thought a fearsome geomancer would just open the earth underneath it,” he said.

Twyla couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. “I wouldn’t have a clue how, I’m a Maestra Daos, fearsome only to dusty books and ancient scrolls.”

His thin smile was awful to see. “Well then. It happens that some of my little lambs are reflecting on their particular sins. They’ll be along in just a moment to clean up.”

Twyla smiled shakily. “Far be it from me to disturb a penitent.”

His lip twitched again. “Well put. If you’ll follow me, the captain has a place for you to rest. Ser Bemere took the gnomish woman back into the forest and will return soon.”

“Thank you for the water, and the kindness.”

“You are welcome to both.”

They walked around the tent and he showed her through the door. The captain and Lord Vercingetorix were sitting at a table covered with papers but both stood up when she came in.

“Maestra, these chairs are comfortable unless you’d rather lie down,” Captain Trelawney said. “In which case, the Marshal General’s cot looks quite comfortable.”

“You’re quite free with my baggage,” the general grumbled goodnaturedly. “Come sit with us, Lady ap Tur.”

“Please, Lord Vercingetorix. I’m barely a maestra, let alone a lady,” she protested.

The older man winked at her. “Well, if you’re part of common rabble, then it’s an order to sit down with us.”

“My Lord!” The captain protested. “Your manners would embarrass an ox!”

“Don’t fret, I’m common as grass,” the Lord Marshall said cheerfully, ignoring the captain. “I was a barracks brat, left outside the door one night.”

She smiled. “I’m a foundling of the Tower myself.”

“Ha! Feast on that, noble lout,” Lord Vercingetorix said to the captain. “Maestra, from your reaction, this was the first death you’ve seen?”

“I’m afraid you’d think me sheltered, my lord,” Twyla said. “My duties are in the archives and libraries.”

Vercingetorix waved a hand. “Don’t fret over it, it’s a hell of a shock. I pissed myself in terror at my first skirmish.”

“Now he simply enjoys it,” the captain interjected, grinning.

Vercingetorix gave Twyla a weary look. “My wife’s sister’s son. I should have followed my better instincts and had him drowned at birth. As for the ‘my lord’ nonsense, my name is simply Egan. Do me the honor.”

Twyla bowed her head, hating that she was blushing. “Thank you, Egan. I am Twyla.”

“And I am Lews,” the captain said. “I hear you’ve come down from Gatesman’s Notch. Would you tell me of the place? I’ve always wanted to see it.”

When Bemere entered the tent, she found the captain and marshal entertaining Twyla laugh with stories of Lew’s childhood. She sat down with them and the Marshal General quickly ended the of some longago fishing trip.

“All is well?” He asked her.

Bemere nodded. “She’s safely away and asked me to relay her thanks once again.”

“The day would have gone very badly without your appearance,” Egan said. “A pox on city militia. I shudder to think what the Gnomish response would have been.”

“They’re all as fearsome as she was?” Twyla asked.

“Easily, and with all their traps and devices none of us would be seeing home again,” Egan said. “So, I owe you yet another debt of gratitude, Serah Bemere.”

“May I trade on that gratitude, Marshal General? I have a question.”

“I’d wager you have more than just one but ask away.”

“One at a time then. Egan, what’s going on here?”

He sighed. “Unusual stupidity. This is the militia from Cyannous, it’s an independent city fifty leagues or so downslope. They lost a trade caravan that was headed into the highlands. The few survivors that made it back claim it was a band of bandits, all Understone types. So they are marching back to claim their vengeance.”

Bemere frowned. “I have never heard of one of the Understone folk turning outlaw.”

“Neither have I. In fact, the smells strongly of so much horse crap. However, they hired us as escort, not adjudicators. Per the treaties, all we can do is keep their stupidity away from the locals the best we can.”

“My Lord, that is the worst and shabbiest of excuses!” Bemere snapped, her expression furious.

Twyla was amazed to see Egan look down, like a student ashamed of not completing an assignment. “I know that, Your Grace. In fact, I have made the same point to the agents who arranged the contract.”

“I can attest that Lord Vercingetorix argued loudly against this contract,” Lews added. “In fact, most of the legion’s encampment heard him discussing the particulars. You also know that the imperial agents have their peculiar deafness when it comes to coin.”

Bemere bowed her head for a moment. “I well remember. Surprise stole my tongue away, forgive me.”

“I accept your apology, if you’ll stop glaring at me and share some wine,” Egan said. “I’ll even send word of your valiant intervention to the emperor himself.”

Bemere cocked an eyebrow at him and after a pause, all three of them laughed in a shared joke. Twyla did not ask, merely enjoyed their amusement. Bemere asked more questions, but they immediately went beyond the limits of Twyla’s comprehension, or interest. Mostly it was rumors and politics in places she’d never heard of. The fatigue of the day was quickly settling on her shoulders and the mage had to keep from yawning. She heard Bemere ask permission to ride with the imperial escort and some amusement of their hosts as they gave her their blessing. Lulled by the comfort of the chair, Twyla leaned back and soon fell asleep.

