The Price of Freedom ~ Part III

[Letho]

FOREWORD

In its present state and form, the Corone Republic had existed for over a millennia. With no significant conflicts ravaging its soil since the Demon Wars and with relatively scarce internal tumults, the Corone Republic prospered and grew into one of the most powerful realms of the known world. With its dominion over the naval trade routes and wise foreign policy that formed neither allies nor enemies, it became the cornerstone of culture and a haven for all that sought justice and peace. The Assembly – a quintet of governing people chosen by the citizens, all experts in different areas – was a ruling body that successfully maintained the sovereignty and never led the Republic astray. And for that, they were loved by the people.

It is because of this that the death of two members of The Assembly threw the Republic in an upheaval. The Steward of Corone – Arno Erriades – and the Grand Marshal – Aidan Johnston – were assassinated in their homes, and according to intelligence gathered, it was the doing of local criminals. The remaining members of The Assembly reacted instantaneously, ordering the apprehension of any and all suspects that might’ve been related with the treacherous deed.

Tribunals were formed specifically for the process of questioning these suspects. Governed by the inscrutable Inquisitors, these relentless courts presided in all the major Corone cities. Many were brought before the justice of the tribunals, commoners and royalty alike, wheeled in like brigands in steely cages. In an unforeseeable turn of events, each and every one of them was found guilty for treason and sentenced to death by hanging. Some communities rebelled, others submitted silently, but no insurrection was more sanguineous then the one in the city of Gisela, where the outcry of the public was quietened by the blood of over three hundred rioters in an incident that would later be known as the “Gisela Massacre�.

Seeing these outbursts of violence as a direct assault at the stability of Corone, the remaining three members of the Assembly decreed that the current democratic government was too weak to fight the domestic enemies. The current system was abolished to make way for the uprising of the new power; The Corone Empire.

But there were some who resisted. At the very heart of the arboreal expanse of Concordia Forest, Corone Rangers made a stand against the tyranny in the city of Underwood. The numbers of these freedom fighters were scarce, their rebellion trapped by the newly established Empire from all sides, but the woodlands were their home. In it, they seemed untouchable. A campaign was started almost immediately after the treachery of the Empire, to fortify the four borders of the Concordia forest. Four Companies were formed and dispatched north, south, east and west. But the Empire reacted accordingly.

Out of the four regiments, three failed in their missions completely. The one failure that echoed across the lands the loudest was that of the North Company, where Marshal Letho Ravenheart lost the South Passage to the vastly superior foe, thus enabling the Empire unhindered transit through the Comb Mountains and into Concordia. In retaliation for these actions performed by the Rangers, the Corone Empire struck at their heart, torching down Underwood. Once a great City of Wood, Underwood was turned into charcoaled rubble in a single afternoon and the Empire’s magicks. It was the end of the Rangers. But it was also the beginning of something else.

Standing in the ashes of their lives, the townsfolk of Underwood pledged their allegiance to Marshal Ravenheart and the remnants of his Rangers. In order to train this new army away from the eyes of the enemy, Letho Ravenheart and Edward Stormcrow led their troops to the Cathedral Hill, the last refuge of freedom in the land crushed by the boot of the Empire. In the catacombs under the hill, the motley congregation trained, steeling themselves for the battles to come.

[Letho]

PROLOGUE

Though Cathedral Hill wasn’t a fort, it was still at least thrice as defendable as Underwood. The hill itself wasn’t really a hill; more of a slanted cliff stuck between two branches of a river. To the east, the Bradbury River was flowing wide and strong, its tumultuous waters cutting through the rocky landscape and cascading down sporadic drops. Farther downstream, Bradbury was wide and lazy, but while still amidst the trees of the Concordia Forest, it was wild, untamed, nothing like its counterpart that held the south side of the Hill. There, the Chester River was shallow and slow as it entered the delta, but it wasn’t its power that posed a threat to the attackers. It were the marshes that spread around it. One could row a boat for miles and miles upstream and find naught but greenish bogs, frogs the size of a human head and mosquitoes that slowly sucked the life out of your veins with each prick. Poised between these two vastly dissimilar rivers, the Cathedral Hill was in the tip of the triangle whose last remaining side was protected by thicket and young saplings.

Atop of this hill was the reason why this jagged rock was called Cathedral Hill. The massive church made of dark grey stone might’ve been magnificent once, but centuries of disuse left very little magnificence to the edifice. The thick stone walls and the heavyset columns faded to a pale shade of gray, holding up colonnades and arched windows whose stained glass was lost to the pages of history. The terracotta roof was gone as well, as were the supporting beams that once held it above the spacious main hall, leaving only the sturdy stone to remind the passersby of the former glory of the Cathedral of the Gray Order. Who or what exactly this Gray Order was, not even the oldest, most wise Rangers knew, though some claimed they were warrior monks that worshiped no gods, but instead believed in the Balance. It made little difference for they departed so long ago that not even their bones remained in the underground catacombs.

The catacombs. When Letho first arrived to Cathedral Hill, he didn’t believe that they could be so extensive. Then, when he explored this underground labyrinth of passages and rooms carved into the white rock of the cliff, he started to wonder just how long the construction of something so complicated that took. Some of the passages exited on the far shore of the Bradbury, some tunnels led to underground rivers, some to chasms that seemed to have no bottom. Some they didn’t even get a chance to explore yet. The very fact that the catacombs could hold over a thousand people spoke of their size.

