The Treason of Phyr Sa'resh

[Les Misérables]

A young, fit Phyr Sa'resh strode proudly through the streets of Ettermire. His right arm braced behind the small of his ramrod spine, and his left hand rested comfortably on the pommel of his cavalry saber. His short dark hair swayed in a breeze that rustled the neatly pressed lines of his military uniform. The dark elf had just come from a promotion ceremony, and the Alerian star of captaincy shone on his collar. He nodded at those he knew as he passed them by, sharp azure eyes flitting from face to face.

“Sir, you still have several appointments to make today,” the lieutenant riding his coattails reminded him, “Major Steeleye has requested your presence prior to fifteen hundred hours. You are expected for advanced dragoon training in the yard at sixteen hundred hours, and of course...” the lieutenant shuffled the sheaf of papers clutched in his hands, “you're meeting the Lady Annelle Nightshade for dinner at the Boar & Bar.”

“Thank you, lieutenant,” Phyr said as a steam cart chugged by. The pair of them stepped into the lee of a tall tower to avoid being run down. In truth, Sa'resh could keep track of his own appointments, but he appreciated his aide's efforts. Their boots slapped on the paved road as they marched toward the offices of the Alerian Armed Forces.

“I should warn you, sir,” the lieutenant added, “Steeleye's assistant made it quite clear to me that the major was livid when asking for you. He seemed enraged by the very mention of your name.” The short slender elf gulped at the mere thought of the major's ire.

“Don't fret about old Ironhead,” Phyr chuckled, using the major's nickname from when they'd attended military schooling together, “he's always cross about one thing or another.” In truth, the tall elf had a keen idea of what specifically had agitated Steeleye in this context, but he kept it to himself. “I'll handle the major. You just make sure my riding gear is ready for this afternoon's training.”

“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant gave a ghost of a salute. They arrived in front of the rectangular office building. Unlike the elegant towers that made up most of the military quarter, with their multiple spires poking at the polluted skies, the office building was block shaped and unremarkable. Poured concrete rose eight stories above the ground, and the harsh walls stretched the entire length of a city block.

Phyr parted ways with his lieutenant as they ascended the stairs just past the building's service desk. Sa'resh made for the seventh floor while his aide stopped off at the fifth to polish the newly appointed captain's boots.

Despite housing an upper echelon of military officers, the seventh floor's halls were made from the same plain concrete as the rest of the building. Phyr's footsteps echoed as he made his way to the heavy door with Steeleye engraved in the nameplate. The young Alerian officer took a deep, steadying breath, and then knocked firmly.

[Les Misérables]

“Enter.” Steeleye's strident voice permeated the oaken door. The hinges stayed silent as Phyr stepped inside. The military believed in cheap materials and regular lubrication, at least regarding their buildings. The office contained an oaken desk, an iron filing cabinet, and three steel folding chairs. Steeleye occupied the first chair. He sat up straight, staring across a pile of papers at Sa'resh. The two had been regular rivals during their education. “At ease,” the major said as Phyr came to attention, “have a seat, captain.” His sharp gray eyes had not missed the sparkling star.

Phyr sat in one of the two chairs facing the desk. “How may I be of assistance, major?”

“It may be me who can assist you,” Steeleye said with a forced smile, “congratulations for the promotion. It was well earned, from what I hear.”

Sa'resh nodded. He had innovated a faster method of reloading muskets while tinkering in the workshop. The military appreciated his efforts.

“Thank you, major. How might you help me?”

“This will be your first command,” Steeleye pointed out unnecessarily, “and I have a certain amount of pull in these parts. Tell me what sort of assignment you favor, and I'll whisper in the ears of the big lads upstairs. No guarantees of course, but it's the least I can do for an old friend.”

An old friend. Phyr fought off a frown. He and the major had been many things to one another, but friends had no place on the list. What does he want? The gears in the mechanic's mind clicked and whirred.

“I appreciate that, major, but I believe my position is already set in stone. I am a gunsmith, after all, and promoted for gunsmithing at an expert level. I should think the path of my career is obvious.”

“Stone can break,” Steeleye said with a glare, which he replaced quickly with his phony smile. “I had thought you might have more of a mind for adventure.”