When they finally emerged from the pavilion, it was already dark. Bemere pointed Twyla toward a wedgeshaped tent that had been set up nearby. When Twyla pulled back the door, she was surprised how silky and light it was. It seemed like the tent had been made of gossamer and cobwebs but, despite appearances, it seemed sturdy enough.

“Where did this come from?” She asked quietly.

Bemere lit a small candle lantern. “The bundle behind my saddle.”

Twyla looked around, seeing her bedroll laid out next to the neatly folded blankets of Bemere’s. “But you don’t have a bundle behind your saddle.”

The elf chuckled. “Then where could this have come from?”

“You’re teasing me.”

Bemere sat on her heels, still smiling. “Yes, because I like you. You probably didn’t notice that I carried a sword either.”

“That’s true. Did you conjure it?”

“No, it’s right there.”

Twyla looked in the direction she pointed but didn’t see a sword. There was a strange sensation as her eyes noted something hanging from the ridge pole of the tent. She squinted and made out a bundle wrapped in leather straps, but somehow, she forgot what it looked like as soon as she looked away.

“It’s a minor glamour,” Bemere said. “Your eyes are distracted away, and it is difficult to remember what you’ve seen if you manage to catch a glimpse Look at it now.”

Twyla immediately saw the black scabbard with silvery runes faintly traced in what looked like glints of moonlight, although it there was no moon tonight.

“That’s amazing,” she said, grinning.

“And much easier than making something invisible. I don’t know if you heard or not, but I’ve decided that I am going to accompany Lews and his men in the morning. Grand Locks is half a day from here and he’s offered to provide a pair of guards to take you the rest of the way to Grand Locks.”

Twyla sat down on her blankets, frowning. “I’d hoped to stay with you. I haven’t mastered the kyickmur forms yet, and we haven’t discussed the valour at all. And I’m curious about what’s going on as well. I can make myself useful to you and with all these soldiers around you’ll need…”

“Twyla.”

She sighed sadly and looked up at Bemere, who looked ready to laugh.

“I thought your boundless curiosity might lead you to that decision, but you need to know that you have a choice here.”

Twyla grinned, the weight falling from her heart. “My thanks.”

The blackhaired elf smiled back. “I’m glad you’re coming along. I’m going to take a walk with Lews. You get some rest, we’ve another long ride tomorrow.”

“Are you going to…”

Bemere stopped at the door of the tent, looking back over her shoulder. “Hmm?”

Face suddenly hot, Twyla waved her hand. “Oh, uhm…the kyickmur,” she said quickly.

“We’ll begin the next form tomorrow morning, if that’s acceptable.”

“Yes, of course, I didn’t…apologies.”

Bemere raised an eyebrow. “What’s troubling you, Twyla?”

“Nothing! It’s just all these people so suddenly, I didn’t…just be careful.”

Twyla’s face got even warmer as Bemere’s smile grew a little wider. “Don’t fret, the legions guard their camps closely. You’re as safe here as can be.”

Twyla nodded quickly, wondering if her cheeks were actually glowing at this point. “Thank you for letting me come along.”

Bemere chuckled. “Sleep well, Twyla.”

She pushed through the door and it closed behind her. Twyla got up to make sure it was tied shut, but the door had somehow sealed itself closed. The mage pulled off her outer robes and folded them up. Sighing, she began the nightly stretching exercises. It would be difficult to act any more like an addlebrained child than she already had and now she was worried about an elf who had centuries of experience before Twyla had even been born.

When she’d finished, Twyla rolled up in her blankets. She’d emptied her mind the way Bemere had taught her but she found that it was filling again with strange feelings, protective and anxious about the elf. Her heart was beating faster and there was an odd hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. The mage lay awake in her blankets, hearing the occasional footsteps of a guard, hoping each time that her companion was returning. It took her a long time to fall asleep.

The next morning

They were leaving the pack animals here and Twyla fretted about all of her work being out of her sight. Bemere had her stack the leather cases in their tent and then instructed her to walk three times around the imperial’s camp. Twyla was mystified but did as Bemere said. When she returned, Bemere handed her a small case, surprisingly heavy for its size.

“What is it?”

Bemere smiled and motioned for her to open it. Inside were small leather cubes.

“I shrunk them. You can carry them with you, or leave them here with Egan. He’ll be here until Lews is back with his troop.”

“He’s not going?” Twyla asked, surprised.

“Because of his rank, he’s not permitted anywhere near the borders. He’s too valuable to the empire to risk. And if the Understone found out there was a high ranking commander near their territory, things would become too tense for mistakes not to happen. So he’ll stay here and sulk until Lews has returned.”

“I have to admit, I have no idea what a Lord Marshal even does. I figured he was in charge of Lews.”

“He is, in a sense. Officially, the Lord Marshal merely relays the words of the emperor to the imperial army and navy. The reality is that the emperor depends on Egan for military advice.”

Twyla was astounded at the thought of the balding, blunt cavalryman being a member of the imperial innercircle. “He talks to the emperor?”

“Routinely. He is only here because he was in the north inspecting the army. He heard what was going on and snuck away with Lews so he could pretend he was still a cavalryman for a little while.”