A thousand was the number of recruits the Marshal took with himself from the lot that so readily sworn allegiance to him back in Underwood. He could’ve taken more – at least five times as much – but that would’ve been counterproductive. A garrison of five thousand would’ve never fitted in the catacombs and even if they could’ve, Letho could hardly hope to feed five thousand mouths. Not to mention that a host of such size would’ve been difficult to conceal even in the ocean of trees such as Concordia. That was their advantage now. If the Empire was large and counted thousands upon thousands of soldiers, then they were also inert, exposed. By keeping his army small and cloaked, he could always count on an element of surprise.

They weren’t an army yet, though. Not a single day of the month they spent on the Cathedral Hill was squandered, but there was only so much you could train into a bunch of villagers and lumberjacks in such a short time. That was why Letho Ravenheart was standing on the small grassy plateau behind the ruinous church, spear in both of his hands as he demonstrated the technique to the circle of antsy onlookers. The piece of flat land used to be a graveyard of sorts, but by now the tombstones were so scarce and decrepit that they looked more like natural formations that the winds slowly abraded. The earth beneath his feet was soggy; the season was heavy with rainfall, announcing a snowy winter that could already be felt in the chilly air. The cloudy gloom of the sky was merciful today, though, holding back the precipitation for the time being.

“Always use the superior reach of your spear,” the Marshal spoke between deep misty breaths, thrusting the nihon shaft forward, pulling it back, then firing another thrust using just his right. “A spear isn’t a fencing weapon. It’s a preemptive weapon. It enables you to kill your enemy before he kills you. If you find yourself forced to parry strikes, then you’re obviously doing something wrong. Push your enemy back...” Even as he said so, his body spun, bringing the spear in a wide horizontal arc with an audible whoom!. “...keep him at a distance. And loose your weapon only in the most extreme of circumstances.”

Letho’s right tightened around the shaft, cocking it back over his shoulder and rifling it with all the might his muscles could procure. The spear was like a giant arrow, whistling as it flew past a pair of shocked faces with widely open mouths. It found a target in one of straw dolls that archers used for target practice, its prevalida tip impaling the figure made of canvas and burying itself deep in the wooden column behind it. Followed by every eye in the proximity, the Marshal walked to the target range to retrieve his weapon.

“Now, pick up your weapons and train in pairs,” he ordered, yanking his polearm free.

[Christina Bredith]

The fortitude of the Coronian people had never once ceased to amaze Christina. A full thousand of them from Underwood, burned out of house and home by the vengeful Corone Empire’s forces, had joined forces with them to take back the country that had been so wrongfully stolen from its people. It was true enough that a small force of rangers and a rag-tag militia was not exactly an impressive weapon to wield against the mighty imperial army, but these people had trained hard over the past month. They had given up their singular, clouded visions of revenge – although it was still plainly, and understandably, in their minds, they knew that the best way to obtain it was not to seek it blindly, but to be devoted, tireless soldiers in every facet of their being. They could thank Marshal Ravenheart for that.

It was rough going for the rangers during that time. The most skilled among them, notably Letho, Christina, and even the crippled Edward where he could, offered themselves up to train the masses in the art of spearcraft and swordplay. They had learned to follow orders, they had been explained the atmosphere of a battlefield (though nothing could compare to living out the real thing), they had hardened their bodies and toned their muscles, and they had now begun to learn everything their instructors had to teach. It was small and its beginnings had been meagre, but there was indeed the start of a fledgling army here beneath Cathedral Hill.

Today they were outside practising with their weapons, and Christina was instructing a group of eager soldiers on a knoll a short walk south of where Letho was training his own recruits in the art of the spear. She was always astonished at the variety of people before her: some she would swear were too young to even be out of school (but alas, what school did they have now that it had been reduced to rubble?), and others looked like they were closer to belonging in this graveyard than on top of it. Not a single one of them disappointed her, though: their talents were raw, surely, but their determination was inspiring.

“Now remember,” she announced in her crystalline voice, “that your swords are going to require you to fight smartly and carefully. You don’t have the range your comrades up there are going to have.” The woman pointed at Letho’s class with her sword, a plain steel thing that admittedly could not compare to her own Rosebite, which was still presumably locked away in Gisela. “However, your weapons are much more versatile than their spears. With shorter weapons and your shields, you can fight at close range where spears are at a disadvantage, and swords are built for slashing as well as thrusting.” In emphasizing the unique qualities of each type of weapon, she hadn’t meant it to sound like it was a competition, but the looks of pride on some of the students’ faces suggested that they had taken it that way.

“That’ll be enough smugness, please,” she chastised in her friendly way, waving her sword at the offenders. “You’ve been improving, but you’ve got to have your wits about you when the re—” The woman lost her place when she saw the eyes of her students looking rather pointedly behind her, and when she looked over her shoulder, Christina saw one of the ranger scouts running towards her at full steam. Once he drew near, the slender young man whispered something in her ear and withdrew with a nod. Expression unreadable, Christina gestured to her recruits.

“I want you to pair up now, and spar as we’ve always done. Don’t hold any of your talent back, because I swear to you your opponent will have no such misgivings, but I don’t want you wounding each other either. Garret will watch you – Garret, if you please! – and I’ll be back shortly.” A ranger who had been standing nearby helping with sword demonstrations stepped into her place, and while the class began their spars, Christina jogged up the soggy path to find Letho.