“When the day comes for Alerians to retake Raiaera, I'm sure I'll see adventure enough,” Sa'resh said, “until then, I think my skills are best suited for the workshop.”

“Are you certain? There is an opening in the 22nd Dragoon Division.”

Phyr caught his breath. The 22nd were an elite squadron who shipped out frequently to missions all over Althanas. Tales were told in taverns of their great deeds, and also of their great compensation. Every young soldier dreamed of being recruited into the 22nd. Phyr had never even considered the possibility of becoming an officer in their ranks.

“I shall have to think about it,” Sa'resh said, standing and saluting. Steeleye returned the salute casually.

“As you wish. Just don't think too long... that opening is bound to close soon enough.”

Phyr thanked the major and left the office. A single thought buzzed through his mind like a gnat.

He certainly wants me out of Ettermire.

[Les Misérables]

The stables smelled of sweat and manure. Dressed in leather riding gear and freshly polished boots, Phyr selected a steed and led the great white warhorse out onto the practice field. Torn up turf stretched for a half mile in every direction. Riders practiced charges around the outsides of the field, while a series of jumps and obstacles dominated the center. Combat dressage was a favored form of dueling among Alerian officers, and dragoons practiced the maneuvers as often as they rode.

Phyr placed a foot in his steed's stirrup and heaved himself astride the mighty white beast. The horse remained still as he settled in the saddle, a testament to its training. Phyr gripped the reins in his left hand and drew his sword. Like many of his peers, he practiced riding with his blade bared more often than with it sheathed. He heeled his gelding to a trot, riding around the outskirts of the field a few times to warm both of them up. The horse's mane rippled in the draft created by its speed.

“Well met, captain!” Called an officer of the same rank, pointing at Phyr's star pin as he cantered by. The tall elf lifted his saber in a salute and turned toward the obstacle course set in the center of the field. He urged the gelding to a gallop only to heave on the reins and grind to a halt in front of the first block. The horse reared up on its hind legs and leaped the obstacle easily, landing in the tight space on the other side.

“Well done, Moonshine,” he whispered the gelding's name and got a whinny in response as he danced the horse sideways, through a narrow alleyway between two heavy oaken blocks. He hauled on the reins again and Moonshine reared and pivoted, and then hopped backwards around the edge of the course.

They continued through the obstacles with patience and precision. Phyr put the gelding through its paces, practicing each of the dressage techniques passed down by the former horsemasters of Alerar. He knew that before long horses would become obsolete in the Alerian military. Their steam technology had progressed rapidly in the past few years, and they drew closer to solving the airship problem with each passing day. Many soldiers shirked their dragoon training for this reason, but Phyr enjoyed the time spent communing with a good warhorse. He practiced until his steed's coat was slick with sweat, and then rode toward the stables. As he neared he sheathed his sword and dismounted.

He passed Moonshine's reins to a horse handler and removed his leather riding gloves, slapping them sharply against his hip to scatter the horsehair. The sun had sunk more than halfway below Ettermire's horizon of spires and squared towers. If he did not hurry, he would be late for his dinner with Lady Nightshade. He ducked into the squat building adjoining the stables to change back into his uniform.

[Les Misérables]

The atmosphere at the Boar & Bar oozed class. Servers flitted about like specters, silent save for when they spoke. Elves and dwarfs in finely tailored clothing and military uniforms filled the tables and crowded the polished ebony bar. A string quartet played on a raised stage in the center of the large, elegantly shaped room.

Phyr sat opposite Annelle Nightshade, hands rested lightly on the white tablecloth. They had already supped on split pea soup, roasted chicken and root vegetables, and a cocoa-infused truffle dessert. They lingered over the sparkling wine, enjoying the music and each others' company.

The lady possessed a particular brand of beauty rare even among Alerian elves. Her fine boned cheeks dimpled her pale blue skin as she sipped wine from a glass flute. Her long hair, sapphire with sharp purple streaks, shimmered in the restaurant's fine lighting. Her soft violet eyes seemed to light up whenever they met Phyr's azure gaze.

“This is a fine vintage,” Annelle admitted over the rim of her glass, “but for me, wine will never match the flavor of a good scotch.”

Could I love this woman any more? Phyr wondered. “Have you sampled Yurik's Firewhisky?”

