We’d made it.
Three days of fighting for our lives on that island. Dead. Wounded. No sleep. Little food. Then a night and a day of moving through hostile enemy territory with no rest and carrying everything we could on our backs while engaging enemies on the run. The giant. The witch. The last hundred yards to reach the river under boulder artillery fire and fighting off raids conducted by real-life well-organized monsters that would have easily dumped us into their cookpots and not thought twice about it.
But we’d made it despite all that.
The captain stepped forward to be greeted formally by what remained of the Shadow Elves at the entrance to the cave.
Turns out the cave wasn’t a cave.
It was in fact what looked to be an ancient temple crafted in a beautifully simple style, carved into the hill itself within the massive forest that was this section of the Charwood. And while “the cave” vaguely resembled that same design of ornate and elaborate architecture of the ruins we’d passed along our journey to arrive here, it wasn’t an exact match. It was like looking at the older version of those other more elaborate and elegant structures falling into ruin. This was the unsexy tried-and-true original. Solid and dependable. And though it was occupied and shone forth with the light of fires and smell of roasting meat, you could tell it had been long abandoned in times past. And one other thing.
It was… a source.
A beginning of something.
Later, with mouthfuls of roasted venison brought down by the young hunters of the Shadow Elves, Last of Autumn recounted histories and legends saying the old temple, hidden under the rising statuesque leafy giants here deep in the Charwood, was the birthplace of the lost Dragon Elves.
“We trust these people?” asked Chief Rapp of the captain. I was with them when the command team discussed how we were gonna handle ongoing relations with our new possible allies.
The captain was about to say something. But he hesitated as though
his mind was still trying to put together the words. He seemed really tired. “If we judge ’em by the girl,” offered the sergeant major, “then we can
probably trust these, sir. No sign of hostility from them. No sign of the enemy since we crossed the river, and I get the feeling this… forest let’s call it… don’t tolerate them orc boys too much, as PFC Kennedy calls ’em. Doesn’t like ’em at all. So my assessment is we’re about as safe as we can be, and truth be told, there ain’t much we can do about it. Even for Rangers, we’ve asked a lot just to get here, sir.”
The captain listened and then just nodded wearily, agreeing with the assessment that we didn’t have many options other than trusting those who’d showed us kindness.
The tired Rangers, those that could, stood in a rough semicircle around their captain, weapons ready. Arrayed before us on the stone portico that gave entrance to the warmly lit temple within the hill, were several young elves. Males. I guessed they ranged from the age of eight to maybe fifteen. I’m not really good at pegging the age of human children, let alone elf kids. Definitely not adults yet, in any case. They looked like Peter Pan’s Lost Boys. They wore mud and white greasepaint for some kind of camouflage, but other markings adorned their olive arms and bare muscled legs. Their clothing was comprised of whatever skins they hunted, plus the feathers of unknown birds that stuck in their twisted and knotty hair.
They stared at us with sullen contempt like young boys do. Clutching bows and hunting daggers. They seemed dangerous. For kids, I mean.
For a long moment there was silence as the captain went out to stand before us at the foot of the great carved steps that led up into the almost paleolithic temple. Deep within, dark figures moved about before great fires. Hustling in preparation for whatever awaited us beyond the threshold. The wizard cleared his throat and stepped up beside the captain, leaning on his staff, waiting, glancing about. Smiling at the murderous
young boys.
The silence grew awkward. And then the oldest boy, and that’s really all they were, elves nor not, just boys like all boys have ever been, never mind the long pointed ears, slender well-muscled bodies, and almond eyes
—the oldest of them stepped forward and cast one long contemptuous glare over all the Rangers. As though ignorantly daring them to do their worst.
None of the Rangers did. They hadn’t been given the order to kill and
cause mayhem.
Satisfied in some way, the leader of the elf boy hunters sucked in a lungful of air… and then began to hoot. Like an owl. Like an angry owl hooting. He thrust his chest out, leaned his angular head back, sucked in more air… and hooted at us.
