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

  “An honor, Blessed Sir.”

  The scarred Michaeline flashed his teeth momentarily. “Call me Serranus. That, or ‘Brother Serranus’ will do. Heard you were a courteous young pup. Perhaps you won’t forget to curtsey to King Caerwyn or such and get us all killed, eh?”

  “I shouldn’t like to displease the Sanctiff, Brother Serranus.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it’s fear of his displeasure that will make your bowels clench and the acid burn in the back of your throat when we reach the heights. Or when you stand in the place where the mountain meets the sky, darkness falls, and you hear the cries of the High King’s warhawks soaring unseen somewhere high above you.”

  “Are you so certain that I shall need to wait until then? I don’t think it’s the lack of breakfast that seems to have soured my stomach.”

  Serranus smiled, a more genuine smile this time. “It takes a brave lad to admit that he’s afraid. I think you’ll do well, Valerius, should it come to swords and elvish sorcery. It won’t make a difference, mind you, but at least you won’t shame your name. Probably.”

  “I’m confident I shall sleep better for the knowledge.”

  “Brother, Marcus here was eager to know more about how the elves make war,” Zephanus said. “And since I’m told you have some experience with that, I thought perhaps you might further his education.”

  Claudius Serranus waved his arm, his gesture taking in the road disappearing into the horizon before them. “I don’t seem to have anything better to do,” he said. “This is a dry and dusty business. Give me a skin to wet my whistle and we shall see if the stories of an old war dog can while away a mile or three.”

  Marcus dutifully produced a wineskin, which the old warrior-priest took.

  He opened it and expertly sprayed a stream of Valerian Primus into his mouth without wasting a single drop or further soiling the sweat-stained tunic that he wore open down to his chest. His greying brows rose with surprise. “That’s a good vintage you’ve got there, lad. Yours, I’m thinking.”

  “It’s of the House, yes.” Marcus nodded in respectful acknowledgment. “Please keep it, Blessed Sir, as a small measure of the regard House Valerius bears for the noble Order of St. Michael.”

  “‘The Order,’ the man said,” Zephanus pointed out as he leaned over his horse’s neck with a hand extended. “That means me too. Let me try it!”

  “I couldn’t allow that, little brother, not in good conscience. It’s far too early in the day to risk sun and grape addling such a young pate as yours.” He saluted Marcus with the skin, gave it one more healthy squeeze, then twisted the carved spout closed and slung it off the horn of his saddle. “Now, as to your question, can either of you tell me the defining characteristic of an elven army?”

  “Archery,” Zephanus answered. He didn’t seem inclined to complain about being denied a taste of House Valerius’s best. “Their archers have far greater range with their longbows than we can match with our slings and spears, which makes it hard to come to grips with them.”

  “That’s true, to be sure, but it’s something more basic than that.”

  Marcus racked his brain, trying to think of every military history he’d ever read that mentioned the elves. The Taktika of Leus contained several accounts of famous battles with them, including Ardus Wald, Bremulon, and Tarphoris, but elven involvement aside, there wasn’t a single similarity between the three battles that he could think of. An ambush, a battlefield, and a city defense.

  As Zephanus had said, it was the superiority of their deadly longbows that sprang first to Marcus’s mind. The historical accounts were no doubt exaggerated, but there had to be an element of metaphorical truth, at least, in the descriptions of how their arrows could darken the sky.

  If it wasn’t the archers, what could it be? Their dark magic was superlative, but even the men of Savonderum used magecraft in battle, the peril to their souls notwitstanding. Would an experienced veteran like Serranus find it worthy of such particular note?

  Then another thought occurred to him as he happened to glance in the dwarf’s direction. It struck him that the two old warriors might be evenly matched for who bore more scars.

  “Is it that they have no infantry?” he suggested.

  “Of course they have infantry,” Zephanus said dismissively. “Most of their archers are on foot, and even their light cavalry usually dismount when they fight at range.”

  “No, I mean they don’t have any heavy infantry. We do, the Savonders do, the dwarves do, the orcs do, even the goblins do, if you think of how the orcs use them as auxiliaries on the wings when they’re not mounted. The Troll King doesn’t have anything but heavy infantry. But the only elves that wear proper armor are their lancers, and they’re mounted.”

