Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories Page 8

  Or was it possible, as the heretic Brutus Giordunus wrote, that what the Church claimed was elvish sorcery was merely a tool, a physical construct no more evil in itself than an onager or a gladius? A gladius was shaped in a forge, Giordunus noted, where elements of earth were cunningly woven together with elements of air and fire in a mysterious sorcery known only to the smith, and yet its evil resided solely in the thoughts of its wielder.

  Perhaps elven sorceries were only clever tricks developed over the ages by a long-lived, close-mouthed race and viewed with awe by man in much the same way that barbarians marveled at the great walls of Amorr when they saw them for the first time.

  But Giordunus had never seen with his own eyes the elven magic he defended with his contorted logic. Claudius Serranus certainly believed in its sorcerous reality, and who would know the truth of the matter better than the warriors of St. Michael?

  “Yes, the baron could see the sky rider,” Serranus was answering Marcipor. “He saw it land, which told him where the elves were trapped. He already knew he had to reach that spot before nightfall, when their vision would give them the advantage over us at the summit. But when the bird left almost immediately and flew due west, that told him the elven commander thought he could get reinforced by air before then. So, we had very little time.”

  “He didn’t have his men ride their horses up the trail, did he?”

  “No, Marcus Valerius, that wasn’t possible. In fact, what he did was order them to dismount and remove all of their armor so they could move at speed. They marched double-time up that path with nothing more than their shields and their helms to protect them from the archers. The elves, seeing their advantage, began targeting them as soon as they passed the next switchback.

  “They had to endure five more switchbacks and had lost ten or fifteen men to the arrows before we realized that if we couldn’t take the pressure off them somehow, they weren’t going to make it. So we gathered as many rocks as we could find, climbed to the edge, and started hurling them down at the elves below. It didn’t harm them much, but it kept them from being able to aim so well at the men-at-arms climbing the pass.

  “Finally, when they reached the turn that would take them right beneath the place where the elves were trapped and expose them to murderous archery, the horn below sounded the charge. We took that as our sign to rush down the path, but we left ten men above to keep up the barrage of rocks. We lost a few men coming down, and the baron lost even more on that final stretch, but we hit them fore and aft despite the best efforts of their archers.

  “It didn’t last long, but it was a supremely vicious fight. I’ve never seen the like since. Nearly as many from both sides died from being thrown from the heights as did being pierced by swords or those wretched sticks we carried. But in the end, we killed every long-lived devil on that mountain.”

  Serranus patted the scabbard at his side, then drew his weapon forth from it. It was a longsword, but it was not the Amorran cavalryman’s blade Marcus was expecting. It was a thin, delicately engraved sword with the famous blued edge that indicated its elven heritage.

  Marcus heard himself gasp in chorus with Marcipor. Even Lodi grunted with surprise. Few had ever laid eyes on an elvensword except in battle. The few captured blades that weren’t claimed by kings and great lords on the battlefield were usually purchased by their agents within weeks of their whereabouts being discovered. Moreover, the length of these blades precluded them being used by any Amorran soldier who fought with the legions on foot.

  “I took this off a prettily-togged devil that was wearing a golden lorica and helm. He’d killed Captain Hilderus and three others, but his left-hand sword stuck in the last man’s ribs and gave me the chance to jam my stick right into his mouth. He choked on that, he did! One of the baron’s men finished him off. The confounded sergeant claimed the armor and one blade for the baron afterward, but he let me keep this one. I’ve worn it ever since. There’s no magic in it, not according to the Master Dower of the Order, but it’s a fine blade and keeps an edge like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

  The old warrior-priest ran his thumb lovingly down the line of the sword, over the elvish runes that spelled out some unintelligible message, most likely the deeds and lineage of the elfwho had borne it.

  Caught up in admiring Serranus’s trophy, neither Marcus and his bodyguards nor the two Michaelines heard the rider on the white horse approaching from the front of the column until he was almost upon them.