“Only as often as I get the chance,” the lady said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “fortunately my father favors it. I sneak sips most nights before bed.” She pressed a slender finger to full, painted lips. “Don't tell.”

“I would never,” Sa'resh chuckled. His smile faded as he recalled the matter from earlier. “I met with our old friend Ironhead today.”

“Oh? How is dear Emil? I haven't spoken with him in ages!”

Phyr tried not to wince at Annelle's use of Steeleye's given name. “He seemed keen to send me out of country. Could you imagine why?”

“I haven't the faintest idea,” Lady Nightshade said, fanning herself with flared fingertips, “perhaps he is trying to help your career.”

“Perhaps not,” Phyr said bitterly.

“Perhaps he remembers you more fondly than you do him,” Annelle arched an eyebrow.

“You must be right,” Phyr exclaimed, “for you look so beautiful when you say it. And with this promotion... yes, perhaps things are looking up for old Phyr Sa'resh.”

“You're not old!” She teased him, reaching out and rubbing his wrist. They warmed to each others' touch, and by unspoken agreement Phyr paid and they left.

The warm winds of an Alerian midsummer night played in their hair and tugged at their clothing. The gunsmith's boots thudded with each step, while the lady's slippers whispered. They stopped together on the footbridge spanning the Glaith River. Surrounded by the aura of fog lamps shining on the water, Phyr kissed Annelle until she melted in his arms.

[Les Misérables]

Days bled into weeks, and then months. Phyr moved into the new quarters that came with his captaincy, a fine three room suite in the junior officers' barracks. He continued his work on powder weapons and methods for loading them, as well as keeping up with his training, and visiting with the Lady Nightshade as often as he could. He enjoyed the niche that his talents had carved for him, until he received another summons from Major Steeleye.

The major's office looked the same in its simplicity, except an even larger pile of papers dominated the wooden desk. Steeleye seemed somewhat frazzled, his short dark hair unkempt, his hard gray eyes skittish. He gestured for Phyr to sit and rubbed a large hand over pursed lips.

“How are you enjoying your first command?” Steeleye asked through a thinly stretched smile.

“Impeccably,” Phyr said, “my team comprises some of the finest young minds in the military. We are making great strides in the realm of-”

“That is good to hear,” the major said through gritted teeth, “I wanted to remind you of my offer. That position with the 22nd Dragoons will soon be filled.”

“I have considered it,” Phyr admitted, “but I still feel my place should be here, in the workshops of Ettermire.”

Steeleye's hands balled into fists. “By the fires of Kachuk, Sa'resh. I'm trying to assist your advancement.”

“So long as you assist me away from Alerar's shores?” Phyr inquired.

“Whatever do you mean?” Steeleye asked, eyebrows raised in feigned surprise. He opened his fists and placed slightly shaking hands flat atop his desk.

Sa'resh knew he should button his lips, but the words spilled out unbidden. “I know you desire the Lady Nightshade. You think that sending me traipsing across Althanas will make room in her heart for an old interest. It will not. She loves me, and I intend to have her hand.”

“Have you sought her father's permission yet?” Steeleye asked crossly, hands clenched once more. “For without it, I think you are putting the cart ahead of the horse.” Anger flared in his eyes, hot and raging.

“Our love is more like a steam engine,” Sa'resh smiled, “built to last, and easily repaired.”

The major's fist thudded down on his desk. “Do you think it wise to cross a superior officer, captain?”

Phyr stood. “I see no superior,” he spat, “only the remnant of a love struck schoolboy, still obsessed with the first woman who cradled his cock.”

Patches of vermilion shone on Steeleye's cheeks. “Get out!” He roared, “out of my office!”

Phyr complied only too happily, slamming the well-oiled door in his wake.

[Les Misérables]

The military sponsored Alerar's annual technology convention that year, and held the event in a grand hall more suited for an elegant gala evening. Draperies and banners festooned the blue-painted walls, and tables piled with inventions of all manner stood in a square around the center of the main room.

Phyr held the tall, heavy trakym door open for Annelle and cupped her hand in his as she followed him into the building. She looked resplendent in a long, shimmering silk gown, blue with slashes of purple to match her hair. Phyr as usual wore his drab blue dress uniform, the star of captaincy proudly pinned on the collar. The pair paced along the marble tile floor, through crowds of well dressed elves and dwarfs, exchanging words here and there with those they knew.