  “Aye, General Valerius!” Serranus barked in response. The grizzled warrior thumped his chest in what was obviously a sardonic salute, but his eyes were sparkling with good humor. “The young scholar has it in one, little brother, for all that he’s never blooded a sword. And that, my dear young novices, tells you very nearly all you might possibly need to know about the elves—their cowardly tactics, their pernicious culture, their spiritual enervation, and their ultimate fate. More importantly, it also tells you how to kill them.”

  “It does?” Marcus looked at Zephanus, but the younger Michaeline clearly had no idea what Serranus was telling them either. If the two elves riding far ahead of them could hear their conversation, they weren’t letting on.

  “Aye, it most certainly does. Didn’t your tutors ever force you to think, young Valerius, or did they merely set you to memorizing Psalms, catechisms, and philosopher’s speeches? Here, let me give you a hint: who has the most heavy infantry?”

  “The orcs,” Zephanus answered immediately.

  “The orc tribes,” Marcus echoed just a moment later.

  “Quick on the draw, brother,” Serranus said approvingly to Zephanus. “There are scores of famous orc heavy foot regiments: the Black Orcs, the Red Hand Slayers, the Ghinghis Mountain Bhoys. Now, why do they spend that infantry with such profligacy? Their tactics, such as they are, are essentially minor variants on the straightforward charge.”

  “Because they’re orcs,” Zephanus said. “They’re stupid.”

  “No,” Marcus objected. “Well, I mean it’s true that they’re not very intelligent, in comparison with man, dwarf, or elf. But mainly they’re wasteful of their infantry because they can afford to be. Orclings breed and grow to maturity so quickly that no chieftain of the tribes cares much if he loses half his warriors—so long as enough survive to bring him victory that day. In fact, he probably hopes they’ll kill themselves off by fighting external enemies before they get caught up in internecine strife. That’s why the tribes are always at war, either raiding human lands or fighting amongst themselves. Just too many orcs running around.”

  “And that’s why they’re always invading dwarven territory,” Zephanus said slyly, but Lodi failed to rise to the bait and continued to ignore the conversation.

  “Now,” Serranus said, “with that in mind, what can you conclude about the elven lack of infantry, Marcus Valerius?”

  “The opposite. They value their lives too dearly to dare risking them in melee combat.”

  “Precisely! That’s why they fear to meet the legions at close quarters: they can’t match our numbers and our discipline. That’s why they will always run before the heavy horses of Savonderum, and why even the spears of the peasant levy present them with a problem.

  “The orcs’ heavy infantry haven’t discipline and their armor is shoddy, but their speed, strength, and numbers make up for that and make them dangerous in close combat. As for the dwarves, well, there isn’t an infantry in the world that is their equal, one for one, except the mountain trolls. So, it is fear of losing their precious long lives that dictates the elves’ approach to warfare. This not only reveals a tactical weakness that can be exploited, but is also a cultural sign that speaks volumes about the st
ate of their race.”

  “I bet they aren’t afraid of goblin infantry,” Zephanus commented.

  “No one is afraid of goblin infantry,” Serranus said with a snort. “Nor should anyone be, unless they happen to outnumber you fifty to one. Fortunately, that doesn’t happen very often since the little rats take every chance they get to desert whatever orc chieftain has rounded them up to serve as front line fodder. So, Marcus Valerius, what does this tell you about Elebrion?”

  “I’m not sure. They fear death, they will only fight from afar, they have only three kingdoms where there were once seven…” The realization struck him suddenly. “Oh! I should think their society is probably highly decadent then, that they’ve likely become amoral pleasure seekers like the men and women of whom Flavius Mundus wrote in the tales of the plague days. Do you think they are in decline?”

  “No, it’s more than that,” Serranus said. “I believe they are waiting to die. Fear has a specific object—not unlike hope, usually. But the object of hope is a future good. A difficult one, perhaps, but always something that is possible to obtain. The object of fear, on the other hand, is a future evil, an evil that irresistible only because it is desired.”

