A Spark in the Wind

Chapter 08: By Daemons be Driven

Vilyánur strolled about the courtyard, inspecting everything with the eyes of a hawk. Soldiers of the king lay on their knees, hands behind their heads. It was a scene of malcontent (as it should've been): the prisoners were visibly frustrated.

"Arial," Vil called for her, leaning towards her, "tell your soldiers to finish the tying up, reassure them that they shall not be harmed as long as they comply."

"Yes, sir!" she pounced into a military salute, relaying his command to her forces. And Vil watched, nodding ever so gladly at how humane it looked, for one moment he felt like a spell or salve of health rubbed on a wound.

"My lord," his second-in-command called for him. He turned about, but the officer said no words, for he didn't need to. He could tell from the concerned look: something was unright.

Vil nodded, eerily following, prepared for the worst.

Two paces he moved ere encountering a squad gathered in a circle around one man: in the hands of his comrade, his dead body lay. "Maurus," he felt the whisper in the wind: one dead stare up into the heavens, one weeping soul complying and six lamenting.

One death, he felt himself whisper, one death for ten fells, but who could have predicted his fall would be so devastating: his comrade-in-arms maybe, or maybe men of his legion, or I? For I understand the pain.

He knelt, his left hand resting on the weeping soldier's shoulder. "I will not say do not weep, for not only the gods should know of your pain."

Two minutes the lamenting continued, and then it turned to unbridled anger, such hate that would melt the darkest metal. The legionnaire got up, proceeding towards one of the fallen like a lion on a pinned gazelle.

"He!" he yelled in distress, "he is the one who smote down my friend dearest, and cracked a smile as he lay dying, blood oozing from his face! He was not man, but monster most foul!"

"If he was a monster then what did it make you?" questioned Vil. "He was dear to someone too, do you not feel?"

"You would not-" he lashed out, restraining himself at once thereof.

"I would not what?"

The soldier remained silent.

"I would not what?" asked Vil, this time in melancholy.

The soldier fell silent, "forgive me . . . I . . . forgot."

The two shared gleeful exchanges, the whole century looking in awe. They were both silenced; they dared not part their lips before four hundred pairs of eyes. A good look later, they parted. "Load him onto a cart; we shall bury him whence they may not find his body to desecrate."

The soldiers nodded, returning to their errands.

...

"How many foes fell, captain?" asked Mey.

"Ten fell, eleven have been wounded, and two dozen surrendered," a captain answered, "that makes a total of forty-five men."

"Impossible," said a chaos-hunter, "I checked the logs: forty-six are to be stationed here."

Their faces ran pale, "tarry, does that mean one of them escaped?"

They looked at each other in horror, had word gotten out of them, the consequences would have been severe: what would the king do should he know that his son chose to side with high-elves against him?

"Fear not," a guard shouted, dropping a barrel to the ground to reveal a wood-elf.

All the elves thence breathed a sigh of relief: it was not a case of escape, but mere cowardice. Vil chuckled, placing a palm on his breastplate to feel his heart even from beneath the silver scales.