“He’s so…ordinary! Not that it’s a bad thing, I’m quite fond of him but…”

Bemere’s smile turned into a chuckle. “Were it up to him, Egan would be a sergeant in the southern empire, chasing his horse nomad cousins around the steppes. Alas, his talents were noted and now the only steps he sees are those of the imperial senate.”

Twyla rolled her eyes. “That was a terrible joke. But thank you for magicking my boxes! Can I ask how you did it?”

“It’s a technique that only the fae can use, I’m afraid. When you need them back to their original sizes, put them in a quiet area, surrounded by water. I usually use soaked cloth.”

Bemere glanced at the Cyannous camp. The only improvement seemed to be that more half dressed people were now moving about and she shook her head.

“I see why Lews is so eager to be finished with them.”

It was just past midday of their second day of riding when the army descended into a shallow valley with a river meandering through it. The Cyannous militia immediately broke ranks, most of them flopping down to rest. At the head of the column, Lews and the militia captains were conferring over some maps. Like their escort, Bemere and Twyla stayed in the saddle. Finally, Lews traded bows with his militia counterparts and climbed back on his horse. He circled his left arm and pointed to some high ground, well back from the river.

“That’s for the day then,” Sestian called to Twyla as he trotted past. The scarred sergeant had taken an interest in her over the last three days, chatting with her in the evenings and riding near her throughout the day. Twyla had been wary of the attention at first, ready to fend off any amorous advance. He’d been describing the Tenth Legion’s castra, one of the many semipermanent forts and towns that his legion garrisoned, when he’d mentioned his wife and daughters who lived there with him, and she’d seen Sestian’s love for them in his eyes. She’d been able to relax after that and enjoy his company.

As she’d helped Bemere set up their tent, Twyla asked why the entire company of cavalry was in a single camp. Usually they formed five small camps surrounding the militia camp.

“That river marks the frontier of human lands,” Bemere said. “Lews is staying well back, to make it clear to any watchers that they are not involved. He’ll have a bright noisy camp tonight as well, to make it clear that his cavalry is not trying to hide.”

The company’s hunters had had a good hunt and there were two deer, a dozen rabbits, along with fresh fish caught in the river. With time to cook, an improvised oven had been made and the smells of baking filled the camp as well.

A pair of ale kegs had also appeared mysteriously. Lews tried to find out how they’d gotten there, storage space in the few company wagons was highly valuable. As she sat down beside Sestian, she was surprised that he wasn’t helping. Usually the sergeant was the captain’s shadow. Lews gave up fairly quickly and Sestian grinned at Twyla.

“If the captain figured out where these ‘uns smuggled beer, he’d be the first to succeed.”

“Maybe they hid them with the militia.”

Sestian shook his head. “We give them nothing, and we take nothing,” he said firmly. “Even the youngest rider here knows to never come near that law.”

“Do you know where it was?” She asked, starting to smile.

“Maestra, I’m surprised at you. How could a man of my stature be plotting with this miserable band of villains?”

“Because yesterday you told Anna that when a horse even farted, you knew about it.”

Sestian laughed. “Just like my girls; listening to everything I say so they can use it against me later.”

Lews came and sat under the fly with them. “You think I’ve looked long enough?” He asked Sestian.

“Just be sure to glower a little, while you have your mug of fresh, delicious water,” Sestian said.

Lews took the leather mug the sergeant handed him and smelled it. He sighed happily and took a long swallow.

“That’s how you know your sergeant likes you,” Lews said to Twyla. “Otherwise I’d have to try and sneak a mug of beer on my own.”

“Life and Service,” Sestian said, toasting the captain and taking a long drink from his own leather jack.

They ate just after sundown that evening. For the first time, Twyla saw the stern and wary attitudes of the cavalry company relax. They called jokes and taunts to each other that she mostly didn’t understand but enjoyed all the same. When the food had been cleared away, Twyla accepted a mug of ale from the sergeant and sat with him as the troopers began a strange contest.

They began wrestling, something she’d seen before, but instead of struggling silently, they sang or recited poetry, trading verses back and forth. There was laughter from the onlookers every time a verse was flubbed or forgotten, and they even managed to occasionally make the wrestlers laugh in the middle of their match. Sestian judged each match, and while the winner wasn’t always clear to Twyla, she enjoyed herself immensely.

As usual, Bemere had disappeared with Lews after dinner, and near the end of the contest, they reappeared, faces flushed and grinning. Sestian rolled his eyes at Twyla, and they both laughed.

The troopers had noted their absence and return and began to call Sestian to judge the pair’s “wrestling” and declare a victor. Sestian tried to declare it a tie but no one would accept his ruling. Then in the middle of the laughter, Twyla, tongue loosened by ale and happiness called for a rematch in front of the company. Her face went crimson as the rest of the soldiers shouted their approval. Lews laughed with the rest, finally pulling off his tunic and and facing Bemere.

The elf shook her head sadly. “Your stamina has already failed you once tonight, my captain.”

