Chapter 10: Chapter Ten

Dark clouds hung low in the sky, threatening rain. Florine adjusted the collar of her cloak and made sure her hair fell so that it covered the pointed tips of her ears, allowing her to pass as human. It was tedious, but she had long since grown accustomed to it.

“Make way, soldiers.” Two young guards parted to let her enter the dungeon. She had heard of a new prisoner with a familiar description, and since no name was given, she wanted to confirm her suspicions.

The stairwell was dark and cramped. A foul odor lingered and she forced herself to resist casting a spell to clear the air around her. When the stairs finally gave way to level ground, she saw a man in black robes leaning over a table of metal instruments. Dark cloth covered blood stains.

“I’ve come to see the man from the King’s Woods,” she said.

The man grunted and took a key from his pocket to open the cell door. Inside, Florine saw a man that had been badly beaten but who refused to admit defeat.

“I thought it was you.”

Burn met her gaze with swollen eyes. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“How were you captured?”

“Turoc worked with Grisham to ambushed me.”

Florine studied him. There was something odd about the way he carried himself, standing tall and proud despite the beatings he had been subjected to. Other men would have cried for their mothers, yet he was ready to face whatever came next.

“I will speak to King Theodore,” she said. “Your crimes do not warrant the dungeon.”

Florine left without continuing the conversation, and she was glad to find fresh air again. It was mid-morning and she knew Theodore would be in his chambers full of egg and breakfast sausage.

Four guards, each well-armed, blocked the entrance. They knew her well enough to part without a word.

“Your Majesty,” Florine called. She opened the door only a crack for fear of interrupting something that would anger the king.

“Come in,” he said.

Theodore lay on his bed with the belt for his large belly undone. Despite summer weather, a small fire burned in the hearth to take the edge off the cold stone. He played the role of a weak, pitiful man well, when he wanted to.

“I assume you are aware of your most recent prisoner?” she asked.

The king grunted as he struggled to sit upright. “The man who encouraged an entire town not to pay their dues to me? Yes, I plan to make an example of him.”

“I believe Baron Grisham acted unfairly. The amount of coin he expected from such a small population was unreasonable, and there are other ways you could benefit from this prisoner.” When speaking to the king, it was important to remind him if something was to his advantage.

“Oh?” he asked. He raised a goblet to his lips and motioned for her to continue.

“Burn has the makings of a fine soldier. He would serve you well, if given the opportunity.”

“Are you suggesting that I reward insolence?”

“I am suggesting that you don’t waste good men when the enemy is knocking on your doorstep.”

The king grew quiet. “Very well,” he said. “I will visit him myself this afternoon.”

“Thank you, You Majesty.”

Theodore rose from his bed and clasped his hands behind his back as he shuffled toward the window. It had a magnificent view of the city, if Normar could be considered magnificent. It was vastly different than the delicate architecture of Florine’s people.

“I’ve received a report from the Ravens.”

Florine waited in silence for him to continue. Judging by his expression, it was serious.

“The Legion has been raiding towns along the coast and forcing men into their ranks by threatening the women and children. An army of these so-called ‘soldiers of misery’ is approaching Normar and I expect a battle tomorrow.”

“Is your army ready?”

“Fortunately, yes. This is a blow by Azghar to weaken us, and we cannot let him succeed.”

“What would you have me do, Your Majesty?”

“There is not much to do,” the king said. “For now, we wait.”

Waiting for battle was often worse than the fight itself. Florine excused herself and used the time to be productive by readying her armor and sharpening her blade. Little sleep came for her that night.

The next morning, she dressed alone as the sun crested the mountains to the east. Bulky armor allowed her to blend in with the other soldiers—a woman would disrupt the battlefield and cause unnecessary chaos. It was not like that among her people, but she was in a foreign land and she played along with their customs, no matter how ridiculous they were. She dressed alone and none beside her knew the truth.

She was assigned to a position in the front lines, just in front the city wall, with the rest of his swordsmen. A row of arches offered support from above.

“Today we fight.” General Herveus’s voice carried far across the battlefield. He was in charge of this section of battlefield and Florine was subject to his orders. “We fight for our homes, our families, our honor. We fight for freedom and glory and we will be victorious.”

A crisp bast from a war horn followed.

On the horizon, cloaked figures on horses came into view. Perhaps four thousand, Florine guessed. Normar’s own army was little more than three and half thousand, but they held the advantage of strong stone walls and burning tar.

They were not Azghar’s followers, they were farmers and storekeepers forced to kill or watch their loved ones die. a fate that was likely either way. They lacked conviction, but they had determination, and that made them dangerous.

A row of arrows from behind Florine. Enemy shields went up, forming a wall that blocked most of the barrage. A hail of lances was returned and Florine raised her own shield in return. A solider to her left fell with a wooden shaft sticking from his gut.

