Twilight was coming on now and we were close. We were almost there. Almost to the end of the march. No one said so. No one wanted to believe. But you could feel it. Taste it. The forest was silent and ahead lay the massive trees and an ancient hill they surrounded. Our destination, according to Last of Autumn. The Hidden Cave.
“And that’s her story, Sergeant Major. The whole truth.”
The sergeant major and I were between teams and walking. Walking fast. Him normal. Me, just to keep up. The sergeant major never got tired. Or at least he never showed it. And now he had a big walking stick that seemed like it could one day be made the same as PFC Kennedy’s magic dragon-headed staff.
“Say again so I can get this straight, Talker,” he said. Not breaking stride. No heavy breathing. We were approaching a two-forty team. Then passing them. The sergeant major exchanged brief acknowledgments with the team leader, and then we were ahead of them in the silence of the gloaming. Ahead we could barely see what looked like lamps of green fire flickering in the dusky light beneath the forest. “She says her people came from somewhere in what used to be Asia. Have been migrating for close to five hundred years, near as you can tell, PFC. And all because they broke some promise to the old king o’ this place. One that held sway over all these ruins?”
I ran through her story again. It was fantastic. It was the kind of thing that could easily not be believed. So a second breakdown of the intel was to be expected.
“As I understand it, Sergeant Major, that’s correct. Apparently the ’elves’…” And yeah, I used air quotes. It still felt kinda silly talking about goblins, orcs, and elves like they were real. “Apparently the ’elves’ across the Ruin—they call the whole world the Ruin, by the way—the elves all descended from, or at least had some kind of allegiance to this first bunch that showed up here and made their kingdom in these parts about a thousand to maybe two thousand years after we left through the QST. Everything before that’s kinda murky and the Shadow Elves rely on an oral history tradition, so who knows. Anyway, there was some kind of alliance
between all of the various tribes that called themselves elves. So when this kingdom, the one that was here—they called themselves the Dragon Elves in what she calls High Speech—when the Dragon Elves came under attack from an actual dragon, which had apparently come out of what they call the Wyrm Waystes, which near as I can tell is somewhere around Russia, or what used to be Russia, her people got sideways with the local ruling faction.
“The story goes that when the Dragon Elves were attacked, the Shadow Elves, their king specifically, a guy named Nori, well he chose not to come to their aid. So the last king of the Dragon Elves, a guy named Ullathor the Cursed—history also calls him the Last Dragon King—he cursed the Shadow Elves for their betrayal of a blood pact. And ever since that time the Shadow Elves have had a real run of bad luck. They lost their kingdom in the east and were driven out of the area. They became mercenaries in Central Asia and India, though of course they call those places by different names now. They even conducted a coup and established a military junta in a place called Kungaloor until they lost it at some point in the past. No idea where that’s located. Sounds like Thailand or Cambodia, but don’t hold me to that. They don’t make maps and they don’t write things down.”
“To the point, PFC Talker.”
“Got it, Sergeant Major. So, she says, the Shadow Elf warriors decided a long time ago that the only way to reverse their bad luck after they lost Kungaloor was to honor the oath old Nori had passed on and come to the aid of the Last Dragon King. Even if it was more than a little late for that. Seeing as that guy Ullathor the Cursed was long dead. But they felt like, then I mean, and they still feel this way now, that if they can kill the old dragon that slew Ullathor and wiped out the whole Kingdom of Tarragon, which was what the Dragon Elves called their setup, then the curse will be broken and they can have a home again. And more importantly… no more bad luck.”
“Slew?” said the sergeant major. “Kinda fancy word you’re usin’ there, Talker.”
“Yeah, it gets a little Beowulf. That was an old epic tale about serpents and swords. Early literature, Sergeant Major.”
“I know what Beowulf is, PFC. I may be Texan, but I ain’t dumb.” “Sorry, Sergeant Major. The point is… they have to slay the dragon or
they’re forced to wander forever. And so they’ve been trying to kill it for about a hundred and fifty years.”