Lews tried to protest but it was drowned by a roar of laughter. Sestian declared Bemere the winner and the captain had to wrestle a wiry woman who was leading the tournament. They locked arms and she sang something in a language Twyla hadn’t heard before. It was a strange melody and the words seemed to be completely alliterative. The captain gaped and as he called a protest, she easily threw him over her hip and to the ground. He jumped up, laughing, and held up the woman’s arm, declaring her the champion.

As the laughter and congratulations echoed off the trees, Bemere sat next to Twyla. She was grinning and winked at the stillembarrassed mage.

Twyla swallowed against the lump in her throat as she went to find Sestian Atious. She hadn’t realized how much she’d liked the man until it had come time to say goodbye.

“Saddled and ready for more adventures, Mage of Sneezing and Searching?” He greeted with the scarred smile that she’d come to look forward to.

The mage knew that she’d burst into tears if she tried to speak, so, surprising them both, she hugged the man tightly. “Thank you, Sestian.”

He hugged her back, almost gingerly. “You’ve been a bright spot for us all, Twyla. You keep your wits about you, and when trouble comes, you pay close heed to her elfish Ladyship. For all her beauty and manners, she’s deadlier than any five of us.”

“I promise,” Twyla said, letting go of him and wiping her eyes.

“And if you come south to Heliacarnum’s castra, ask the guards for me. My girls would be lucky to meet a woman such as yourself, teach ’em they can get ahead on their brains alone.”

“And Lews keeps telling me tales of your wife’s pastries.”

He grinned. “He’s eaten enough of them to know. Until you arrive, fair skies and warm winds, Twyla.”

She nodded and turned away quickly before he could see her tears. Bemere waited with their horses and Twyla fumbled her way into the saddle. When they rode out, she looked back to see Sestian Atious’ arm lifted in a wave of farewell. She waved back and lost sight of him as they descended the hill toward the river.

“You have found a true friend there,” Bemere said gently.

Twyla quickly wiped her eyes. “If the Fates had been kinder, I would have been fortunate to have such a father.”

“Maybe the Fates are making amends, even friendship from the likes of Sergeant Sestian Atious is a rare and priceless gift.”

“I thought he wanted to bed me at first.”

“I wondered that myself at first,” Bemere admitted. “But it was obvious that his feelings toward you were fatherly rather than lustful.”

“Where are we headed?” Twyla asked, after wiping her eyes once more.

“Yesterday, I met with the militia captains and they described the route they will take, along with their destination. It’s not far, maybe half a day’s ride.”

“Bah. As slow as they are, it’ll be a wonder if they get across that river before nightfall,” Twyla grumbled.

Bemere laughed. “Not even a week ago, I had to pull a sleepy mage from her blankets. Now she’s become a cavalry sergeant!”

Twyla grinned. “And they’d all better watch out when I get back to Osh Caernon!”

The pair rode along the river for a short way, before following a faint path that led them out into the barren wastes dominated by sand and bedrock outcrops. Nearly all of the vegetation disappeared, leaving only scattered clumps of sparse thorny scrub. To either side of their path, bluffs became stony walls, and a wide valley began to appear around them. Even partially shaded by several moons, the heat of the sun was noticeable.

“I begin to see why the militia didn’t attempt this attack during Sun’s Height,” Bemere said. “This valley would be hotter than Hartur’s Anvil.”

“Why would anyone send a caravan this way?” Twyla asked.

“That’s a question I’ve been asking myself as well. Anyone with the sense the Goddess gave geese could see there are no signs of life here.”

Twyla wiped her forehead on her sleeve. “Did the militia captain send you the wrong way?”

Bemere snorted. “As besotted as he was? Doubtful.”

Twyla had an unpleasant thought as she considered Captain Gwyllm, loudmouthed and coarse, with greasy hair and long mustachios. “You didn’t…”

The elf laughed merrily. “Ride him? Not even I would be that desperate. A simple glamour was all it took.”

“Thank the Goddess for small mercies.”

“I am curious. What would have been your reaction if I had?”

“After vomiting? I’d be dragging you back to the river for a thorough scrubbing!”

“Sergeant Twyla indeed!”

The mage shrugged. “There would likely be an unpleasant odor. You are too beautiful for stench and it is far too warm for the smell of onions and sweaty feet.”

Bemere laughed harder, holding her sides.

As they rode, the slopes of the valley continued to grow until they’d been replaced with walls of stone. The valley narrowed as the thin soil disappeared, and they rode across naked bedrock until they reached a place the deep ravine split into three sections.

Twyla looked around doubtfully. “Was your glamour strong enough?”

Bemere chuckled and heeled her horse close to Twyla. She cleared her throat and Twyla looked at her curiously. Bemere mentally threw an invisible net over the mage. Twyla’s eyes widened and she swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. Bemere raised her eyebrows and let her mental net dissolve.

Twyla shook her head to clear it and gave the elf a wry smile. “I respectfully withdraw my question and will not doubt you again.”

“But would you have told me the truth?”

“I would have gladly shared my darkest secrets to please you.”

“I’m not very good at glamours, truth be told,” Bemere said. “My casting lacks any subtlety. That’s why you were so aware of being influenced.”

“That’s a frightening ability.”