I wondered if all this was about to go horribly bad. Had already gone bad. If the Shadow Elves, or what remained of them, were suddenly xenophobic in some awful way Last of Autumn had not been. If this was about to turn into some horrible fight of what looked to be about fourteen wild boys against roughly a hundred hardened and trained killers. And me.
I sure hoped not.
Autumn… Last of Autumn… stepped forward and began to hoot as well, throwing her voice up and into the early twilight. And then, over and over in a mad chaotic attack, the rest of the boys joined in with this game of choral follow the leader. One long hoot soon evolved. One unending note. Held. Sustained. And strangely primal.
Slowly the wild boys began to harmonize, joining Autumn’s note, their eyes losing their angry glares and turning to look toward the early night and the twinkling stars just visible through the tops of the forest leviathans above. And then they all joined that one note again and just held it until it slowly faded into the universe.
And the Rangers listened, mouths agape, stunned at ever having heard something so wild and primitive. So beautiful and ancient at the same time.
That was when the old woman came out. It was clear she was blind. She was led by a young girl, and she stopped at the top of the steps and began to speak.
The captain motioned me forward to translate.
She was speaking in Elven High Speech, and I caught a warning glance from Last of Autumn not to use Shadow Cant Korean. Last of Autumn helped with the translation, using Grau Sprache and filling in what I didn’t catch.
Which was most of it, if I’m being honest. I’m good at picking up languages, I really am—but in my defense, this was basically still Day One of my learning Tolkien. So all in all and under the circumstances I think I was doing a pretty good job. Let the record show.
Anyway, the gist of what the old woman with the quavering voice said
was that we were welcome at the sacred cookfires of the Shadow Elves because Last of Autumn had vouched for our friendship. Now we could come into the temple and eat our fill.
One of the hunter boys came forward and began to haul at the gear the Rangers were carrying. At first the Rangers didn’t know what to do. But the captain allowed it and soon we were led into the vast cathedral-like space that was the ancient temple in the hill. The Hidden Cave. The birthplace, it seemed, of the lost Dragon Elves.
The ceiling was an open dome, frescoed with scenes of primitive hunters stalking their kills and mythologies that to my eyes demanded they be studied and explained. Through the opening at the dome’s center we could see the night-blue sky and the stars. Three major bonfires were set in wells along the vast temple floor, and above these roasted the carcasses of wild game. Bowls of food—mostly vegetables roasted in animal fat and aromatic spices—along with carved meat and baked bread were set out on low tables.
Now Last of Autumn took charge, removing her cloak and showing the Rangers where they could eat in groups around the three bonfires. The Shadow Elves passed out food and made sure every Ranger had a rough wooden bowl filled with a little bit of everything. Then they came around with baskets of fresh-baked breads while others began to pour out a wheaty pale beer they’d somehow managed to keep cold. Call it an Elvish Hefeweizen. The Rangers fell on the food and drink, working silently to stuff their bodies with much-needed calories. When they were finished with the first bowls they were served more, and by their third course through the spartan menu many were falling over asleep amid muted conversation.
Autumn, with help from me and the boys, organized sleeping areas throughout the temple, and within the hour most of the Rangers were racking out on their rucks, barely managing to get their poncho liners over themselves. Or even their boots off.
As I finished up my final serving the incredibly delicious food, the sergeant major came and found me and ordered me to translate between the captain and the Old Mother, as she was known. It was getting dark when I approached the firepit they were gathered around inside the temple, as the other two fires and torches were lowered. Vandahar was there, as was Chief Rapp. And of course Autumn and the sergeant major. All around the room,
snoring Rangers abounded.
A few of the NCOs were still moving about, taking watch. I asked the sergeant major if he was going to mount a guard and he said, “Got it handled, Talker.” Not my place, not my business. But it seemed like everyone was asleep almost.