With the lances spent, soldiers traded them in for the swords and battle axes. Azghar had equipped them well.

Another reason Thoedore had placed Florine had been placed in the front lines was for her ability to use magic. The king valued that above the best weapon skills, and if it had been possible, he would have had his army comprised entirely of magic wielders. That, however, would require non-human combatants.

Florine was averse to using magic in battle unless all other options were depleted. It weakened the body unnecessarily, and it made her venerable to being discovered. Any wielders in the Legion’s ranks could sense her presence.

A sword narrowly missed Florine’s head, causing her to stumble backwards. She caught her balance, and seizing an opening, she stabbed the attacker in the abdomen. Her own sword pierced the armor easily.

Florine had seen many of the men before. She had spent a great deal of time in the coastal cities, and if helmets didn’t obscure their faces, she knew she would be able to call some by name.

Some of them were so young, even by human standards. Or they were old and bent with white hair. Azghar didn’t discriminate in making lives miserable. Thedore’s soldiers being well-trained men in their prime left her with little doubt of winning the battle.

The archers above still shot when they could, but the two armies had intermingled to the point where it was all but impossible not to hit the wrong side.

“Form a line!” Herveus shouted. His call was repeated to those farther away, and in turn, they repeated it to those at the ends. Erithor's army slowly regrouped, forming a line that would serve to push the Legion back from the wall.

Normar was in a bad position, a fatal flaw when it was chosen to be Erithor’s capital. While the castle itself was on a small hill, that hill was in the bottom of a valley. Their enemies had the advantage of fighting downhill for all but the last several paces.

Florine wished she was a full-blooded fairy. True fairies had the ability to fly, but the delicate wings on her back were useless. Her abilities were still beyond that of man—she was over six hundred years and had been just a child when Azghar attempted his first overthrow of Erithor—but she would never truly fit in with her own people.

By dusk, both sides had taken heavy losses. Florine’s wounds were minimal, and easy enough to be healed with magic once it was safe to do so.

Herveus barked out orders from somewhere amid the skirmish. His right arm hung limply at his side, but he continued to fight with his left. Good soldiers were trained to fight with either hand.

Florine made her way to his side, and he acknowledged her with a nod before thrusting his sword through a fair-haired man's throat.

“We outnumber them now,” Herveus growled.

An arrow struck the General squarely in the chest and he gasped. He fell to his knees with a curse.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

A gray-cloaked soldier blocked Florine’s advances, preventing her from tending to the wound. She dispatched him quickly and knelt at Herveus side. It was too late.

The sight of the fallen General sent a surge of energy through the Legion. They shouted and banged their shields together, and Normar’s army faltered. The General’s second in command was nowhere to be seen either, suggesting he had met a similar fate.

Florine restrained herself from shouting orders—Theodore had been clear that her position was to remain a secrete under no uncertain terms. She still did not understand his full plan for Armaila, either.

“Stand your ground!”

A voice rose above the sounds of battle, urging the men to regroup and force the enemy back.

Burn’s uniform was undyed linen with a single blue stripe on the arm, indistinguishable from other soldiers of low rank, but the men obeyed. They were grateful for order amid the chaos.

The battle continued with renewed vigour even after nightfall. By morning, rays of sunlight turned the sky as brilliant red as the ground, and none of the men in gray cloaks moved. Every father, brother, and husband Azghar had pitied against them was dead. Erithor’s own army appeared to have received minimal casualties.

Florine found Burn tending to a gaping wound on a young man’s leg. The solider couldn’t have been more than seventeen, and this was likely his first taste of battle outside of the training grounds.

Burn moved on to the other wounded, of which there were plenty. He had obvious knowledge healing, a traditional women’s domain. Florine supposed it was a necessary skill for someone who lived their life on the run.

Florine took the odd opportunity to utter a spell to staunch bleeding or reknit skin, when she was sure it would not be noticed. She was careful not to completely heal wounds, but only to reduce the most serious damage. Healers began to venture from the castle and they would tend to the rest.

She slipped away from the battlefield without notice and entered the castle through a back way known to few. Noblemen and women were barricaded on the lower floor, while King Theodore was protected within his throne room by a large personal guard.

The king nodded to his guards to leave when she entered. She removed her helmet and the upper bulk of her armor, and blood splashed onto the stone floor. She muttered a curse and healed the wound that she had previously missed, a jagged gash by her elbow where the armor parted to allow movement.

“How was the battle?” Theodore asked, raising his nose as the splatter on his otherwise spotless floor.

“It was a bloody massacre,” Florine responded, “but we won.”

“I fear this will greatly impact Erithor’s food supply. We’ve lost trade with several ports, including Holden, and there are far less farmers today than yesterday.”

“I believe that was part of Azghar’s strategy, Your Majesty.”