Bemere looked at her notes. “I agree. When we are young, we put glamours on each other for amusement. Children being who they are, it’s an unpleasant experience that stays in one’s memory for our entire lives and limits our willingness to use such a talent.”

“Surely there are some that enjoy the power?”

Bemere nodded, closing her book. “There were a few, yes. We will follow this central ravine for a few more leagues.”

Twyla persisted. “What stops those few from using more subtle glamours to control everyone?”

“Even the strongest casters could only affect two or three minds at once. Any fae can feel the presence of a glamour and it is understood that to use the talent maliciously is an immediate death sentence.”

“What if it’s humans that are influenced?”

“The victim does not define the crime, the use of glamour is the crime. Were I to glamour spiders and scorpions to battle for my amusement, the stink would surround me, and my life would be forfeit. There were two in my generation that secretly continued developing their control of the glamour and they created just such a situation.”

“Were they punished?”

Bemere looked at her, expressionless. “No. When we sensed the evil, they were executed on the spot.”

“Bu they were just children!” Twyla gasped.

“They were old enough to understand the penalties of what they were doing.”

“Did that frighten the rest of you?”

“I was only frightened when I first sensed their perversion. Then I was filled with fury at their choices. Finally, there was sadness for their families when we returned with their bodies.”

“They were killed by other children?”

The elf held up her hands. “Remember that childhood for the fae moves at a very different pace than humans. When I refer to a child, I do not mean a babe in arms, or a youngling. We were fully grown but not yet adults.”

“You must be very nervous to use a glamour then.”

Bemere shrugged. “If I am diligent, I don’t need that kind of lever. However, this situation has developed too quickly to be properly observed. The militia captain was left unharmed. In fact, he’s convinced I did lay with him, even if he’s hazy on the details.”

Eventually, the ravine they followed ended in a wide boxcanyon with pitted walls. At their base were long slopes of stone and gravel. Bemere rode a wide circuit of the area and picked a spot on a small hill that overlooked the area. They rode to the top and dismounted. After watering the horses, Bemere produced a shade fly from her horse and they rigged it between several gnarled trees.

“That’s very pretty,” Twyla said, looking up at the deep blue and silver chevron pattern.

“Those are the colors of the Plenilune fae,” Bemere said and went on to explain that the Selenic Court took pains to maintain cordial relationships with the other peoples and kingdoms of the Allworld, including the various polities of the Understone races. Those that wore the chevronpatterned colors were neutral observers in service to the Silver and were not to be molested. The elf produced another bundle from somewhere and unrolled it to reveal silver and deep blue caparisons for both of their horses.

After they’d dressed the horses, the pair sat beneath the fly and chatted as they ate a simple lunch.

“How did you come to meet Lord Vercingetorix and Captain Trelawney?” Twyla asked.

“I first met Egan when he was younger than Lews is now. I was accompanying his cavalry troop when we were ambushed by steppe nomads. Egan had been sorely wounded and I saw him knocked out of his saddle. I went back and kept the nomads from killing him on the spot. Then I managed to keep him alive long enough to bring him back to their camp. He healed and we’ve been friends ever since.”

“I think there’s much more to that ,” Twyla said.

Bemere smiled. “Indeed there is. And I’ve known Lews since he came to his uncle’s household as a page. Before I forget, there’s one more thing we need to do before the fighting starts.”

Bemere rose gracefully to her feet and took another bundle of cloth from her saddlebag. She unrolled it, revealing a pair of surcoats checkered with deep blue and silver.

“These should keep us from too much trouble if things become interesting,” Bemere said, handing one to Twyla.

Twyla nodded and pulled her maestra’s robes off. Underneath she wore only a lightweight chemise that was nearly translucent. Bemere quickly looked away, her pulse quickening at the sight of the mage’s halfrevealed body. She busied herself with getting her own surcoat on, fighting the urge to take a closer look.

“Am I so horrid to your eyes?” Twyla asked, once they were settled again.

“I think you look rather fetching,” Bemere said, confused a little. “The blue sets your yellow hair off well.”

Twyla shook her head, blushing. “If I am not wearing my outer clothes, you always look quickly away. Even when we practice stretching and the kyickmur, you cannot stand to see me any longer than to correct movements and can barely utter my name.”

Bemere blinked in surprise. “Maestra…Twyla, your frame and countenance are pleasing to the eye. Very much so in fact. Due to my present circumstances, I do not want to offer offense or disquiet with an overly admiring gaze. And I need to keep the embers of my lust hidden and your loveliness presents a constant temptation to let them flare brightly.”

“Oh.” Twyla’s face was even hotter, but she didn’t look away. “You think I’m lovely?”

The elf smiled. “Twyla, I know that you are beautiful. I also know that we should continue this conversation another time, in the very near future. Sadly, we need all of our concentration on these other matters first.”

“Of course, forgive me.”

“As if there were anything to forgive. Now, before I completely lose myself, how should I best describe our little hill?”

“It’s not really a hill,” Twyla said. “Look up there.”

Bemere looked up in the direction the mage pointed. At the top, it looked very much like some gargantuan creature had taken a large bite out of the cliff.