At the firepit where they were waiting for me to interpret, the captain was picking at a bowl of food he seemed little interested in. The Old Mother sat across from him. Not seeing him, but smiling nonetheless and fingering her gnarled old staff nervously.
I noticed the captain was sweating.
I figured that was due to the fire. That he was too close to its still roaring heat.
I spent the next hour explaining each other’s position to the other.
Apparently the Shadow Elves were in dire straits. Zero viability as a tribe. Three girls, one old woman, and fifteen boys. Their warriors were dead, and they were effectively refugees inside a haunted forest with its own turbulent politics. War was on the horizon for much of the world beyond the edges of the Charwood. Or the Ruin, as the world was now known.
The Rangers were new to the scene. Down to critical ammunition levels, and no place to call their own.
It was Last of Autumn’s take that the Eld of the forest wouldn’t tolerate the newcomers much longer. The forest seemed to be a fickle and angry place. While generally good, it tended to look after its own interests most of the time, and truth was, it wasn’t that crazy about the Shadow Elves’ presence.
As I translated, I noticed the captain continued to wipe thin beads of sweat from the back of his head while generally looking pale and tired.
But after the last week, why wouldn’t he be?
His eyes, on the other hand, those were still the eyes of that killer tiger that reminded me of the Blake poem. I’d seen what he’d done to the last old woman, witch or not, who’d tried to cross him. He’d take care of his men no matter what.
But the Old Mother wasn’t like that witch at all. In fact, as far as leaders went, she wasn’t much of one. She was just their mother and she was about as lost as anyone in her situation would be. She knew her tribe
needed help if it was to go on being a tribe.
Her whole plan for her people was basically just to trust in their deity.
An entity they referred to as the Hidden King.
It quickly became apparent that Last of Autumn, tactfully, was their actual leader. She just had to do it passively out of respect for her elder.
Finally, the conversation ended with the captain stating that the Rangers had a mission to accomplish before they could be of assistance to anyone. Once that was done, they, according to the captain, would help the Shadow Elves in return for their kind hospitality. The meeting ended on an indefinite and anticlimactic note as both parties broke away, leaving the wizard Vandahar to stare into the fire, brooding about the state of affairs.
It was time to sleep now, and as the captain and the sergeant major and me left the firepit—Chief Rapp had gone off to check on his wounded
—the captain turned to me and said, his voice weak, a cough to clear his throat first, “Sergeant Major gave me your intel on the fortress where the SEAL may have our Forge. Develop that with our indig. I need a location and a map ASAP. See if she knows the disposition of enemy forces within the fortress. We’re going to hit that location as soon as we’re rested, and I need to know what we’re getting into. Every detail. Got it, PFC?”
I did.
Then Captain Knife Hand said he needed some fresh air and left for the front of the temple.
The sergeant major and I stood there in the dim darkness between the red glowing firepits. Sleeping Rangers everywhere. And he told me exactly what I needed to find out from Last of Autumn regarding the mission the captain was about to plan. I listened, asked clarifying questions when I could, and then the sergeant major told me to rack out.
But before I went, I turned back to the sergeant major, who was heading for the front entrance to take watch for the rest of the night.
“All by yourself, Sergeant Major?” I asked. “All night long?”
“Yeah,” he drawled. “Boys’ve had enough, Talker. I suspect we’re pretty deep behind friendly lines as near as I can tell. Plus… don’t sleep much anyway nowadays.”
I offered to stay with him, but I really didn’t mean it. Thankfully, he let me go.
But there was one last thing. I’d gone ten steps when I turned around
again and whispered, “The captain looks either sick, or tired, Sergeant Major.”
The senior NCO stared at me through the shadows of the ancient temple as we both listened to the low snap and pop of the fragrant logs burning.
“He may be both, Talker. But don’t worry, son. He’s tougher than a two-dollar steak.”
