Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories Read online

  When dawn rose over Iron Mountain the next day, Guldur Goblinsbane’s great horde was gone, as if scattered by the western wind. Only a few thousand orcs remained amidst the wreckage of the foul encampment, busily engaged in picking over the abandoned campsites for whatever bits of treasure they might find. They paid little heed to the dwarves who emerged from their stone citadel, and the dwarves were content to likewise leave the scavengers to their scavenging. Most of them were gone the following day, and on the third day, the Iron Guard put the last malingerers to flight without once drawing blood.

  Guldur Goblinsbane’s head—sans the crown that Mulguth the Mighty had taken for himself—was carefully cast in gold, and to this day remains on display, impaled upon the great scorpion bolt that killed him, behind the throne of Iron Mountain.

  The sun was low in the sky when Lodi finally fell into a contemplative silence. Marcus and Marcipor looked at each other, amazed by the way in which the true story was more dramatic than the epic version they knew, and surprised at how easily the long day had passed.

  “What happened to the dwarf-maiden, the one whose father made the shields?” Marcipor asked.

  “Dead,” answered Lodi. “She died in the fifth year when a few hundred goblins found an air passage and got past the levy dwarves guarding it. By then, the queen had organized a whole reserve of shield maidens. Geral was a captain, and her squad responded first. A goblin warlock who didn’t know any better threw fire and ignited the whole cavern. Killed her, hersquad, and every single goblin too.”

  “I’m sorry,” Marcipor said.

  “A long time ago.” Lodi shrugged. “But now you understand, see?”

  “Understand what?” Marcus said.

  “About the elves.” The dwarf snorted contemptuously. “They talk fine. They screech about valor and honor, and their bards concoct ballads every time an elf-lord manages to cross a stream without wetting his boots. But it’s only words. It’s nothing but words, there’s no steel underneath it. That Savonder, Alwee D’escard or whatever he’s called, he sung about the breaking of the elves like they rode in to try and rescue us, and how they was so brave that they attacked the Troll King when they was outnumbered ten to one.”

  “But they didn’t,” interjected Marcipor.

  “No, they didn’t do nothing of the kind,” Lodi said. “They turned their backs and rode away. The dwarves, we had to save ourselves.”

  “I don’t understand,” Marcus said. “How can you reasonably blame the elf-king for not throwing away his army once he saw that there was no way they could break the siege?”

  “Believe what you want, Master.” Lodi shrugged. “Just remember that when an elf says something, it don’t mean no more than wind blowing through trees.”

  IA Q. VII A. I CO. II

  Secundum, conditio hominum in statu innocentiae non erat dignior quam conditio Angelorum. Sed inter angelos quidam aliis dominantur, unde et unus ordo dominationum vocatur. Ergo non est contra dignitatem status innocentiae, quod homo homini dominaretur. Quandoquidem hic homo subiectus illo homini possit, et factum non statum animae subiecti afficiat, ita aelvi possint subiecti dominationi homini et factum non statum animarum aelvorum afficiat.

  IT WAS THE twenty-second day of their journey when they finally entered the elflands. They were days ahead of schedule, but it was still none too soon as far as Marcus was concerned. Each of those days had been long and arduous, for Captain Hezekius had demanded an ambitious pace throughout, particularly for a party containing several men on the far side of sixty.

  The third and fourth days had been the worst, leading Marcus and Marcipor to seriously discuss the possibility of riding sidesaddle, as did Bishop Claudo and three of the other prelates. But the sight of their dwarven companion grimly swaying with the gentle motion of his mule inspired them both to clench their teeth and bear the burning torment. It was halfway through the fifth day when Marcus realized that he was not subconsciously bracing himself for each step of his mount. His body had adjusted at last to the demands of the journey.

  Their progress slowed once they reached Merithaim and the Shadowald. The great forest before them was the largest on Selenoth, stretching across the borders of several nations, and it served as a natural barrier of sorts protecting the inland elven cities from the human bandits that lived in the mountains the embassy had just finished crossing.