“We’re standing on all that rock, plus whatever else was gouged out as it fell. There are traces of the path it took if you look closely.”

Bemere nodded, impressed. “Thank you. I would not have seen that.”

The mage didn’t know if she was being humored or not but Bemere took the large journal from her bags and quickly sketched a diagram of the area. After she’d added notes about the landslide, she held it up for Twyla’s inspection.

“Just so,” the woman agreed, admiring Bemere’s drawing talent all over again. “It’s a small enough detail.”

“One never knows what uses knowledge will find in time. I do not understand the ways of stone well enough to see such subtlety in the details.”

“If you’re not sick to death of answering questions, I have another,” Twyla said. “Is sitting here in plain view a breach of your neutrality? Our presence is enough to give away the fact that something is happening. If there were anyone to pay attention.”

Bemere actually flushed but laughed. “You have a sharp mind, Twyla. Yes, that would be something to consider and normally I would follow a bit behind the advancing army to observe. If the survivors are to be believed and there is an entrance to the Understone nearby, their sentries have already spread the news of all this commotion over their heads. And don’t forget Inzya, our gnome friend. I would be very surprised if she didn’t send word in all directions that a human army was in the area. She was extremely annoyed.”

“I do hope she’s healing cleanly.”

Bemere chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry. The Hurzgrafn, the people we call gnomes are among the hardiest people the Allworld has ever carried.”

Despite Twyla’s predictions, it was only midafternoon when they saw the first of the Cyannous militia coming up the ravine behind them. As they got closer Twyla saw that all of the riders had donned matching surcoats, and caparisoned their horses in a similar pattern. The left side of the outfit was a bright scarlet, and the right half was jet black. The neck and shoulders were covered by a white collar that was blinding in the sun light. There were several banners in the same colors, some of them with a silver tower emblem, the mark of Cyannous.

“They’re looking rather festive,” Twyla said dryly.

Bemere nodded, still writing. “That might have intimidated a Human foe, but I don’t think the denizens of the Understone will care much. Especially if they’re bandits.”

They watched as the resplendent cavalry rode past, six abreast. Ten ranks of six riders passed their hilltop and some of the riders saluted as they passed. Bemere acted as though she hadn’t seen them, and Twyla was happy to follow her example.

Then, as they approached the slopes of scree, large humanoid shapes began to emerge from behind the large boulders. They were broad shouldered with long white hair and a grayishbrown skin that put Twyla in mind of the gnome she had bandaged. They were heavily muscled with dark patterns covering large parts of their bodies.

“Giants!” Twyla exclaimed quietly. “I thought they were just a children’s .”

“Those are Plaflakhi,” Bemere said, scribbling furiously. “They inhabit the deepdown caverns and caves. Their presence here gives lie to that of Understone bandits. Plaflakhi do not leave the Understone lightly, and their cherished laws forbid theft.”

Directly below their perch, trumpet signals rang out. The cavalry slowed, spreading to block off the box canyon. The first three ranks brandished spears and saber as they began to trot forward. But the horses became increasingly restive, prancing side to side. The ripple of unease soon spread to the rest of the cavalry formation and the riders’ attention was increasingly on calming their mounts.

Then one of the horses near the front reared, its whinny almost a scream. The rider managed to stay on, and he would have gotten his mount back under control, but the panic immediately spread to the surrounding horses. The ripple became a wave of panic that convulsed the entire company of humans. Most of the riders were sent flying from their fearmaddened steeds, and the few that managed to stay in the saddle were quickly carried off, as the animals’ panic became a stampede away from the Plaflakhi warriors.

“What is this?” Bemere muttered, taking rapid notes.

Behind them, there were trumpet calls followed by shouting. They looked back to see the infantry advancing at a quick march. They were far less organized than the cavalry had been, but there were many more of them.

“Do you smell that?” Twyla asked, wrinkling her nose.

The elf looked up at her in surprise and sniffed the air. It was an earthy scent with a bitter undertone. It reminded Bemere of something and she closed her eyes, concentrating. Twyla looked back at the unseated cavalry. Most of them were staggering to their feet, but few of them weren’t moving. Bemere considered the possibility that this was some kind of magical working, their own horses were starting to stamp and chuff.

Bemere’s eyes widened as she placed the smell wafting past. “Twyla! Ride from here, take both horses and ride hard. Find Lews, go back the way we came. Now!”

“What about you?” Twyla called over her shoulder, going to her horse.

“I’ll meet you at Grand Locks in a few days.”

Twyla pulled the hobbles off her horse but Bemere drew a knife and cut the ones off her own mount and then threw herself out of the way as the horse reared. Twyla struggled to stay on her own as it reared as well, whickering loudly.

“What is it? Lews will…”

“That smell is Spiderkin, I believe there are a lot of them coming. They hunt by scent and they’re after the humans. I doubt they’re looking for fae. Understand?”

Twyla’s eyes widened. “May She guide your path!” She called, whirling her mount to gallop down the side of the hill. Bemere’s mount didn’t hesitate to follow and quickly passed Twyla as she galloped away.