  Even in the heat of the near-midday sun, Serranus’s ominous words struck Marcus with chilling effect. Waiting to die? Fear of death that was born of an irresistible desire for extinction? Although he knew that war between Amorr and Elebrion was a real possibility, it had never occurred to Marcus that it might be the elves, not men, who were wishing for it.

  “Truly?”

  “Should the Sanctiff in his wisdom decide that they are creatures unfit to serve Our Immaculate Lord,” Serranus said, “I suggest it will be a mercy to put their cities to the torch and the remnants of their race to the sword. The High King will not lift his hand against us—not because he fears us, but because he desires what we can give him and his people in the same way that a mortally wounded soldier welcomes the last kiss of steel.”

  Marcus rode in stunned silence, the hoof-falls of the troop and the creaking of the wooden wagons the only sounds. The road had begun a slight incline and the horses were breathing harder than they had before. Fortunately, there were dark lines running parallel to the road in the distance that promised the possibility of shade once they crested the rise.

  Zephanus chuckled. “And here I’d always thought you won that pretty face fighting them in the borderlands, Claudius Serranus. I had no idea that they did nothing but bare their throats to your blade. If the elves are so ready to die, how did you get that scar on your face, then? Were you foolish enough to let Caulus Phillipus shave you?” Zephanus laughed at Marcus’s expression and held up a right hand with two fingers folded down. “Phillipus lost half his hand to an orc’s axe at Goxlims. Don’t let him shave you.”

  But Marcus wasn’t thinking about how Serranus had been scarred. He was more curious about where he’d been when he had been scarred.

  “Amorr doesn’t border on Merithaim, much less Elebrion,” he pointed out. “And the elves haven’t raided Imperial territory for one hundred years. So, either you are much older than would seem possible, Claudius Serranus, or you are telling us tall tales. Or … you were fighting on behalf of someone other than the Senate and People of Amorr.”

  Serranus laughed. But before he could reply, the horses at the front of the column abruptly pulled up. Marcus rose in the saddle to see over the bishop’s wagon. The lead horses had halted at a stone bridge passing over a shallow stream. In a booming voice that carried all the way back to their rearguard, Sir Hezekius announced that they would halt long enough to refresh themselves and water their horses.

  Normally it would be a slave’s job to help Marcus from Barat’s back. But although Marcipor was already cantering back toward him, Marcus didn’t wait for his help to dismount. With a groan he lifted his right leg over the saddle and dropped awkwardly to the ground. Lodi grunted and followed his example. The two of them locked eyes for a moment, then the dwarf grimaced and rubbed at his thick thighs. Marcus shook his head. It was going to be a long, long ride to Elebrion.

  IA Q. VII A. I ARG. IV

  Praeterea, homo in Die Sexto creatus sunt. In ordine naturae qui in narratione Creationis descriptus, perfectius praestat. Ergo homo est perfectior quam aelvi. Tum, perfectissima res animae estseparatio ab corpore, quod in illa re similior Dei angelorumque, et purior, quod separatur ab ulla aliena substantia. Quandoquidem non aeque perfecti atque homines, aelvi ulterius quam homines ab perfectissima re animae. Ergo aelvi habent animae naturaliter sibi unita.

  THEIR REPRIEVE FROM the road was far too short, but at least his stomach was full of bread, meat, and cheese now, Marcus thought. More importantly, his parched throat was well wetted by the cool waters of the stream. The brook flowed down from hills that were just beginning to become visible on the horizon.

  They wouldn’t reach them by nightfall, but everyone was looking forward to reaching them all the same, even though the incline would slow their progress. Somewhere on this side of those hills was a monastery where they hoped to spend one night not sleeping on the ground. And on the other side of the hills … the mountains of the elven kingdom.

  “Douse your head in the water before we ride on,” a dripping Zephanus suggested before mounting his horse and joining his brethren.

  When the stentorian roar of the Michaeline captain ordered the party to their mounts, both Marcus and Marcipor were quick to follow Zephanus’s advice.