“I’ve just spoken to one of the sentries,” she told him quietly when she approached, trying not to disturb the spar in progress at least until she heard Letho’s opinion on the matter. “They’ve found some outsiders wandering dangerously close to Cathedral Hill, out in the trees. We’re not sure who they are yet, but I don’t like the sound of it.” It would only be the worst thing in the world if the empire were to stumble on their set-up now – the militia was in no way prepared for an attack, and so Christina knew these outsiders needed to be identified and, if necessary, stopped before the Republic's last, desperate opportunity came crumbling down all around them.

[Izvilvin]

Upon the waves between Corone and Fallien, a brown vessel not large enough to accommodate fifty passengers cut the water. A trio of sails caught the wind, the emblem of the Jya painted proudly upon them. It was the Valsharen, and it was fast.

On his way home for the last time, Izvilvin Kazizzrym stood at the bow of the ship, a million strands of white hair riding the breeze behind his head, his angular chin resting thoughtfully in the palm of a calloused hand. Eyes a distinct lavender and granting the elf a keen, enhanced vision, he had been watching the edge of land long before any of the humans would see it.

The fingers of his free hand danced along Icicle’s pommel. Though he watched the desert as it drew closer, the drow’s mind was wandering. Icicle was generally cool to the touch even when within its enchanted scabbard, but ever since regaining the sword from Christina Bredith, whom he’d lent it to for a short time, it had seemed warm. Izvilvin attributed this change to his growing attraction to the human.

But his thoughts of Christina were few and far between, at least for the time being. He had made a decision he thought he’d never make – to defy the Step organization and become an independent person. The last order they gave was to kill Letho Ravenheart, only days after Izvilvin was ordered to aid the Marshall. It was clear, now, that Step was manipulating the situation from the start. They were allied with the new Corone Empire, and used Izvilvin like the willing puppet he was.

No more, the drow had decided. He held the upper hand until Step somehow learned of his decision, and Izvilvin planned to use that advantage. First, though, he had to go to the Jya and say his goodbyes, grab his things and decide on the first step he would take. Christina knew he had left, but Izvilvin had deliberately said nothing to Letho. Thinking about it, the drow wasn’t sure why he felt good about avoiding the Marshall.

His ribs still ached, but they were wrapped in clean, white bandages now. His old shirt had been replaced by a silky black one that rippled in the wind. The other wounds he had were minor annoyances that Mazoo would attend to upon his arrival.

It would be the last time Mazoo would ever do such a thing for him, Izvilvin knew, and he wondered if he’d ever again have a home.

“Land ho!” Came the cry from above.

[Letho]

Letho didn’t like the sound of the news either, but they were hardly an unexpected turn of events. Even though Cathedral Hill was leagues away from any trading routes and trodden roads, a huge ruin of a church perched on the top of the hill wasn’t an entirely inconspicuous place. Sooner or later someone was bound to stumble upon it, whether it was by chance or intention. The visit at hand seemed more like the former, but some outsiders wasn’t exactly the detailed report he had hoped for from which he could draw any coherent conclusions. Making a mental note to reprimand the sentry for not at least counting these wanderers, the Marshal spoke to his Deputy.

“Whoever they are, we can’t allow them to discover us,” Letho said, diverting his eyes from the blonde and to the motley congregation that did they best to file their rough edges. Less then half were honed for an actual battle and that was barely enough to hold their headquarters against intruders. No, Cathedral Hill wasn’t ready to become a battlefield yet. “We’ll go make sure that such a thing doesn’t happen.”

“Nathan!” the bearded Marshal shouted for a tyke who became somewhat of a squire to him in the last month. The youngster lost most of his family in the scorching of Underwood and opted for the Rangers as his next of kin. He was a good kid, hard-working and oddly disciplined for his age, even cut his black hair in the same soldierlike manner Letho did. He was pretty spry too; he was next to the pair in attention in a matter of seconds. “Bring me my bow and alert Edward and Gandes that we might have a perimeter breach.”

The boy was off with a salute as soon as the order was uttered, and several minutes later so were Christina and Letho, leaving the din of clattering weapons and grunting soldiers behind as they slipped past the line of young trees. The forest beyond was sodden with rain, making the soil underfoot spongy enough to silence their footfalls almost completely. No words were spoken, not even when they rendezvoused with the sentinel that alerted them of the intruding presence, turning the trio into little more then ghosts that crept between the tree trunks. This was their territory, where every rock, bough and sapling was memorized and charted in their minds, and where no outsider walked unnoticed.

It took them mere minutes to locate the riders. The five of them seemed to be in no particular haste, sitting solemnly on their mounts and moving underneath the dark green canopy at walk speed. Moving directly towards Cathedral Hill, Letho ascertained as he monitored the group’s movement from behind a dense patch of ferns. His eyes deceived him at first, making him believe that it was Tenniel returning from his mission in Akashima, but as the horsemen drew closer, the Marshal could see that four of them were elves and that none of them was the diplomatic elven Ranger. He recognized the one human face amongst the five, though. Leading this small band of elves was Major Killian Jahaad, or rather Ranger Jahaad, depending on the side he was playing at the moment. The man sat on two chairs, holding a rank in both the CAF and the Rangers, but despite the fact that he aided the Rangers on one occasion, Letho wasn’t so certain in the allegiance of Killan Jahaad. The man looked like he changed sides more often then he changed his smallclothes.