“I believe you’re right. I will consider enacting a grain ration, though I’m hesitant to cause such unrest.” Theodore shook his head and pointed a meaty finger toward a roll of parchment on a table next to him. “This message arrived for you.”

Florine raised an eyebrow—surely it did not arrive during the battle. “How long did you wait to give it to me?”

“Your focus was needed elsewhere.”

She bit back her annoyance and unfolded the letter, which she saw in an ancient fairy script. The king could not have read it if he tried, which was likely intentional.

Greetings Florine,

It is my great sorrow to inform you of your mother’s death. Three days past from the moment of writing, the final day of Silvith, we were attacked by Azghar himself. She fought bravely but we were overcome.

Your cousin Thalom sits on the throne that is rightfully yours. Azghar has left but his soldiers remain, and few of us have escaped their grasp. I have been allowed to keep my position within the palace but I fear my time is drawing near.

May your journey be swift,

Salmor

Florine folded the letter in shock. “Fortharnor has fallen.”

The news visibly concerned Theodore. “And your mother?”

“Dead.”

“You will leave Erithor, then?”

“I will take the crown out of necessity,” Florine said, still deciding the plan in her own mind. “I do not intend to keep it and I will not stay in Necd uw rli Feribwenn longer than is necessary.”

“I can spare one hundred soldiers for your journey. Since you have placed great faith in Burn, he will lead them, but he is your responsibility.”

The offer was unsarcastically generous of the king, but she accepted. He likely saw it as a way to gain favor for future negotiations with fairies, whoever was leading them.

“What should I tell the men?” she asked.

“The truth.”

Florine allowed herself, and the men who would come with her, to rest after the battle. Her muscles throbbed the next morning, but she pushed through it and expected the soldiers to do the same. Theodore did not give her the best of his army, but they were enough, the journey north to Fortharnor was long enough they would have time to heal and regain their strength.

Burn and the rest of the men waited in the courtyard with confused expressions.

Florine clapped her hands twice to gain their attention. “You have been assigned to accompany me on a very important, very dangerous mission,” she said. “We will ride north farther than any of you have gone. We pass through the Land of Ash and into the Fairy Kingdom, a place you were taught does not exist. You will fight to free a people you thought we myth.”

Burn’s expression was difficult to read, but the other men whispered amongst themselves and their doubt was evident.

“Long ago, war devastated both of our kingdoms and it was decided that each should not know of the other. That time has ended. We must now work together.”

It was evident they still did not believe her. Burn pointed to his ears, suggesting that she reveal her pointed tips, but she knew that wouldn’t be enough.

Florine took a deep breath and chanted a short string of words. The air around her swirled and a cloud of mist formed into a transparent dragon and flew above the men and burst into a small spot of rain. It was an easy enough spell the required an artist flair and little energy, but it was effective.

Burn gave a salute and the men followed, once they were able to stop their mouths from hanging open. Florine ordered everyone to select their horses from the stables and gave a warning about forgetting important belongings—there would be no chance to replace them for more than a fortnight.

“That spell was elaborate,” Burn said once they were on their way.

Florine’s own animal was a young gelding with chestnut hair, well-trained by the king’s own stables. “It provided results.”

“I can’t argue with that.” Burn turned his gaze ahead. “I was raised near the Land of Ash,” he said. “It was because of my father. I promised myself I would be a better man than him and not be in trouble with the law but… Things don’t always work out the way we want.”

“We’ve all made mistakes,” Florine said. She seldom thought of hers, choosing instead to seal the memories away where they couldn’t hurt her. “Yours are more noble than most.”

They passed through several towns as they rode, drawing attention in each. It was not often such small villages saw a large group of soldiers. Children ran in the streets to catch glimpses, until their mothers pulled them indoors to perceived safety.

By dusk, they reach the jagged border where Erithor ended and the Land of Ash began. There was no sense venturing into such a dangerous wasteland at night, so they made camp. Each of the soldiers brought enough rations to last them until Fortharnor.

“No fires,” Florine warned before they had a chance to make one. It was too risky with the Legion possibly close by.

The men were apprehensive around her and they gave her considerable distance when it was time to bed down. Despite her weariness, she kept watch. Burn attempted to help, but she ordered him to bed with the others.

“I can’t be awake every night,” she said. “At least one of us should be rested.”

Stirring branches caught her attention sometime in the night. She drew her sword and approached the small bush where she had heard it, hoping to find a squirrel or other harmless animal.

It moved again, and she was it was larger than she first anticipated. Misshapen and strangely familiar. She pounced and locked the creature’s stubby arms behind its back.

It yelled and struggled in her grip.

“Fredgar!” Florine said, turning him over on his back with his arms still pinned. “It’s me.”