“Is that a demonstration of the improved black powder?” Annelle asked, her eyes lingering on a long table featuring several shining muskets and flintlock pistols. The elf staffing the table placed a few granules of powder in a large brass pan and dropped a match in. The powder erupted in a puff of smoke with a soft bang.

“Indeed it is,” Phyr said, “although we're calling it “gun-powder” now.”

“How progressive!” Lady Nightshade exclaimed. Her smile drew crinkles at the corners of her eyes and displayed her porcelain-white teeth.

Sa'resh returned her smile and leaned in to kiss her cheek. His left hand dipped into his waistcoat pocket, touching the small box contained there. A wave of nervous energy swept up his spine as his lips touched Annelle's skin. She tasted so clean and perfect, and smelled of sweet perfumes.

They strolled along the line of tables arm in arm, examining the innovations on display. They paused to ask a few questions at a stand featuring designs for airship engines, and further on enjoyed a small sample of cocoa infused iced-cream. The rich flavor caused Phyr to smack his lips, and presented the opportunity he awaited.

“That certainly whet my appetite,” he commented, “why don't we make up a plate?” He pointed to the far end of the long room, where swooping staircases led up to a large dais containing a fine buffet. Together they swept up the stairs, but as they crested the dais Phyr stopped, taking both of Annelle's hands in his. “Linger here with me a moment,” he requested.

“What is it, Phyr?” the lady asked, arching an elegant eyebrow.

Sa'resh cleared his throat and gathered his confidence, and then got down on both knees. A hush fell over some of the convention-goers nearby as they realized what was about to happen.

“Annelle Nightshade,” Phyr said, pulling the small box from his pocket, “having you in my life has made me happier than any elf in Alerar. I know I am hardly deserving of such a fine lady, but I have gained your father's permission-”

“Don't you dare, Phyr Sa'resh,” she said in a near whisper, “don't you dare...”

“Will you be my wife?” He opened the little box, unveiling a golden ring inset with a single sapphire. It sparkled beneath the room's chandeliers, as did Annelle's eyes.

“Yes,” she said, and he slid the ring onto her finger. “Yes, I will wed you, Phyr Sa'resh.”

[Les Misérables]

Amid plans for the wedding and his work on gunpowder weapons, Phyr continued his military training. One fine spring day he entered the stables with his lieutenant in tow, looking forward to putting Moonshine through his paces. The great white warhorse had become Sa'resh's favored mount, and the two had formed a distinct bond from the hours of practice they put in together.

A group of elves crowded the center of the stables, and a familiar strident voice rang out from the middle of the circle.

“There he is, my good elves. The husband-to-be of the Lady Nightshade!” Despite his sardonic tone, the elves surrounding Steeleye gave Phyr a brief round of applause.

“She shall be calling herself Lady Sa'resh soon enough,” Phyr said proudly, placing his left hand on the hilt of his saber and his right fist firmly on his hip.

“Sir,” the lieutenant murmured in his ear, “you really should not antagonize him...”

The cluster of elves opened, allowing Sa'resh and Steeleye to stare each other down. They both wore leather riding gear and cavalry sabers, and disdainful expressions on their faces.

“I am surprised that Lord Nightshade would give permission for an elf of such... middling rank... to wed his only daughter.” Steeleye scoffed, drawing chortles from several of his companions.

“I was surprised, myself,” Phyr admitted, raising his eyebrows, “but it turns out that Lord Nightshade is a man of singular taste. He knows, for example, that the military will allow even the most basic and classless of scoundrels to ascend the ranks, so long as they tongue the right arseholes.”

Steeleye mimicked Phyr's posture, placing a closed fist on his hip and an open hand on his pommel. The Alerian military had trained them both to be ready to bare steel at a moment's notice, regardless of how angry they grew.

“Careful with your words, captain,” Steeleye seethed, “lest you find yourself at the wrong end of a court-martial.”

“If that's your aim, then get on with it,” Phyr growled, “only leave my wife-to-be out of the matter.”

“I will not,” Steeleye took a step forward, “so long as she is not your wife, you have little claim to her. And I mean to remind her of that promptly.”