Bemere made sure the bindings that held her saber in the sheath were untied before picking up her journal and finding her page. The Plaflakhi warriors were already on top of the cavalry but most of the riders had lost their weapons when they were unhorsed. If they threw up their hands, the giants ignored them. Those with weapons in their hands were swatted to the ground. More of the giants emerged and began trussing up their prisoners.

There were more trumpet calls as the infantry commanders took in the scene in front of them. The infantry began to jog forward, towards the Plaflakhi half a league distant. The Understone giants ignored them, grabbing the cowering cavalry riders, often one in each hand, passing them to others that appeared from the hidden entrances. Bemere watched them, still trying to understand what was going on. She wasn’t an expert on the Plaflakhi, but she knew enough to see that they were behaving very oddly here.

Several more of the whitehaired giants replaced those who were carrying their prisoners off. They all carried clubs, waving them and roaring at the oncoming troops. There was another trumpet signal and the infantry began to move faster.

Another wave of scent rolled over Bemere, the damp earth and bitterness so strong she nearly gagged.

It was then that the Spiderkin emerged from hidden burrows in all three canyon walls. She saw that these were Lesser Spiderkin, about the size of wolves. They were not related to true spiders, they ran on six legs instead of eight, with the remaining pair of smaller limbs arranged so that they could be used to grab and manipulate objects. Lesser referred to their stature alone, they were much smarter than their insectile cousins, intelligent enough to communicate and be trained.

A wail went up from the foot soldiers as they realized they had blundered into a trap. The inexorable wave of Spiderkin hit the infantry formation on all four sides. The usual counter to this kind of enveloping threat was to form a hollow square. But even if the hapless militia had known the drill, the Spiderkin were in among them far too quickly. The humans went down in a wave, knocked off their feet by the wolfsized spiders. A few of them struggled to their feet before being knocked down again. Bemere grabbed her spyglass and looked closer. The Humans weren’t being killed, just kept on the ground.

More Plaflakhi emerged from the rocks, gathering up the infantry and passing them underground in the same manner as the cavalry. A lone group of horsemen rode hard for the open end of the canyon, leaving their bright banners to fall to the ground behind them. Bemere recognized several of them, including the militia captain she’d spoken too yesterday.

Before they could make their escape, more Plaflakhi and Spiderkin cut them off and the commanders were unceremoniously knocked off their horses and taken prisoner. Bemere had to admire the efficiency of the ambush, not even an hour after the cavalry had arrived, the battle was decisively over. However, she was left without a good route to make her own retreat out of the canyon. The Plaflakhi had noticed her as well and began to approach her position, whistling and calling to the Spiderkin, as a shepherd might whistle to his dogs. Bemere drew her saber and watched them closely, hoping that the smell of her body was different enough to dissuade them.

But, as the Plaflakhi whistled their pets into a charge, she realized they hadn’t noticed, or they simply didn’t care. The fastest of the Spiderkin reached her ahead of its fellows, leaping into the air to hurtle toward her. Bemere took a step out of his path and struck once, almost casually. The black blade sung in a high keening note as it easily struck off its head. The body fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs and was still.

Seeing their companion so easily dispatched, the rest of the Spiderkin slowed their charge. The rest of them slowed their charge and, perhaps responding to the shouts and whistles of the Plaflakhi, spread out to encircle her hilltop. Bemere turned slowly, watching the growing mob of Lessers surrounding her.

There was a skittering scrape from behind her and Bemere whirled out of the path of another opportunistic individual. Her blade thrust through this one’s body from the side, and she flung the screaming creature into the middle of its fellows. She kicked a piece its leg out of the way, as the screams were cut short by the tangle of Lessers pouncing on it. The Spiderkin closest to her began to edge back and Bemere saw their Plaflakhi masters advancing through the crowd of Lessers, brandishing their clubs.

“You put down the blade, Human!” One of them shouted in broken Common. “Throw it away or you meet doom!”

Seeing more of the whitehaired giants approaching, Bemere knew she wouldn’t be able to fight her way to an escape. With her free hand, the elf drew her long knife and flipped it in her hand, leaving the tip at her elbow. It was a poor shield, but better than a bare arm. Despite her vulnerability, the Spiderkin that had gathered around her, began to crowd back, chittering loudly.

“No sword! You pay now, slave or blood!” Another Plaflakhi yelled.

“You are invader here,” the first Plaflakhi yelled. “Help Humans, pay Human price!”

Bemere smiled tightly and began to sing a warsong in the language of the fae; {Come and hear the song of my blade. Come and meet the fury of the Silver! Come to me and together we will dance into the next life!}

The Plaflakhi stopped in their tracks, looking at each other uncertainly. The Spiderkin had deserted her and were gathering around their Plaflakhi masters. Their chittering softer now, almost as if they were seeking to be comforted.

Something flashed above Bemere’s head, moving too fast to even register. A gust of wind nearly knocked her down, and even flipped a few of the Spiderkin onto their backs. Immediately there was another blast of air and she was startled by a voice speaking the language of the fae, right behind her.