He was a boogie, a small hunchbacked creature known to live in swamps. They were a distant—very distant—cousin of fairies, and it was considered bad luck to be close to one. She released her grip on him.

“Florine?” Fredgar’s mouth spread into a grin, revealing yellow teeth.

Burn and the soldiers rushed to Florine’s side but she motioned for them to sheath their weapons.

Fredgar stood barely above her knees, though his back was so hunched it cut it height in half. His grayish skin looked especially pale. “We’ve been driven out of our swamps so we’ve come looking for a new home,” he said.

“Were they soldiers in gray cloaks?” she asked.

He nodded. “They drained my swamp! My best swamp!”

Florine cocked her head. What use would Azghar have for a swamp?

“They filled it with bodies,” Fredgar said when she questioned him.

She shared a concerned glance with Burn. Whatever had happened in the Fairy Kingdom, it was not good.

“Can we go with you?” Fredgar asked. He balled his hands into fists. “I’ll fight ‘em if you let me.”

“It is a long journey,” Florine warned. “You must keep up.”

The boogie nodded solemnly. “I will fetch my family.”

She sighed and rested on a fallen log as he scampered back into the forest. The rest of the soldiers returned to their bedrolls, but Burn stayed.

“You seem to know him well,” he remarked.

“Fredgar was there for me at a difficult time in my life.” Florine winced as the memories resurfaced. “I was set to be married, but Azghar murdered him and sent me his head in a basket on what was to be our wedding day.”

Burn was for a long moment. “You blame yourself,” he said, but his tone was not addressing her directly. “You think it should have been you who died instead, but you have to believe there was a reason you were spared.”

“You must learn how to live with pain,” she agreed.

Fredgar’s family turned out to be a tribe of fourteen boogies, consisting of his wife, children, and assorted distant relatives. Each were equally hideous in their own way, and Florine was glad to see they made the men more uncomfortable than she did.

The journey continued for many days. Finally, weary and travel worn, the fabled palace of Fortharnor sparkled on the mountainside in the distance like a precious gem. Lake Veran below with dozens of waterfalls pouring into it from above. It truly was Necd uw rli Feribwenn: The Land of the Waterfalls.

Unlike how Florine remembered it, there were no fairies on the grassy fields or swimming in the cool waters. How many had Azghar slaughtered, and how had he overpowered so many?

“They must be inside,” she said, gesturing to the palace. It was a tall structure with spiraled towers that put Normar to shame. “It’s impossible to guess their numbers from here.”

“Can we send a scout?” Burn asked.

“Too risky.” It was impossible to sneak up without being seen, even at night. Torches fueled by magic burned from sundown to sunup.

Burn sighed and tried to rub sleep from his eyes. The ride had been long and hard, and he had kept watch most of the previous night. His beard, which bordered between brown and dark blond, had grown past the stubble Florine had first seen him with. Now that it was longer, she noticed a hint of red.

“We will make camp and get some rest,” she said. “Then we will form a plan.”

“Should we be so close?” Fredgar asked, stepping between them with an air of authority. As the leader of his tribe, he considered it his right to be involved in such talk. “The Legion is bound to have spies.” As if his words had somehow summoned them, he glanced around nervously.

“I know a place.” As a young child, Florine had often played in one of the many caves surrounding Fortharnor. There were few who knew about it, and she doubted the Legion did.

She found the entrance with little difficulty, despite it being wildly overgrown with vines. It worked to their advantage by concealing them from those who didn’t know about the cave.

“Break off into groups of three and make sure there are no unwelcome visitors lurking about,” Burn ordered. Most of the men had even grown acceptant of Florine and no longer cast her suspicious glances at every opportunity.

The cave consisted of a large entrance that broke off into many smaller chambers. Florine had never found an end to them.

Once enough area had been scouted, Burn finally relaxed and they prepared their camp. The boogies took the left side and Fredgar quickly set to work setting up a large cooking pop he had insisted in making his cousin Rutgard carry. His wife rummaged through her pack to find enough fried meats and vegetables to cook a meal. The food supply on both sides was nearly spent—they would have to risk hunting soon, if they could not infiltrate Fortharnor within the next few days.

“May I help?” Florine asked as she knelt beside the boogie encampment.

“No,” Fredgar insisted between grunts as he lifted the pot over the beginnings of a fire. “All is under control.”

Florine felt more at home with him than most humans or fairies. A boogie was a treacherous creature when offended, but they were honest. She had seen the way men betrayed their own.

“What is your plan?” Fredgar asked. He had managed to get the left side of the pot on top of a flat stone and was trying to center it.

“We need to know their numbers,” Florine said. “Perhaps we can take Thalom by brute force.”

“How will we do that without getting close enough to scout the place?”

There was a way she could get in, but it was risky and it involved magic. “I will keep thinking,” she said. This plan was better to keep to herself.