  Despite regular patrols by Savondese and elven rangers alike, this was a wild and ominous place in which the more aggressive orc tribes regularly gathered to stage their vicious raids against more civilized lands to the north, west, and south. The practical Amorran Senate, of course, had simply built a wall south of the mountains, kept it manned by three cohorts, and remained mostly untroubled.

  Nevertheless, the way forward was clear, and the towering trees were quite beautiful. The embassy rode forward, feeling as if they were finally making progress.

  Three days deep into the forest, riding along what looked more like a deer trail than a proper road, an inhuman scream caused the captain to call a halt. Moments later, it was followed by several howls that sounded like wolves.

  “What’s that?” Marcus asked Lodi.

  The dwarf hadn’t become what one would call conversational after breaking his silence three weeks before, but these days he was much less reticent than before. In fact, at times Marcus preferred riding in relative silence next to Lodi instead of Marcipor or one of the more loquacious priests. He feared that if Zephanus told him one more time the story about how he’d killed the orcish shaman by severing the link between the orc and the demon it had just summoned, he might not be able to resist the temptation to stab the cheerful Michaeline in the leg.

  Perhaps, he thought to himself, my vocation is not as strong as I think it is. One thing the journey had taught him was a deep and profound respect for the Quiricusian order and its custom of regular vows of silence.

  “Elf,” the dwarf muttered, staring narrow-eyed into the trees. It was getting dark, and Hezekius would be calling a halt soon. “The first scream, anyhow. Don’t know about the second.”

  “Wolf-riders?”

  “Maybe. But it sounded too purposeful to me. They’re usually not real disciplined.”

  Five Michaelines broke from the column at the command of the captain, their swords gleaming brightly in the deepening shadows. Marcus cursed as he saw a sixth rider follow them. It was Marcipor, and he was waving his gaudy sword as if he were leading a cavalry charge. The idiot had spent so much time around the warrior-priests that he practically considered himself one of them now.

  “Stay here,” Marcus barked at Lodi.

  He wished he had time to retrieve his shield from his pack horse, but if he stopped to grab it now he’d never be able to catch up with his lunatic slave. He spurred his horse after Marce’s, wishing for a third eye as he tried to blindly unthong his blade while keeping one eye on the trees and the other on the riders ahead. Happily, he soon learned that it wasn’t particularly necessary to see them, since the way they were crashing through the underbrush, they sounded like an army in front of him. They certainly weren’t going to surprise anyone.

  He ducked under one low-hanging branch, narrowly avoided a pine tree, then, at the top of a small rise, found himself looking down over a small valley. He reined in his horse, watching with alarm as the five Michaelines, with Marce not too far behind them, charged down the hill toward a bowman who was taking shelter behind the half-exposed roots of a large oak.

  No, they weren’t charging toward the man, Marcus saw now, but past him. They galloped on toward two large, shadowy shapes above the bowman on the far side of the depression. Marcus couldn’t tell if the creatures were orcs or goblins, but they were throwing rocks, one of which narrowly missed braining his idiot slave. The sight of the riders alarmed them, though, and they melted away into the gloom before the horses were halfway up the hill.

  Marcus quickly dismounted, tossed his reins over a tree branch, and ran down to assist the
bowman. He jerked back, startled, as the man whirled around—not only because there was now an arrow aimed at his chest, but because the bowman was not a man at all, but an elf.

  “Who are you?” the male elf asked in strange but understandable Savondese.

  He was tall, but that was about all Marcus could distinguish at the moment. The arrowhead, on the other hand, was a bodkin-pointed iron cap with a three-blade cross-section, affixed to a wooden shaft that was painted red. The fletching was white, and there were two rings on the white-knuckled hand that held the bow just under the motionless point of the arrowhead pointed at his chest. Marcus wondered if at this distance, the arrow would pass clean through him or if it would remain buried in his chest like the dwarf bolt that slew the late unlamented Guldur Goblinsbane. He dropped his sword and spread his hands slowly, very slowly indeed.

  “We heard the screams,” he said. “We came to help. I’m from Amorr. We’re an embassy from the Sanctiff to the High King in Elebrion.”