{Put up your blade, Wanderer of Night. These are not your enemies, I give you my word and offer my protection}

Bemere turned to see two figures standing back to back with her, facing the large figures as well. Both wore the hoods and cowls with the gray and gold device of the Cloud Riders, the sky cavalry of the Golden. Their hands were empty, but the giants and their spiders had already begun to withdraw. Down in the canyon, other Plaflakhi were leading their Spiderkin packs back underground. A glance to the sky showed her two gryphons circling close overhead.

Flipping her offhand knife around, Bemere let it fall into the sheath. The Cloud Ghosts waited as she wiped her sword free of gore before returning it to its scabbard. She folded her hands and bowed slightly to her High Fae rescuers.

“I am Serah Adda Bemere, Eye of the Selenic. Your aid is timely and most welcome. All praise and glory to the Phoebean Appaline.”

The newcomer pulled back her hood and let the cowl fall away from her face. Her eyes were light amber and her skin was a golden brown. She bowed in return and Bemere saw the woman’s hair, bleached nearly white, braided tight to her scalp

“Well met, cousin. I am Serah Gwyenth Hyrale, Cloud Rider. I sing the honor and glory to Her Selenic Radiance. My apologies for your reception, we were not told an Eye of the Plenilune would attend this fight.”

“Apologies are unnecessary,” Bemere said. “I found this expedition while I was traveling through the Counties. Their imperial escorts were kind enough to allow me to accompany them so that I could include this battle in my letters home.”

The High elf visibly relaxed. “Ah, now I see clearly. I had feared that you and I were the first sparks of intrigues between our respective courts.”

“Perish the thought!” Bemere said. “I am an Eye and nothing more. My mother despairs of my manners in courtly affairs.”

“And I can think of no higher recommendation of your character,” Gwyenth said. “If one could ask, what do you know about these events?”

Bemere shrugged. “I was told that the Cyannous militia was seeking word of a disappeared merchant caravan. That explanation seemed thin, unless the Plaflakhi have suddenly taken up banditry.”

“I pray that you do not utter such a thing within their hearing!” Gwyenth said, softening her words with a smile. “Unless you enjoy endless discourse about matters of law and ethics, of course.”

“Green Lady forbid!” Bemere said with a grin of her own. “Is one permitted to ask the about this…I hesitate to call it a battle. It appeared to be more akin to thieftaking.”

“That’s closer than you might think,” Gwyenth said. “We are here as impartial witnesses, summoned by Khivu Ataphalis, Broodmother of these burrows. She would likely welcome another observer from the fae. Will you come and meet her?”

Despite the disquieting thought that she might not be allowed to refuse, Bemere didn’t hesitate to agree before asking after Twyla; “I had a companion with me, she rode back down the valley with our mounts.”

“And will she return?” Gwyenth asked.

“No. I told her to ride for the Imperial camp. Will the denizens of the burrows be chasing down stragglers?”

“The Brood Mother has forbidden the taking of prisoners beyond these walls,” Gwyenth said. She gestured at Bemere’s surcoat. “Doubly so, if she is wearing the Plenilune colors. The Plaflakhi warchiefs are well aware of their meaning. I will ride ahead and inform the Brood Mother of your presence here and my comrade will guide you, if that’s acceptable?”

Bemere glanced around. The shade fly had been reduced to tatters by the Lesser Spiderkin and her journal was safely in its satchel. “I’m grateful for your courtesy.”

The other rider unmasked and Bemere was astounded to see a Human face. The High Elves had little enough love for their Silver cousins, but they absolutely despised Humans.

“I get that look a lot,” the woman said, a highlander’s accent adding a burr to her words. “But the Green Mother chooses her own champions. Who are we to doubt her decision?”

“Blessed is the countenance of Her regard,” Bemere agreed. “Lady Rider, no offense was intended. I was startled.”

The copper haired woman smiled. “No offense taken, Lady Serah. I’ve never met a Plenilune either.”

“My name is Bemere if you’d do me the honor.”

The copperhaired woman grinned. “I’m Kaylie. We should go on foot from here, our winged brothers would find it difficult to lift two riders from here.”

“Lead the way,” Bemere said.

The High Elf whistled loudly in a complicated pattern. There was an answering cry from above and Bemere looked up to see one of the circling gryphons descend in a spiral.

“They are magnificent,” Bemere said, settling her satchel on her shoulder.

“You know that they are intelligent?” Kaylie asked.

Bemere nodded. “I’ve never met a gryphon on the flesh but a member of my family was fortunate enough to have a close friend who was Gryphonfolk.”

“A lord or a lady?” Kaylie asked.

“My mother’s sister,” Bemere said. “Why do you ask?”

“Because she is an impertinent youth,” Gwyenth said, her fond smile once again taking the sting from her words.

“I hear that a lot myself,” Bemere told Kaylie, and both Cloud Riders chuckled.

Gwyenth’s Gryphon swooped just overhead and his claws smoothly plucked the High Elf from the ground. As he climbed back into the sky, Bemere saw the rider spring from the gryphon’s claws, flipping in midair to land in her saddle.

“Amazing,” Bemere murmured as they walked down toward the floor of the box canyon.

This The Goddess War Chapter 3: Witness

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