Because of this uncertainty, the Marshal didn’t walk out in front of the fivesome to greet them. Instead he pulled a single arrow from his quiver, knocked it into his composite bow, pushed aside some damp fern leaves and let the arrow fly. The powerful bow sent the projectile at such a speed that even the perceptive elves flinched as it whistled before the snouts of their horses and struck a birch next to them. Their hands went to their weapons almost momentarily after the startle, but a gesture from Major Jahaad calmed them down.

“The next one goes between your eyes, Major, unless you state your business here!” Letho’s voice came from beyond the trees. As any experienced sniper would, the Marshal repositioned after the shot. Christina and the sentry were at the ready as well, hidden near the flanks of the group of five.

“Is this how the Rangers greet their allies and their own soldiers nowadays?” Killian responded, his eyes wandering this way and that in vain attempts to locate the source of the voice. His elven friends were more sedate, their keen senses peaking as they scanned the obviously hostile surroundings. “Hold back your arrows, Rangers. These four hail from Raiaera who supports our cause. They are here to aid your war effort. And so am I.”

“Raiaera’s support must’ve lessened of late,” the Marshal spoke, this time his voice embodied as he walked out of the protection of the flora and in front of the five riders. Another arrow was resting on the tensed string of his bow, locked at the familiar face of the Major. “if they send but four to prove their commitment. And if they are under your command, Major Jahaad, I doubt even that commitment.”

“Such hostility!” the Major feigned a shock with both his tone and his expression. “It’s unbecoming for the leader of Corone’s freemen.” When he continued, there was an overconfident smirk on his beardless face. “Lower your weapon, Marshal Ravenheart. I come bearing gifts that just might turn the tides of this war.”

“I somehow doubt that four elves and a turncloak can achieve such a feat.” Despite the obvious doubt in the sincerity of Killian Jahaad and the blatant acid in his tone, Letho removed the arrow and lowered his weapon. A pair of nods to each flank made the blonde deputy and her less attractive counterpart appear on each side of the group. The four elves didn’t even recoil, as if they knew all along that they were concealed and ready to spring the trap.

“That is because you don’t see much farther then your nose, Marshal,” Major Jahaad said with a tinge of bitterness as he dismounted his horse. Like his companions, Killan was clad in a simple gray cloak that protected him from the dampness, but below such unsightly attire rested the fancy dark blue uniform of the CAF officer. “Numbers seldom win wars. Tactics and information, however, can turn defeat into victory in a fortnight. And that’s what I bring to you. Information and tactical advice.”

[Christina Bredith]

While Christina wouldn’t turn away the offer of counsel from Killian Jahaad and his elven companions – the high elves were known far and wide for their wisdom, after all – she still had to argue one thing: while numbers didn’t necessarily win wars, they sure as hell helped. It was thus that she hoped for Killian or his companions to console them with assurances that thousands of elven ships were making ready to sail from the north to aid them; and it was thus that she was let down wholly.

Since Letho was of the same mind as she that they should at least hear what Killian had to say, the group of ten began to march slowly back toward the encampment. The elves had been silent while Letho and Killian exchanged their words, but in the lull that followed, their leader spoke up to introduce himself.

“I am Lenwë MÃ*riel,” he said crisply. His voice was simply radiant, and Christina felt as though she could listen to his words and not only be convinced that black was white, but also die for that very idea. The elf was tall, even for one riding a horse, and his skin was brilliantly fair, kissed by the sun but never darkened or marred by its rays. “I am a member of the Noble Order of the Bladesingers of Anebrilith.”

“My companions,” Lenwë continued, sweeping his arm gracefully to his right. “Alassë Oronar.” The female at his immediate right was olive-skinned compared to the typical high elven complexion; she had long, sweeping hair of shimmering platinum, and her mysterious golden eyes watched Christina with burning intensity. “Elessar Carnesîr.” The golden-haired Elessar rode beside Alassë. He was a stout man, as far as elves went, and his somewhat-mirthful expression was easier to read than the rest of his group.

Lenwë drew back his right arm and gestured to his left, continuing: “And this is Amrod Felagund.” Amrod definitely seemed the type of elf you didn’t want to mess with; as fair-skinned and slender as he was, he was definitely older than his companions – and as the elves are ravaged ever so slowly by time, this meant he must have been considerably ancient. His expression was like steel: solid, though not foreboding in and of itself, and difficult to read, which made him seem unapproachable.

Christina had never spent time among the high elves before, and she had to admit that this was as disconcerting a first contact as anyone could imagine. Lenwë was the only one of the four elves that had spoken at all; the others were completely silent, and they all rode with a sort of stiff-spined elegance that reminded her greatly of the nobles back home. It was like watching beautiful, golden ghosts step out of a graceful dream, and Christina felt unsure whether to be simply impressed or downright reverent.

Catching herself staring, Christina blushed brightly (though none of the elves seemed to have taken the slightest notice of either) and decided that it would be impolite not to introduce herself in turn. “Christina Bredith,” she said, trying to emulate the elegance with which Lenwë spoke. While her voice was quite nice in its own right, she couldn’t help but feel that it lacked much compared to his. Alassë turned her sights back on Christina, and feeling a little uncomfortable, she addressed the somehow more approachable Killian next. “You said you had information for us?”