  “Amorran, yes, I can see that. I thank you.” The arrowhead lowered a bit. “They will not stand before your knights. They fear those who ride horses. Please, take up your sword. I must see to Ferlathel.”

  Still holding his arrow nocked, the elf stepped out from behind the tree. Marcus, breathing a sigh of heartfelt relief, leaned down to retrieve his blade, then followed the elf a little ways down the hill.

  He saw it—him, he corrected himself—kneel before a body sprawled amidst the leaves. It was another elf, and from the amount of blood pooled around its head, it seemed the back of its head was caved in. Marcus swallowed hard and steeled himself against his stomach’s urge to purge itself.

  The living elf merely shook his head in sorrow. “We were stalking them, but they must have noticed us. They took Nylia in an ambush. They were too strong. We fled, but they can track better than us with their keen sense of smell.”

  What are they? Marcus was about to ask, but Barat’s alarmed snorting alerted him a second before the elf’s shout did.

  He began to turn around, but something very heavy hit him hard and sent him tumbling to down the hill.

  Vafala! He pushed himself up with his free hand, but then a large dark shape leaped at him. He brought up his blade in reflexive self-defense and somehow intercepted the thing.

  But he was smashed back to the earth again, and his sword was torn from his grasp as the full weight of the impact knocked the wind from his lungs. His ears were filled with alarming snarls and growls, and he had the terrible impression of something very heavy, very furry, very smelly, and very intent on ripping his throat out.

  It was a wolf, he realized, when its giant jaws yawned wide and white in front of his unprotected face. A very large wolf!

  He managed to reach his dagger. He jerked it from its sheath and drove it deep into the beast’s furry side. He was more shocked than relieved when the beast froze in mid-snap, jerked back, and thrashed side to side a few times before slumping lifeless on top of him.

  Marcus lay there for a moment, trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to breathe, while wondering how he’d managed to kill the monster. Had his sword pierced its heart on that first lunge? He didn’t think so. His dagger? Did wolves have some sort of vital organ on their left side?

  Without warning, the crushing weight was removed from his chest. The fresh air that replaced the awful lupine stink was better than incense. He inhaled it with greedy relief.

  Lodi loomed over him, holding a bloody axe in his hand. “Are you hurt?” he asked, looking concerned.

  “I don’t know,” Marcus said as the dwarf pulled him to his feet. Everything hurt, to tell the truth, especially his ribs and his left shoulder, and there was blood everywhere. “I don’t think so. I don’t even think any of this is mine, actually.”

  “Your shoulder,” Lodi said, as his thick finger probed at the left one. Marcus winced in sudden pain, but Lodi shook his head. “It’s not too bad, but you’ll want that cleaned out all the same. More of a gash than a proper bite.”

  Marcus stared at the wolf and shivered with horror. Not a wolf: a wolf-thing. It had a wolf’s head, but was bipedal, with clawlike hands instead of paws. Fur covered its body and it wore no clothes, but a carved black stone adorned its neck. It was no true beast. It looked more like a child of the dead Witchkings, the demonspawn from the far north that had driven the brave Darlarn from their homes across the White Sea.

  A massive blow from Lodi’s axe had nearly severed it in two at the base of its spine. That, and not the insignificant stab-wound from the dagger that still jutted from its side, had killed it. Marcus’s sword was lodged in its right leg, and an elven arrow pierced its arm. Not far away, a similar abomination lay dead, pierced by arrows in its throat, chest, and eye.

  The elvish archer, looking none the worse for wear, nodded at him. “The dwarf got the one on top of you. I killed the other.” He retrieved his arrows. “How is it that you travel with a dwarf, human?”

  “It’s a long story. You’d have to ask my uncle.”

  “I see. Then where are you bound?”

  “Elebrion,” he answered.

  The elf smiled. “Then we are well met indeed. As you have done me a great service, I am pleased that I can return the favor. If you were following the trail that lies nearest here, it may interest you to know that it heads not toward Elebrion but the Ogran wilds.”