“And they can’t. Apparently.”
“Nope. They had a pretty good fighting force. The Shadow Elves three hundred years or so ago were like a cross between the French Foreign Legion and… well, ninjas. Peerless warriors who fought for pay and changed the course of every battle. Real Seven Samurai stuff.”
Wisely I decided not to explain my Kurosawa reference to the senior NCO.
“That’s when they decided to go on this… uh… quest, Sergeant Major. But obviously, since we’re talking about this now, that doesn’t go well at all. Their best warriors, pro mercenaries who’ve fought in every war across the near and far east, they get killed trying to take out the dragon. Wiped out, just like that. And then… it gets pretty sad. It turns into a kind of rite of passage for that tribe. Some old witch woman convinced them this was what they had to do. So now, when a warrior turns eighteen, they are forced to confront the dragon within the year, alone, or be forever disgraced. All of them have died trying. Which means no more warriors. Little less than twenty years ago, they had a small fortress to the east, but without warriors to defend it, they were dislodged by raiding centaurs from out of the Crow’s March. And not just centaurs. King Triton.”
“The SEAL,” hissed the sergeant major.
“As near as I can tell, Sergeant Major. So now they’re here, and the forest seems to have its own… let’s call it politics. Apparently there’s a lot going on here we’re not seeing. There’s a faction in the forest that’s for the Shadow Elves. And there’s a group that thinks the Shadow Elves are drawing the unwanted attention of enemies. Mainly this character known as the Nether Sorcerer. Most think within the year King Triton will lead a pretty big army in here and wipe out the forest and burn it to the ground. Why? Apparently he’s got to clear this in order to hit the last elven kingdom. A place in the west called the Kingdom of Mourne. Ireland, I’m guessing. They, the Kingdom of Mourne, they don’t want to get involved in anything. But it’s shaping up that they’re the main target for this Nether Sorcerer and some Dark Alliance he’s got going.”
“Dark Alliance,” muttered the sergeant major. “Do these elves… listen to me… do these other elves get along with our elves?”
“Negative, Sergeant Major. They consider our elves to be the scum of the earth, or rather the Ruin, because of the ancient betrayal. Apparently the Kingdom of Mourne consider themselves the last true elves, and somehow the royal bloodline of the Dragon Elves still survives there. So… tribal politics, Sergeant Major.”
“Just like Afghanistan and everywhere else I ever went.”
“I wouldn’t know, Sergeant Major. This is my first deployment.”
“Well you picked a doozy to get some war stories, Talker. So—how’s any of this our problem?”
I took a deep breath. Ahead the Ranger teams were entering what can only be described as a hall of stately trees. The flickering green torches were like living magic in the gloom. The air smelled sweet, and despite the dire and dark nature of the discussion we were having, there was a sense of peace here in the woods. Flowing about and enveloping everything. It felt like camping in the woods when you were a kid. The first night of a bonfire. Like something that could be reached out and touched. Like a blanket. The poncho liner everyone calls their “woobie.” A made thing you felt loving hands wrapping you in because the night and world were cold and cruel. And because you were still loved.
Here was a place apart from that cold and cruel world that had tried its level best to kill us all.
“It’s not, Sergeant Major. The dragon is not our problem. But the intel suggests King Triton now uses that fortress as a base of operations. The Shadow Elves’ old fort they were dislodged from. And if that’s the case, then that, I would guess, Sergeant Major, is most likely where we will find our Forge.”
The sergeant major nodded. If ever there was a murder look in a man’s eyes, it was there now. And it was gleaming.
“That’s good, Talker. Captain’ll want to hear that. What about the girl?
Why is the dragon so important to her right now?”
“She just turned eighteen, Sergeant Major. She’s the only, and possibly last, warrior in her tribe. The rest are children and an old woman. This year, before the end of fall, she has to confront the dragon to redeem the honor of her people.”