Though Killian looked in her direction and opened his mouth to answer, Alassë cut across him, her eyes once again fixed forward. “We have information about your empire’s navy,” she crooned, and if it was possible, her voice was even fairer than Lenwë’s, perhaps solely because of her sex. Christina took offense at the notion of it being ‘their’ empire, but Alassë seemed to take no notice. “They have struck a deal with the Alerans.”

“The Alerans…?” Christina mined her knowledge, but couldn’t find a connection. “But surely they can’t need reinforcements… their army’s big enough as it is. And doesn’t Alerar have problems of its own right now?”

“Not reinforcements per se, child,” corrected the stout Elessar. “Your navy is receiving a… how do you humans phrase it?… an overhaul. Cannons, and some of Alerar’s best, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Christina could understand the ramifications of that: with fabled Aleran firepower at their command, the Corone Empire would easily be able to seize the waterways and coastlines of their nation, further strangling any who thought to wriggle from their grasp. “But how does this affect you?” she questioned, rightly puzzled.

“It does not,” Alassë responded simply.

“Not immediately, anyway,” Lenwë interjected. “The High Bard Council finds the notion of a Coronian-Aleran alliance most disagreeable.” That made plenty of sense; it was no secret that tensions between Alerar and Raiaera never really cooled down. If ever they weren’t in a state of outright war, then they were entrenched in a cold one.

“Besides, your empire,” Alassë continued as if she had not been interrupted, “has displeased us.” Christina asked for clarification, but Alassë apparently deemed her unworthy of the knowledge, or thought that it was inconsequential, and so spoke no more. Luckily, Elessar felt more talkative, though Alassë shot him a withering look as he spoke, of which he took no notice.

“When we learned of the, er, situation in your country, we requested the new empire to return certain artifacts, whose safety we felt was now in question, to our people. The response was…” Elessar coughed quietly. “Suffice it to say they denied our request. This is rather—”

“It’s an insult, that’s what it is,” Amrod growled. “Damned humans, a bunch of thieves, all of them!” The gruff old elf did not seem to care that six humans were in his presence at this very moment, and even glared dangerously through the group as he said it.

“Mind your tongue, Amrod,” Lenwë said calmly, but with no real hint of reprimand in his voice.

Killian, apparently used to this kind of verbal abuse, had one more piece of news to add. “The Baron of Yarborough is sympathetic to our plight, though he can’t do much about it the way things are. If we can take his city, though, he’s offered his aid and that of his personal guard.”

Christina could have laughed at the very idea, but given her present company and its collective lack of humour, she thought less of it. “Take over Gisela? Nice words, those, but how do you expect us to do it?”

Alassë fixed her burning orbs on Christina once again, and though the blonde was sure it was a trick of the sunbeams through the forest canopy, she thought she saw the female elf’s lips twitch into a smile. “That, child,” she said, “is the fun part.”

[Izvilvin]

Each footstep seemed to sink deeper in the sand as Izvilvin trotted onward toward the Keep. Irrakam’s port had greeted him well as a host of elegant, diligent guards threw smiles his way. It was a typical reaction when he came home after time away, and one the drow knew he would sorely miss, though surely not as much as the sight of the Keep growing larger as he neared. Scores of men and women bustled about him, busily carrying out their daily routines, sun beaming happily down at them. As he always did when he walked through the town, Izvilvin found himself wishing he could live out the rest of his days among them.

Shining steel gates flanked him as the drow neared the Keep’s doorway, first passing through a grassy courtyard that covered the area between the perimeter wall and the structure itself. Flowers with long, green stems framed the entryway, and beyond that the bright white of polished stone greeted him. His steps were quiet against the floor, though his weapons made consistent rapping noises against his body.

He passed through the Keep as he normally would have, smiling and waving to all those who would do so back. Some still held him in contempt, regardless of his dedicated service to the island and its people – they always would. Izvilvin had long ago learned that he would be hated by someone no matter where he went. Everyone was.

Izvilvin’s room was on the top floor of the building, down a narrow hallway that led to the Jya’s chambers. Inside he had few supplies: some clothing, a black cloak included, a few dried strips of meat, and the weapons he had not taken with him when he’d first left to encounter Letho’s group. An enchanted wind dagger he strapped to each thigh, his enchanted chestplate he pulled over his head, but he paused as he lifted the sheathed Mjolnir. He’d never wielded the lightning blade, having acquired it only the night before his departure, but the idea of having it alongside Icicle was one that pumped adrenaline through his body.

“Leaving, then?” called a fluid voice from behind him.

Izvilvin fastened Mjolnir to his free hip, face and eyes cast down against the sack he he’d stuffed his spare clothing into. “Yes,” he said, the soft tenor tone of his voice seeming very soft. He didn’t look up.

Mazoo stood between the door and the drow, long red robes flowing off of him, tight enough to showcase the profound girth of his belly. His eyes, bright blue, danced about the room in appraisal – already he was making plans to move in. “You will be missed.”

The drow didn’t respond. Mazoo, as supportive as he was to the Jya and the land, was shallow and cold. They had helped one another on more than one occasion, but Izvilvin didn’t make the mistake of believing it to mean anything. The one thing they shared in common, the grief over the death of Laix and Palmer, they’d never once spoke of. It was there, of course, as obvious as the black of Izvilvin’s skin, but there had never been a need for it to be discussed.

Finally he turned, locking eyes with the wizard. The mesh of lavender and blue created sparks, the kind that existed between two men who rivaled one another and were in constant strife. Theirs was subtle, consisting of the struggle they each had to make up for the absence of Laix and Palmer. In retrospect, the warrior thought it should have brought them closer.