  It was the elf wearing the circlet, the aristocratic sorcerer, and from the bloodless appearance of his face and his rage-filled silver eyes, it didn’t require a master of elven lore to see that he was furious. Claudius Serranus half-raised the blade in an instinctive gesture of defense, so threatening was the violence of the elf’s demeanor, and Marcus reined Barat in and urged him off to the side lest he find himself caught between the priest and the elf.

  “How dare you bear that weapon!” the elf hissed. “Were this not an embassy sealed before the High King by vows of salt and silver, I would flay the flesh from your bones this very day, cursed human!”

  Serranus’s eyes widened with shock and confusion. But the elf’s threat didn’t cow him. Instead it seemed to bring him back to his hardened nonchalance. His scarred face twisted scornfully as he glanced from the sword to the elf, shrugged, and slid the blade back into its scabbard.

  “How dare I bear it? I daresay I may claim that right seeing as I killed him who bore it before me, Sir Elf. But that was long ago, in a place far from here. What’s this blade to you, and how have I caused you any offense?”

  The elf stared at Claudius Serranus for what seemed to Marcus like a very long time. Neither man nor elf blinked, until the elf’s long left ear twitched and he broke contact, staring briefly up into the sky as if coming to a decision. Then he spoke in icy tones that testified to an anger far too great for mere words.

  “My name is Fáelán u Flann. I am cousin to King Mael. That sword was forged as a name-day gift for my sister’s son, the High Lord Cathan u Treasach. Rest assured, Blessed Sir, I shall contest your claim to it, and soon. Thank your dead god that I do not do so this day.”

  Lord Fáelán turned his horse and kicked it forward, leaving an appalled silence in his wake. Claudius Serranus stared at the elf’s departing back as Zephanus groaned and buried his face in his hands.

  All through the aches and pains of the long, hot day on horseback, Marcus had wondered if he had the physical wherewithal to survive the month-long ride to Elebrion. But now he found himself contemplating the possibility, remote though it must be, that the embassy might not even survive its first week.

  High in the sky above him, the sun began its slow descent toward evening. And the shadows cast by the trees lining the brick road lengthened, bit by bit.

  IA Q. VII A. I S. C.

  Sed contra est quod Oxonus dicit quod in rationalus animalibus appetitus sensitivus obedit rationi. Ergo inquantum ducitur quadam aestimativa naturali, quae subiicitur rationi superiori, scilicet divinae, est in eis quaedam similitudo moralis boni, quantum ad anima.

  MARCUS DID NOT stir when the bells for Matins rang throughout the monestary. Nor did he wake when Marcipor shook him, first by the foot and then, more firmly, by the shoulder. He did, however, come to his senses with a distinct sense of alarm combined with an even greater feeling of confusion when Lodi finally picked him up by the front of his tunic and held him on his feet until he was conscious enough to stand on his own.

  It was dark. Marcus could see little but shadowy black figures moving quietly amidst the barely lighter grey background, from which he concluded that it was sometime between prima and altera.

  Light flared unexpectedly, and he shielded his eyes as Marce swept a torch around the small chamber they’d been given.

  “Careful with that, boy,” Lodi snapped. “Some things in my baggage don’t take kindly to flame.”

  “What are you talking about?” Marcipor said.

  Lo
di snatched the torch and placed it in the iron holder near the door.

  Marcus groaned at the discovery of how stiff his legs were, for all that they’d slept cool, dry, and comfortable on straw mattresses laid over clean stone. It was downright cold now, though, as the night’s chill had penetrated the brick walls of their chamber.

  He wondered if they were expected to appear for the morning prayers and if he’d be able to stay awake through them if they were. He thought about having Marcipor ask one of the monks moving through the adjacent corridor, until he recalled that the question would serve no purpose. Although the Quiricusian monks had proven to be excellent hosts, they were not very talkative ones, being sworn to silence this month in mournful memory of their martyred child-saint.

  “Good morning,” he said to Marcipor and Lodi. “I don’t suppose either of you remember how to get back to the dining hall?”