A wave of anger boiled the blood in Phyr's veins. He peeled off one of his leather riding gloves and used it to slap the major across the face as hard as he could. The blow rang through the smelly stables, and a hush fell over the assembled elves.

“You insult my honor, and that of my betrothed,” Sa'resh raged, “I challenge you, sir.”

“Good,” Steeleye grinned and rubbed his cheek ruefully. “A duel. As it is my right to select the method, I choose combat dressage... to the death.”

[Les Misérables]

As the officers led their chosen steeds into the yard, a light drizzle escaped the overcast skies. Phyr had selected Moonshine, of course. The white gelding high-stepped through the muddy terrain, ears twitching at the touch of raindrops. Phyr rolled tension from his shoulders, trying to swallow the feeling of unease that rose from his belly like bile. Steeleye had killed three elves in dressage duels during his time in the military. Sa'resh had never even engaged in such a contest.

The major led his black stallion to the opposite end of the obstacle course, and both warriors mounted their steeds. Moonshine snorted and stamped his hooves as Phyr settled in the saddle. The gelding seemed to vibrate beneath the saddle... or perhaps that was just the pounding of Sa'resh's racing heart.

One of Steeleye's lieutenants stepped to the edge of the obstacle course and raised his hands.

“Let all who look on today know that these two elves have both agreed to meet in a duel to the death. As the chosen method is combat dressage, either party being unhorsed shall be considered an outright loss. Otherwise, they are expected to fight until only one remains. Are you both satisfied with the cavalry saber as your chosen weapon?”

“I am,” Sa'resh and Steeleye spoke with one voice and bared their blades. The drizzle muffled the sound of steel sliding from scabbard.

“Then begin!” The officiator called, and backed away from the course.

Phyr dug his heels into the gelding's flanks and sawed the reins. Moonshine reared and leaped the first block, landing in a slew of mud and nearly slipping. Sa'resh shifted his weight to help maintain the horse's balance, cursing beneath his breath.

Steeleye laughed out loud at his opponent's poor start, dancing his stallion sideways around his first obstruction. He drew patterns in the air with the point of his blade as his steed pranced through a maze of obstacles.

Phyr hauled his horse's head around, garnering an irritated snort from Moonshine, and set the gelding on a straight trot between two blocks. The slippery conditions, he realized, made all but the most basic of dressage techniques inadvisable.

They met in the middle of the course and crossed blades at last. Steel tasted steel, the song of combat ringing out across the field. Sa'resh slashed and parried, letting his anger power his arm, seeking an opportunity to put his blade through Steeleye's chest. The major fought with a smarmy grin smeared across his face, clearly already confident of victory.

As their horses reared and wheeled their sabers clashed and flashed, and Sa'resh's clockwork mind realized that he would lose if they continued on the present course. Steeleye was the better swordsman, and the better rider. Barring a sudden change in pace, the battle was all but decided. With little to lose, Phyr stuffed caution in a cannon and lit the fuse. Going against everything he had been taught, the elf released his grip on his sword. Ducking under Steeleye's latest slash, Sa'resh whipped his reins and heeled his gelding forward. His free hand reached out and closed around Steeleye's collar, pulling the major out of the saddle and dumping him in the dirt.

As cheers rose up from the onlookers, Phyr wheeled Moonshine about, enjoying the look of shame and dismay on his old rival's face.

[Les Misérables]

The tale of Sa'resh's victory over Steeleye swept through the ranks of the Alerian military, and as spring turned to summer Phyr found himself the recipient of numerous accolades. He could scarcely walk down the street without having someone stop to pat him on the back for shaming the major, who it seemed had numerous enemies. The gunsmith's mind was consumed with preparations for his marriage, however. He booked a hall large enough to accommodate both his and Annelle's families, and arranged for an officiant, and a string quartet to play them down the aisle. He'd been fortunate enough to track down the foursome he and his lady often enjoyed at the Boar & Bar.

The day of the wedding dawned warm and sunny. White and violet draperies hung throughout the hall, and an excited buzz filled the long room. Elves from both families dressed in their finest wedding-day white conversed contentedly, and then quieted down as the quartet played a formal march.

Phyr paced down the aisle trying not to blush, accompanied by three of his truest friends. All of them wore their dress uniforms, soft blue fabrics swishing and medals shining in the light of the chandelier.