Izvilvin nodded and passed the mage, sack in hand and an extra thirty pounds of metal dangling from his body. He threw a glance toward the Jya’s room, struggled for just a moment, and headed in the opposite direction.

Outside, the drow swung right and about the corner of the Keep, taking quick steps toward the garden where Palmer’s sword lay embedded in the ground. When he got there he spotted a silken, bright figure standing with its back toward him, seemingly staring out past the river. Izvilvin paused before carrying on toward the Jya, who stood with a dark hand draped across the greatsword’s hilt.

“I’ve long admired the way the sun strikes the water from this angle,” she said. “It’s the perfect time of day to see it; low enough that the light glides right over the surface of the river and into my eyes. I’ve always been happy that the wall stops here. It lends a sense of freedom that I never otherwise have.”

He understood her, of course, every word of it. He always had. It was part of the magic that the Jya possessed, he assumed. Izvilvin had never questioned why he could, instead deciding to simply enjoy the conversation. She was comfortable with him, able to sense that the drow didn’t enjoy the formalities she would generally conduct palaver with. It was refreshing for both of them.

She turned then, eyes catching his in a mesmerizing net. “Would you have left without saying goodbye, my gentle drow?”

He knew that she knew the answer, and even knew why. She questioned him to make him question himself, a simple technique that Izvilvin found himself the subject of many times. “I couldn’t avoid you, regardless of my intentions."

She smiled, but it was a petty thing. A breeze lifted the white sleeves of her gown, swirled around them both.

“I’d have been killed more than once were it not for you. If not by Sasarai’s hand, then by the claw of a harpy or the dagger of an Arta. And for every time you’ve protected me, there are many times when you’ve protected others.”

“And now I run,” he spat, a loathing of self coming over him. “To protect myself and to feed my own selfish desires. I owe much to this land, a debt I cannot pay through however many centuries I may live, and I show my gratitude through my cowardice, a trait that is showing itself to be more common in my soul with every passing day.”

“Dear drow,” she replied, warmth emanating from her voice. “Your entire stay here has been your method of running away, this I have always known about you. It is in your leaving that you cease to run. As sad as I am to see you go, it also makes me happy. Your heart has grown exponentially since you first arrived.”

She came to him then, her hands finding his and pulling them chest-level, their fingers locking together. He wondered, then, if she knew how truly he loved her. He wondered, maddeningly, if she felt the same. They kissed then, a fast, passionless – though not emotionless – kiss, the kiss of a mother. With that, Izvilvin had all the answers he needed.

He tore Palmer’s prevalida greatsword from the dirt, plucking its scabbard from a nearby tree. The weapon was heavy, but Izvilvin found he could bear the weight if it was strapped along his back. He and the Jya caught eyes again, and Izvilvin found peace in her gaze.

Armed to the teeth, the drow wasted no more time in starting for the port once more. Two sai lined the small of his back, held there by notches in his belt. On one hip, Icicle; the other, Mjolnir; a pair of Cillu kukris and a pair of diamond daggers lined his ribs, held there by special holsters in his chestplate; and on each thigh a dagger of wind ran parallel to his arms; and on his back lumbered the massive sword of his old friend. With each step his ribs screamed in agony.

And yet, Izvilvin thought with amusement, he had never felt lighter.

[Letho]

CHAPTER III
~
The Raiders of a Lost Cause

The unofficial leaders of the resistance were a sight about as impressive as the makeshift council hall in which they greeted the small contingent of allies. Amidst the ruinous walls of the Cathedral, standing around a cracked, stone altar that doubled as a table, the three remaining Marshals eyed their visitors. Edward Stormcrow was in a most deplorable condition of the three, the middle-aged man looking genuinely ancient as he leant on a crutch that served in stead of his lost leg. Though he was gray when Letho first met him, the war stole what little dark hair he had on his head. Compared to the halt Ranger, Gandes Greenhawk was an antithesis, a blonde-haired half-elf who shaved his face clean and swooned many a lass with the golden curls of his locks and the teal hue of his eyes. By looks alone, one could almost mistake him for a lad just out of his teens, but there was depth to his eyes, the kind that only years granted. Between these two opposite sides of the spectrum, Letho Ravenheart stood, leant over the stone table and the map placed upon its slanted surface. Chrstina and several other Deputies were lined up around the altar as well, but none other was admitted to the church hall.

“The situation is the following, Marshals,” Lenwë started in a voice that only elves seemed to be able to muster. It was the kind of a voice in which there was no blatant condescension, and yet you always felt like a student that disappointed an oddly patient mentor. That’s why Letho wasn’t particularly fond of the elves. Even when they did nothing in particular, they had a knack for looking down from their high horses even when they weren’t riding any and speak in highfalutin tones regardless of the issue at hand. “As you probably know, upriver from Gisela, the Bradbury River branches a multitude of times. A majority of these offshoots are impassable for the heavy war galleys. However, the shallow-keeled frigates have little trouble navigating these waters. These are the ships they plan to outfit with Alerar cannons.”

“What numbers are we talking about?” Letho asked, his eyes analyzing the multitude of thin blue lines that branched off the thick one that represented the Bradbury. “Surely they cannot install cannons on all of the light frigates in the Navy.”