  Both of them thought they did, although Marcus had more confidence in Lodi than Marce. He supposed a dwarf had to be born with a good sense of direction or else develop one quickly living a life that consisted of wandering through unlit caverns miles underground. He sat down on the still-warm mattress, pulled his boots on, then reluctantly stood back up and glanced around to ensure that Lodi hadn’t missed anything when repacking their personal effects into the large leather bag that held them. He hadn’t.

  “Onward to Elfland it is. Lead on, good sir dwarf, if you would be so kind.”

  Lodi nodded. If the dwarf wasn’t the most respectful of servitors, he was at least obedient and hadn’t murdered Marcus and Marcipor in their sleep when given the opportunity. Although he’d never been given much occasion to think about it before, he found that an absence of murderous intent was a quality to cherish in a slave. It had probably been foolish, given his brief acquaintance with the dwarf, to permit him to stay in the chamber overnight. But Marcus had simply been too tired last night to care.

  The dining hall was dark, lit only by two torches and the grey predawn light that entered through the windows that overlooked the stables. Twelve Michaelines already dressed for the road sat at two of the rough-hewn wooden tables in the hall, breaking their fast with what looked like a hot oatmeal. Serranus was there, but not Zephanus.

  In the middle of the room was a stack of wooden bowls accompanied by wooden spoons. Steam rose from a much larger bowl that Marcus guessed held the oatmeal. When he followed Marcipor over to the table, he saw there were also two smaller bowls, one holding salt and the other honey.

  Roast goat in the evening and honey in the morning. These monks fed their guests well, he thought. It was a pity they wouldn’t find hosts like this again until they crossed the mountains. Of course, it wasn’t often that the abbot was given the chance to host a bishop who was known to hold the favor of the Sanctiff himself.

  They sat at the table next to the Michaelines, but found themselves eating in silence. The first time Marcipor opened his mouth, one of the Michaelines cleared his throat and pointedly shook his head. Marcus was rather relieved. Marce’s commentaries on the quotidian peculiarities of Creation were best endured on a full stomach well after daybreak. The echoed chanting and singing of the monks at their morning prayers was a much-preferred accompaniment to the meal.

  A Quiricusian brother emerged just as the first Michaeline finished his meal and rose from the table. The warrior-priest bowed in polite thanks as he handed the robed monk his empty bowl, and the gesture was returned. It seemed there was rather more respect than rivalry between these two very different orders, although there was little similarity to be found between the creaking, armor-clad Michaeline and the slender Quiricusian. And yet, Marucs thought, there is as little similarity between the eye and the stomach, though a man is wise to value both. In the service of God, who is to say which is the more needful?

  It was an interesting thought. But could the analogy be stretched so far as to encompass the likes of the elves, much less orcs and goblins, let alone trolls? Difficult.

  In the courtyard outside, they discovered that the Quiricusians had thoughtfully prepared their horses for them already. They also discovered that Serranus and the other Michaelines they’d seen in the dining hall were the tardy ones. The rest of the warrior-priests were already mounted or standing near their horses. Marcus ordered Marcipor to check the cinch on Barat even as he checked Bucephalus. All was in order, from which he concluded that the monks had some proper horsemen in their stables.

  The sun was just beginning to send its first long, flat glints of crimson out like scouts roaming across the horizon when the bishop emerged from the left side of the main building, accompanied by his entourage. Father Aestus was there too, looking sleepy. Beside him walked the abbot and a pair of elderly monks. They had been given separate accommodation befitting their standing, as had the two elves.

  Bishop Claudo glanced around the courtyard sourly and his eyes narrowed. “Where are those elves?” he said, with a hint of irritation in his voice. The abbot silently dispatched one of his companions to fetch the laggards.

  “I see you survived yesterday’s ride.” Marcus turned around and saw Zephanus, already astride his big white gelding.

  “Good morning to you, brother. You look eager to get back on the road.”

  “I am refreshed, Marcus Valerius. My soul is restored. Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord indeed, for do not our brothers the birds greet the new day with a song sweeter than any sung by man?”