As Sa'resh took up his place next to the officiant, the music from the quartet became more melodious. Annelle appeared at the far end of the aisle, resplendent in her flowing violet gown. Her multicolored hair sparkled in the bright light, and her eyes shone with emotion as she took her place at the altar in front of her bridesmaids.

The officiant read the rites of marriage from the book of Khal'jaren the Sage, and then produced the rings and placed them on its pages. The golden circlets were each shaped to look like two intertwined arms, inset with a single ruby. When placed together they took on the shape of the four-armed sage, the rubies representing his knowledgeable eyes.

First Phyr slid a ring onto the fourth finger of Annelle's left hand, and then she followed suit. They recited vows memorized from the book of the sage, and then kissed amid applause from the crowd.

“Congratulations, Lady Sa'resh,” Phyr whispered as they walked back down the aisle arm in arm.

“Congratulations to you, old elf,” she murmured back, pinching his side.

The party moved into the hall's dining room, where a delectable spread including three cakes waited; a fruitcake for the guests, a light cake for the bride, and a dark cocoa infused cake for the groom. Phyr scarcely tasted the good food, and the words of the speeches orated by his friends and family swam in one ear and out the other. His mind buzzed with excitement, for at long last the love of his life had become his bride.

At the conclusion of the meal the newlyweds changed out of their formal wear, donning ordinary traveling clothing and stepping outside where a steamwagon waited to whisk them to the train station. Their bags were already packed, and with tin cans dragging noisily behind they drove off, waving back to their well-wishers. As was tradition, they had kept the location of their honeymoon a secret. They held hands in the back of the wagon, gazing into each others eyes and waiting impatiently for a time when they could be well and truly alone.

[Les Misérables]

The newlyweds spent a week at a well-recommended inn along the outskirts of Etheria. The pretty port city attracted many young couples, with its fancy restaurants and seaside trails. Annelle and Phyr scarcely saw the outside of their rented room, however. Their relationship 'till that point had been entirely chaste, and they had much of each other to explore. Furthermore, Phyr desired to put a baby in his new wife's belly as soon as possible.

Like all good things, the honeymoon ended, and they returned to Ettermire, to the quaint house Phyr had purchased as their first home. Whilst they were away their friends had moved many of their belongings into the abode, and they entered the cozy building with broad smiles on their faces and happy thoughts in their hearts.

“What would you fancy for dinner?” Annelle asked, peering inside the deep steel oven.

Before Phyr could answer a firm knock permeated the front door. He met Annelle's eyes. Who would be visiting them at such a time?

“Anything you feel like cooking will fill my belly,” Phyr smiled, “I'll attend to the door.”

He twisted the iron knob and opened the oaken portal.

Six elves in military uniforms waited outside, their hands resting on holstered pistols, their faces set in stern lines. The leader – a captain, like Phyr – gave Sa'resh a polite nod.

“Sir, please step outside. And your wife too.” The officer said, peering past Phyr's shoulder and spotting Annelle in the kitchen.

“What is the meaning of this?” Phyr demanded as he acquiesced, joining the soldiers on his front steps. Annelle padded outside behind him in her soft slippers.

“We received orders to search the premises, sir. This won't take but a moment.”

“If you insist, captain...” Phyr trailed off as the soldiers filed inside, leaving him and Annelle alone in the twilight.

Before more than a few minutes had passed, the soldiers returned. Their stern faces had become grim masks, their threatening postures more dangerous. Two of the underlings drew their sidearms and pointed the flintlocks at Phyr.

“What is the meaning of this?” The gunsmith repeated, “what are your-”

“Phyr Sa'resh,” the captain intoned, pulling a set of steel manacles from beneath his cloak, “you are hereby under arrest for the crime of high treason.

“Treason?” Sa'resh sputtered as they forced his hands behind his back and slapped the manacles in place.

“Phyr would never turn against the crown!” Annelle insisted, “what can you have found in there? We only just moved in!”

“Excuse the intrusion, Lady Nightshade,” the captain said with a meager half-bow, “we found designs for some of our latest gunpowder weapons, all parceled up to be sent off to our Raiaeran enemies.”

“This is absurd!” Phyr exclaimed as they force-marched him away, “I would never do such a thing! And her name is Lady Sa'resh!”