“Hardly. They have neither the time nor the necessity for such an investment,” again Lenwë with a voice of a man who knew a lot more then you did and wasn’t afraid to flaunt it. “Judging by the amount of firepower they imported from Alerar, we think that some two dozen ships are receiving an overhaul as we speak. It may seem like a rather small number, but the firepower of such galleys would...”

“We know what kind of havoc can firearms wreak, elf.” It was Edward who spoke up, the bitterness scarcely lost in the coarseness of his voice. His one healthy eye clashed with both placid ones of the fair-faced foreigner. The veteran Marshal didn’t necessarily share Letho’s general dislike towards the pointy-eared race, but he did doubt in this particular group of them. War was upon them and Empire was around them. It was in times like that that you looked at your enemy once and at your allies at least twice. “How much does their garrison count?”

If the hostility of the Rangers fazed the elven emissaries in any manner, their faces refused to show it. Only Amrod seemed somewhat displeased, his face an enigmatic mask made of frowns and grins. “A thousand strong. Perhaps more,” the elven leader said.

“Definitely more,” Major Jahaad finally joined the argument. “Before I departed from Gisela, the Captain received an order to dispatch all the soldiers he can spare to protect the naval yards. But this is a fortunate turn of events. It means that Gisela will be practically emptied and up for the taking.”

“Wait, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Marshal Ravenheart spoke up, straightening his back. It gave the already formidable man an air of royalty, albeit a much more mundane one when compared to the elves. “Even if we somehow defeat the host that protects these ships and take out their new toys, we hardly have the numbers to storm Gisela. Its walls are thick and tall. Several hundred men can hold it against thousands. You should know this, Killian.”

“Oh, I do. That’s why we won’t destroy these ships. We’ll use them to sail straight into Gisela.” The Major’s finger traced the river route until it reached and tapped the depiction of the Gisela fortifications. “We’ll use the cannons to blast open the River Gate. With only a small number of sentinels and the Baron’s guard on our side, we should have little problem taking the city.”

Letho’s hand went to his thick beard, caressing it the way it always did when there was quite a conundrum in the Marshal’s mind. The idea rang quite appealingly in his head, so much so that he almost felt like it was a done deal. But experience taught him that when something rang with such a certain tone, it was anything but certain. There were a lot of risks involved here, a lot of what ifs, a lot of unknowns that they would have to tackle on the fly. But the most important question that he had to answer was whether or not his soldiers were ready to tackle a major operation such as this one.

But even greater then the risk was the potential gain. Gisela was not only the regional center of the Yarborough Barony, but also the main store of wheat and corn for the Empire. Snatching it from the Empire would make this little torn called the resistance turn into one major pain in their side. And with some twenty-odd frigates bearing cannons, the Bradbury River, the delta, Ferrytown and a number of other coastal town would be up for the taking. With this single maneuver, they could turn into a worthy adversary for the Empire. But with this one maneuver the rebellious freemen could also be smitten to ashes. It was too much of a decision for one man to make.

“We need some time to decide,” Letho spoke after a long period filled with silence and riddled with exchanged looks that cut sharper than knives. There was a lot of mistrust and elven indifference in the roofless hall, and that was seldom a promising sign. Gesturing to the pair of Marshals and the Deputies to follow him, the Marshal led the way into the inner cloister of the Cathedral.

((Alrighty. Christina, make the Marshals and the Deputies debate on this a little bit, but eventually they all agree to go ahead with this as it is their biggest chance to do something that would wound the Empire. Also, feel free to bunny Letho being rather silent all of the time until everybody agrees and then leading the way out and saying that they’ll do it. Izzy, given your last post, I figure Izvilvin is on his way back to Corone. Don’t make him reach the Cathedral Hill just yet. I want him to rendezvous with the rest of us after Christina and I post again. ))

[Christina Bredith]

“It’s absolute insanity!” Edward crowed as soon as the door behind them was firmly shut. “Stealing the empire’s ships and taking Gisela from under their noses? Who do those elves think we’re dealing with?”

Christina opened her mouth to interject, but was preceded by an older deputy, who was not afraid to speak his mind to the weathered Marshal. “It’s no crazier than our entire goal here. We’re barely a thousand strong and we plan to take on the entire empire. We need something decisive if we’re going to turn the tables.”

“Agreed!” Stormcrow responded. “But there are limits. Their garrison is a thousand strong, just like ours – and better trained. Even if we manage to take them, we’d suffer losses in the process that we can’t afford. And who knows if there will be Dark Elves to add to that number? I’d rather not arouse the ire of Alerar if it can be avoided, thanks very much.”

Christina couldn’t deny the sensibility of Edward Stormcrow’s objections. Killian Jahaad had made it sound so simple: steal the newly-outfitted frigates, sail into Gisela, and pick the city right out from the empire’s pockets. But he had downplayed the most crucial part of all: getting the frigates in the first place. A battle of such even proportions would not be easily won, and the moment the empire found out about it, they would know exactly where and how to press down upon the resistance with their full weight.

“What is the alternative?” Gandes said calmly. He tilted his head, disturbing its fine placement of golden curls. “The empire will not allow those frigates to sit idly in their shipyards. They will crush us between them and their army. You know it is only a matter of time before they find where we’ve been hiding.”

