Chapter 1 – Part 8

The Aundairian camp was a place of grim men, quietly frowning, tending to numerous small tasks necessary for an army. Too many of them bore wounds, and too many of them nursed dark thoughts. The bards had promised them victory, their commanders had told them of how the Eldeen would fall, and the wizards had declared that fire and lightning would scatter the druids and forest men.

Instead the bards were dead, ripped apart by wild animals that appeared and fought for the rebels. The commanders were picked off, one of the most able taken out by a goblin’s arrow through his visor. And the wizards, the great and powerful magicians – their blows had fallen hard at first upon the rebels, true.

But the dwarf with the axe…

The stories the survivors told said that the dwarf could not die. That the dwarf would rise up and come for them.

A pair of magician students, barely old enough to handle the simplest spells, had laid wards that made alarms on the western edge of the camp. Great stretches of open ground lay beyond it, giving no cover to creeping Reacher rebels that might seek to cross it. Trenches had been hastily dug, bowmen stood by, carefully fingering arrows. A magewright stiffly held a wand, fearful that he might actually see battle.

In the middle of the camp, there was a circle made out of stakes. An elf with an enchanted longbow stood by it, eyes on the dark night sky. The elf had served the previous three commanders of the camp, who were now all dead. The new commander had told him to watch for a pair of eagles, and so he did, not understanding why.

The eagles came, perhaps an hour after the sun went down. The elf’s keen eyes spotted them, and he watched how they circled before landing in the middle of the circle of stakes. Some soldiers standing nearby glanced at the odd tableau curiously. They had all been told to stay away from it and not talk, but nothing could stop them from staring.

When one of the eagles unfolded and grew into the form of a druid, the men cursed and grabbed for weapons.

The elf with the longbow grinned a smile with no humor, and raised his hand. The men stood down, but groused to each other.

“I am expected,” said the druid, who was also an elf.

“Your bird stays,” the elf with the bow said, jerking a thumb behind him. “New commander, in the tent.”

The druid nodded, and walked past the elf with the longbow. Both elves knew that the druid longed to unleash some magic on the longbowman, and both elves knew that the druid dared not to. The druid pretended to have some dignity, and the longbowman left him pretend.

The tent the longbowman indicated was the newest one in the camp, tall, with clean, white canvas walls. The front flap was open, and magically lit stones glowed inside.

The druid stepped in, and beheld a long table laden with trays of food. Fresh fruit, decanters of wine and water, cooked pheasant, and newly baked bread were placed for all to enjoy. The table was low, merely a couple of feet from the ground, and surrounded by cushions and low stools. Aundairians of all races, predominantly humans and half-elves, sat around the table and were discussing things in low whispers. The whispers cut off as the druid entered.

“Come down here, Aruunis,” said a half-elf in polished breastplate at the other end of the table. His breastplate had new gold brocades on it. Captain Hackkim had been fourth-in-command before the battle of the day before. Now he was first.

“Why do we have a nature-worshipping rebel here?” spat a human to the left of Captain Hackkim. He wore wizard’s robes, and a bandage wrapped his left wrist, where a hand had once been.

“Aruunis is a Gatekeeper druid,” Captain Hackkim explained, overly loudly. “The Gatekeepers do not follow the rebels as do the other druids. They supposedly have some higher calling, some older duty.” The half-elven commander sneered, his sarcasm not even hidden as he chewed on a pomegranate.

“Captain Hackkim,” Aruunis said, his words sticking in his throat. “You summoned me.”

Captain Hackkim stood up. “Everyone keep eating,” he said. “The dirt-worshipper and I have things to discuss.” The half-elf walked out of the tent’s back flap, wiggling his fingers at the druid as one would a small child. The men around the table snickered, and Aruunis’ face burned, but he followed.

Once out alone in the night air, Captain Hackkim turned towards Aruunis, his face set in stone. “Aundair did not lose yesterday because of the other druids in the battle. Aundair lost because of this Sister Pienna, and her savage dwarf fiend who she empowered.”

“The dwarf is dead,” Aruunis said quietly.

“I know, and good riddance,” Captain Hackkim snorted. “The wizards he slew will set us back greatly. The spells that Pienna cast, the vigor she projected into him, the fogs that she conjured, all enabled him to do so.”

“Pienna does not act for the Gatekeepers –” Aruunis began.

“Silence!” Captain Hackkim snarled. Aruunis shut up. “Old seals, you Gatekeepers say! Ancient duties! Perfect cover for spies! This Pienna comes from Cannith, in Cyre, takes up with a rebel dwarf first, then joins the Gatekeepers second, and within these past few months slays powerful wizards in Merylsward and on the border? You Gatekeepers are not neutral! Aundair should hunt your order down, and exterminate them! Why should we not?”

“She is not regular,” Aruunis protested. “The rest of us are not like her!”

“Oh?” Captain Hackkim mocked. “She is an aberration of some kind?”

Aruunis’ cheeks burned with anger, but he dared say nothing.

The half-elven captain watched the druid for a moment, then he slowly withdrew a piece of parchment from a pouch on his belt and handed it to Aruunis. The druid’s hands shook as he took it, tears welling in his eyes.

“A letter from your wife,” Captain Hackkim informed the druid. Aruunis already knew, of course. He knew his wife’s handwriting well. Since she had been convicted for sedition by Aundair’s courts ten years before, letters were the only way that he heard from her. “We moved her into a softer camp. She still does menial work for us by the Thrane border.” Hackkim fished around in his belt pouches some more, producing a pipe and some tobacco. “Conditions are hard in these work camps, even the softer ones.” The half-elf lit the tobacco and took a puff. “You still maintain that your Gatekeepers provide the world with such a vital function?”

“Yes,” Aruunis whispered, his eyes reading and re-reading the few lines on the parchment.

“And you still maintain that the Gatekeepers are truly neutral, and this Pienna is an exception?”

“It is so,” Aruunis said softly.

“Then your course is clear,” Captain Hackkim said from around a mouthful of pipe. “If you want your Gatekeepers to move freely about Aundair, something must be done about Pienna.”

“I have spoken to her,” Aruunis said.

“You’re dense, dirt-worshipper, you know that?” the half-elf asked. “It’s very simple. You kill Pienna and bring me an identifiable body or major part thereof, and you do it within the next three months, or your wife will be executed. Do you understand?”

A moment passed, and then Aruunis slowly nodded.

“It will be done,” the elven druid promised, his voice raspy.