  Marcus forced a smile, but he feared it was a thin one. Dear Lord in Heaven, have mercy—the friendly young warrior-priest was a morning creature! Such beings were far more alien to him than elves.

  “I know a few of the brothers were hoping we’d be permitted to wake after Matins ends, but then, we’d have missed the best part of the day!” He gestured east, toward the red glow of the imminent sunrise. “And look, it seems our silent brethren have located our long-eared friends at last.”

  “I fear they don’t share your preference for an early rise, brother.”

  “Nor, I think, do you, Marcus Valerius. Either you’re particularly fascinated with that chestnut tree over there or your stare is a bit fixed.”

  Marcus blinked as Zephanus grinned.

  “If you think he’s a night bird, you should see Sextus, his cousin,” said Marcipor, who was still yawning and rubbing at his own eyes. “Now that the elves are here, we should probably mount, don’t you think?”

  Marcus agreed, but it seemed the abbot had other ideas. He, at least, was obviously not subject to his order’s vow of silence. First he made the bishop a pretty speech about the honor his holy presence had bestowed upon the humble order of Saint Quiricus. Then he turned toward Captain Hezekius and said a few words about the noble example of the Michaelines and what an inspiration they were to the lesser orders. Both men were presented with small silver reliquaries, which he assured them were pieces of marble from the very steps that had shattered the blessed skull of their child-saint.

  Then, to Marcus’s and everyone else’s surprise, the abbot turned to the two elves and pronounced a blessing on them, before wishing the entire party a safe and peaceful journey.

  Marcus noticed that the elves didn’t seem particularly inclined to speak with anyone. And while Lord Fáelán appeared to be pointedly ignoring the Michaelines, at least he greeted the bishop with appropriate civility. After a nod from the bishop, Captain Hezekius ordered the party to mount, and those who had not already done so were quick to obey.

  Marcus couldn’t help groaning as he stepped into the stirrup and threw his leg over the saddle, but he reminded himself that it was only a matter of time before his body began to adjust. Until it did, he would simply have to bear the pain that nearly everyone but the Michaelines were feeling.

  The grey-robed guards at the monastery gates bowed deeply, but silently, as the bishop rode past. How strange it would be to keep one’s thoughts to oneself for an entire month! Marcus doubted he could do it. Perhaps a week would be possibl
e, but any more and he’d be desperate to say something, anything, to anyone who would listen. He grinned, thinking of Sextus, who couldn’t last an hour without opening his mouth if he wasn’t sleeping. Which, he thought enviously, was assuredly what his cousin was doing right now rather than riding out at dawn on a fool’s journey to Elebrion.

  “I do say, it’s a bit brisk out,” Marcipor said. “But I imagine we’ll be sorry when this morning chill burns off.”

  “Yes,” Marcus said, “I certainly hope there will be some clouds today. I felt rather like a pot baking in the kiln yesterday afternoon.”

  “That tall elf lord doesn’t seem to still be upset today,” Marcipor said, albeit in a manner that made it sound as if he was trying to convince himself, not Marcus. “After all, it’s hardly Cladius Serranus’s fault that he happened to encounter the elf’s kin on the battlefield.”

  “I suspect the elves might have a different way of looking at it than we might, Marce. From what I understand, they have a very different way of looking at many things. Stratius writes that whereas we view events as taking place within the framework of a vast and essential order, as a part of the fabric of the world, the elves see them as being of no consequence in themselves. Events only take on meaning insofar as they are given meaning by mind.”

  “What does that have to do with Serranus killing the elf?”

  “Very little, I should think. He killed much like an animal does, fighting to survive in the face of death, and he apparently ascribed no more meaning to his taking of the elf’s life than he did to any other death in battle. He was a soldier, and that’s what soldiers do in war. However, his decision to claim the elf’s sword as a trophy, to say nothing of his subsequent use of it as a marker of distinction—which you’ll note is most unusual in a priest, even a priest of a martial order like the Michaelines—indicates that the event must have been of some degree of significance to him.”