“Bah,” Edward grunted, collapsing into a chair at last, tossing his crutch to the floor beside him, just within reach. “If we’ve a choice between certain death now and the possibility of it later, better to bank on what odds we’ve got. You never know what the future might bring. If those elves would just send us some more assistance than they have…”

Christina finally pried open a gap in the conversation and made herself heard. “With all due respect, Marshal, Raiaera has given us plenty of assistance.” Edward rolled his eyes slightly, not out of calculated condescension, but out of annoyance and disbelief fostered by the hopeless situation they were in. “It’s true. Have we forgotten exactly who these elves are?” Letho straightened slightly, but remained silent. Edward, who had not been present at their initial meeting with the elves, looked sceptically in Christina’s direction. “Bladesingers!” she continued. “Surely the stories I’ve heard about the Bladesingers of Raiaera haven’t been all fabricated.”

The Bladesingers, of course, we among the elite soldiers of Raiaera’s forces. It was a well-known fact that the crooning voices of the high elves could be put to much more potent uses than diplomacy, and the Noble Order of the Bladesingers was proof of the fact: their ability to weave magic into their songs was truly a marvel to behold. This potent ability, shared by many in the high elven population, was no doubt the reason why Raiaera had survived through countless wars and repelled an invasion by the undead. Could the other nations of Althanas be so sure of their own success under such conditions?

A half-elven deputy about Christina’s age in appearance nodded his head vigorously. “My father was a bladesinger! He died in battle against Xem’zûnd’s forces several years ago, but I can attest to what they can do.” The mood in the room seemed to be gradually lifting. It was still a dangerous idea, that much was certain, but with bladesingers on their side, perhaps it wasn’t quite suicidal.

“Even better,” Christina added, “is that the empire, as far as we know, doesn’t even realize Lenwë and the rest are here, or on our side. They won’t know what hit them!” The rest of the deputies seemed in clear enough agreement. The much more experienced Marshals, however, were visibly more sceptical – Edward Stormcrow especially.

“I, for one, lend my support to the idea,” Gandes announced at last, raising his arm.

Stormcrow grunted and huffed for a moment or two longer, and then at last said, “So you’re all in agreement, then?” The rest of the room – save Letho, who had thus far said nothing at all – nodded their heads. Edward pursed his lips and shook his head. “I swear, you kids will be the death of me.”

Understanding this as his tacit approval, Letho stood and led the congregation back into the other room. The elves and Major Jahaad had been conversing quietly amongst themselves, but now fell silent. The three Marshals once again assembled around the altar, and the deputies resumed their positions nearby. “We are in agreement,” Letho announced.

Lenwë smiled serenely, genuinely unsurprised. “Of course you are. Now, let us begin…”

((OOC: Bunnying approved.))

[Izvilvin]

((Sorry for the wait, here))

The breeze was chilling, the early signs of a colder season approaching. It blew Izvilvin’s hair over and past his face, to trail majestically below his chin. His eyes stared blankly across miles of blue ocean, his mind nowhere and everywhere at once.

Fallien was already feeling like a distant memory, a place in his past where he had once lived and thrived. The desert had been good to him, had transformed an inexperienced and ignorant Izvilvin into a hardened, aware warrior. But as completely as the land had tempered his skin, it had softened his core. He’d gone to Irrakam as an assassin, a spy, but was leaving a soldier of the people. His heart was in Fallien, but he was doing his best to drag it with him across the sea. It was all he could do to stay whole.

Conversation on the boat thus far had been minimal, the bartering of a price and a place to sleep if the drow needed to, but now one of the few crewmen who had been pacing about with little to do came to sit on a cargo crate just next to Izvilvin.

The man watched him for a quick moment. He was young, probably before the adult age of a human, with no signs of facial hair to speak of. His eyes were huge and brown, the color of fresh soil, and his hair was short and filthy blonde. He stared shamelessly at the Drow, his eyes seeming to try and pierce some invisible shell.

An older sailor from a few feet away made a harsh sound with his mouth, catching the young one’s attention. With annoyed haste the older male called him over, anxious to get the human away from the armed warrior. Izvilvin hadn’t bothered to look in either of their directions, continuing to stare across the water.

By the time they had reached Corone, he had fallen into a light sleep, eyes open marginally to keep the Drow alert even as he rested. When they arrived and the bell tolled to alert everyone, Izvilvin sat up, gathered his things and disembarked with a thankful nod to the captain. This time, when he stepped foot on Corone it was not as a visitor from Fallien. Somehow, it felt different.

It was just before noon when Izvilvin approached a dilapidated shack within a copse of trees, just off the edge of Radasanth. Fishing in a pocket, he produced a silver key which unlocked the padlock on the door and stepped inside, sunlight pouring into the windowless, one-room bunker. Save for the dust on the walls and the spiders on the ceiling, the shack was empty, though hooks were high up on the sides of the room. Using these, Izvilvin hung Palmer’s greatsword up, a memento of his friend that Izvilvin couldn’t possibly use to honor him. His diamond daggers and Cillu kukris were also left behind, lightening his load significantly and giving him extra room to move.

Leaving, he padlocked the door behind him once more. Reaching beneath his armor, Izvilvin rubbed his tender ribs – his other wounds had been healed – and found that the pain was lesser than it had been two days ago. Determined to get going, but not being sure which direction to head, it was all Izvilvin could do to walk back to town and rent a horse. While there, he would attempt to find out where Letho and Christina had gone, using the most reliable rumors to catch up to them.

Their reunion would not last, he knew, but Izvilvin’s desire to see them again, without the hand of Step over his head, was strong.