  “Do you think this will help with the insects?” asked Marcipor, pushing his water-darkened hair out of his eyes as he urged his horse to a walk. Throughout their repast, he had complained of the small cloud of gnats that had pestered him since mid-morning.

  “Yes, certainly. Until you dry off and start to sweat again.”

  “I’ll try not to, then.” Marce nodded toward Zephanus, who was riding a distance ahead of them now. “You like that priest?”

  “I suppose so. With whom were you riding?”

  “Ecclesiastus and Habbakus. They’re both of Tedes descent, like me.”

  “Is that so? Which one has the red hair, Habbakus?”

  “No, he’s the other one. And actually, Ecclesiastus is only Tedes on his mother’s side. His father is an Amorran citizen.”

  “He doesn’t look very Amorran to me.”

  “I said he was a citizen, not that he was of the city. Ecclesiastus said he was from Elkos, I think.” Marcipor glanced back at the dwarf. “How is our old billy goat bearing up?”

  “As well as I am, I think. His idle chatter is lifting all our spirits. I say, are your legs beginning to chafe? My thighs are rubbed nearly raw. It’s been too long since I’ve ridden so much as an ora.”

  Marcipor grinned mischievously. “That’s just as well. Father Aurelius tends to frown on his pupils spending time in ora-houses.”

  Even Lodi groaned at the weak pun. Thankfully, before Marce could attempt to surpass himself, they saw Zephanus and Serranus riding back toward them. At their approach, much to Marcus’s surprise, Marcipor fell respectfully silent.

  “I see you followed my advice,” Zephanus noted approvingly. His own dark hair was still damp from the stream.

  Serranus leaned over, extending an unexpectedly full wineskin to Marcus. “The Order of Saint Michael wishes to express its gratitude to House Valerius for its meritorious service on behalf of this humble priest.” He handed the wineskin to Marcus. “Don’t marvel, boy, there’s no miracle—it’s just water in there.”

  “Oh,” Marcus said, feeling embarrassed. “I trust you found it satisfactory?”

  “Very much so,” Serranus answered, slapping Zephanus on the back. “Excellent stuff.Didn’t you think so?”

  “I might have if you’d spared me more than a mouthful, old miser.”

  “Wisdom and wine are wasted on the young, little brother. Now, Marcus Valerius, I believe you were interested in hearing more of the elves and their way of warfare, were you not?”

 
; “Indeed, Claudius Serranus. If you would be so kind.”

  Marcipor stifled a yawn.

  “Bored already, laddy?” Serranus said to him. “You needn’t listen if you don’t want.”

  “Please ignore my bodyguard. He’s much more fierce than he looks. It’s just that he’s slain so many scores of sottum that he finds such tales most tedious.”

  “Indeed?” Claudius Serranus dismissed Marcipor with an audible snort and turned his attention to Marcus. “Well then, as you correctly surmised, in my youth I did not march with the legions. I marched under the banner of the King of Savonderum. In the summer of my fifteenth year, my father died and my elder brother inherited our little farm. He wished to marry, and I wished both to see the world and avoid living under my brother’s patriarchy, so it seemed a propitious time to depart.

  “I quickly learned that I had no skills that commanded more than a pittance, since the only work available was the sort of work I’d thought to leave behind at the farm. But I was a big lad, and on the third day after I’d left the ancestral village I met a man in a pub who was recruiting for a company of wardogs.

  “He said the Red Prince was planning a campaign to teach the cursed elves a lesson. It was something to do with the Collegium Occludum, if I recall correctly, but I wasn’t listening closely since my only interest was in the notion of a monthly wage. Plus, I’d wanted to see the world, and marching through it with a sword in my hand accompanied by a band of armed men seemed to be a reasonable way to do it.

  “So, I made my X on what the recruiter told me was a contract that ran only through the harvest, and thought myself rather clever for it when he generously agreed to pay for the next two rounds.” He grinned at Marcus. “Not the wisest move I’ve ever made.”

  Marcus feigned surprise. “An illiterate young farmer signing a contract he can’t read? Or rather, marking it. In all the tales I’ve read, such things usually turn out splendidly!”