  Marcus started to laugh, but it came out as a coughing fit. Still, he had survived his first battle, and by the sound of the triumphant whoops of the returning riders, so had Marcipor and the Michaelines. But as the blood leaked slowly from the wound in his shoulder, he found himself wondering if there were any basis in truth for the grim legends of the werewolf’s bite.

  • • •

  Falmithal, as the elf archer was called, was not only indebted to the Michaeline warriors, he was impressed by them. Mainly because they had actually managed to capture one of the wolf-beasts after killing its three companions. The beasts were called Ulfin, Falmithal said, and with Lodi’s help the Michaelines constructed a crude cage of sorts that carried the bound creature between two very unhappy horses. Of course, to hear Marce tell it, you’d think he had not only caught the beast himself, but tamed it to boot.

  “If you would win the favor of the High King,” Falmithal told Marcus and the others that night over the campfire, “make the Ulfin a gift to him. There’s word he’s offered a reward for one captured alive, though no one knows why.”

  The two elves from Elebrion remained as aloof and distant as ever, but after a quiet conversation with their woodlands cousin, they bent enough to offer a formal thanks to theMichaelines, and to Marcus, Marcipor, and Lodi as well.

  Marcus passed Falmithal’s recommendation along to Bishop Claudo, but the ascetic old priest only nodded impassively and betrayed no indication of whether he intended to follow the elf’s advice or not.

  With Falmithal’s help, Captain Hezekius corrected their course, and it was not long before the ominous massed pines gradually began to fade into delightful copses of ash and oak trees.

  • • •

  They were passing through the elven kingdom of Merithaim. Their destination was beyond this land, in the neighboring elven kingdom of Elebrion, where the High King dwelt. Still, it afforded Marcus the opportunity to study elves closely.

  The royal court of Merithaim was not, like the High King of Elebrion’s court, resident in a fixed location. Its lords and ladies lived a traveling existence, moving about the Shadowald for most of the spring, summer, and autumn, before retiring south to the king’s mountain palace in the winter.

  King Caerwyn Everbright was its liege, a relatively young elf and the son of the elf king who had so outraged Lodi and the dwarves of IronMountain. Thanks to Falmithal, they were greeted at court with exquisite courtesy, and the king gifted Marcus, Marcipor, and Lodi with silver-hilted daggers.

  He also attempted to similarly reward the six Michaelines, but they politely refused to accept the
elven blades. Marcus had the impression that after the debacle with Lord Fáelán, the Order would be adding to what was likely a long list of monastic rules—including, perhaps, the prohibition against owning or carrying elvish blades.

  The two days they spent with the Merithaimi court was a magical time for Marcus. It was a much-needed break from the rigors of the road—both for him and for Barat. During the day, Marcus was free to roam as he pleased, accompanied only by Falmithal, whose impeccable manners steered Marcus clear of most social blunders and smoothly extricated him from those that could not be avoided.

  The elven maids were beautiful beyond anything he’d ever seen: tall, slender, and preternaturally fair. They were also too shy to speak with the young humans, for the most part, but they were tremendously curious about Marcipor’s golden beard. Marcipor claimed that he’d stolen a kiss from one of them, but Marcus was skeptical. He wouldn’t have dared himself, even if he weren’t bound by his intended vocation. They probably weren’t all sorceresses, but a man had no way of knowing which was and which wasn’t.

  He was frustrated, and not only because of the way the elven beauty filled him with serious doubts about the purity of his soul, to say nothing of his vocation. Whereas he’d previously imagined exposure to the elves would help him reach a sound conclusion about their nature, the more information he acquired, the more any sense of certainty receded from his grasp. When he looked into that alien gaze with its strange, inhuman pupils, could he see a soul lurking behind it? One could see life there, certainly. One could see intelligence, animation. But was there anima?

  Elven beauty ascended toward physical perfection, but that counted for little in matters of the spirit. The Dalarn too were beautiful. Were not those tall, fair barbarians so thick of feature and large of frame, one might even confuse one for an elf if one were far enough away. Importantly, there was not a single unimpeachable reference to elves throughout the Holy Writ. One might make a better case for defending the spiritual immortality of sparrows and leviathans on the scriptural basis.