Chapter 91: Laughter in the Dark and the Village’s Veil

Cough, cough, cough—

“Where . . .

where is this?”

The elven elder labored to pry open heavy lids, his murky pupils gummed with gore; voice parched and rasping, words slurred indistinct.

I knew well that under my near-life-squeezing “treatment,” his mind teetered at ruin’s brink—but time pressed like a blade; no luxury to mind a captive’s plight.

“Listen—

I have questions for you!”

I loomed close, pitching my voice high.

“I . . . have naught to say; kill or carve as you will.”

The elder’s clouded orbs rolled sluggish, sightless now; only his lips strained a hook, mocking perhaps, or self-mocking.

My brows knit tight; reining patience, I repeated:

“I said— clear your head, drop the feint . . . I know you can hear me. Tell me— is there an elven enclave near?”

“Heh . . . what, even now— I’ve yielded the guide— you greedy humans still seek . . . to probe what . . .”

The elder’s breath wisped faint, words halting.

Ere he finished, I lunged a hand, snagging his blood-crusted collar, hauling his mangled torso up a touch—forcing his haze to meet my eyes:

“So . . .

you handed over the guide of your own accord?

Even spilled how to wield it, full measure?”

The elder dangled from my grip like a soulless husk, reaction nil; only in flat, numbed monotone did he reply:

“The ancestors’ spirits . . . harbor no grudge ‘gainst coerced kin . . . she brings only . . . judgment . . .”

I beheld his gore-bathed form, arms sundered— fair to say, for most souls, under such torments, not just forced confession, but deeds defying heart and creed scarce a rarity.

Yet nameless ire still surged unchecked from my breast!

What of your clan’s peril, your elven pride?

Your mage’s unyielding honor?

Whither gone?!

“Hear me clear,”

I quelled the blaze, striving for calm conviction in tone,

“your folk, those elves—you grasp not? Your people face annihilation impendent! But if now you tell me—your enclave’s site, the entry’s way— perchance it yet redeems!”

I wrestled churning tides, hoping to rouse his wit a spark.

Yet the elder before me, as if privy to some cosmic jest—

from his throat rumbled staccato, eerie “keh-keh”s, twisting to a chill-inducing low chuckle:

“Humans . . . now sense fear? Seek . . . repentance? Too late . . . . . . the great ancestors’ doom descends . . . . . . watch but quiet . . . for the fated . . . . . . ruin! Ha ha ha—!”

He erupted in quaking mirth, shattered frame shuddering with the gale; I drew sharp breath, deeming the sight absurd beyond reason, unfathomable.

“This fool . . .  beyond parley!

He’s strayed from sanity—

but thus, sans elven guide—

how then to thwart Arendel and his . . .”

My heart hung suspended; the elder’s ghastly laugh ebbed at last, the wagon plunging to tomb-still, save his labored huffs; then slow, he spoke:

“The guide, the guide is yielded true . . .

I could not lead man-kin thither . . . but I know, at that beacon’s end awaiting them . . .

only . . . . . .

death.”

“Heh . . . behold your wretched state now, lives dangling by thread— still cling to those vaporous ancestor shades?”

I met his claim with scornful laugh, yet deep within, unease welled wordless.

I knew not the enclave’s wards’ full might, nor if he’d sown some lure-to-snare— whate’er, be it canon path of elven slaughter, or deviation’s twist, as he averred—ducal guards marching to graves— either end I could not brook!

“From the first, your deeds . . . profaned the ancestors’ shades.”

The elder seemed sunk in delirium, murmuring low,

“By ancient rite . . .

the chosen spirit-deer tours northern plains, ushering . . .

lineal shades homeward . . .

our holiest observance . . .

yet the deer’s soulfire quenched—not . . .

our fall to this, the shades’ rebuke for our lapse, revoking grace . . . but you slayers . . . shall not escape; by pact with silver-moon white wolf . . .

warding the shades’ rite-journey forms the bond’s clause— you humans . . . first forswore the vow . . .”

The elder’s ragged mutter drifted to my ears; I, standing by, struck as by lightning, grasped sudden:

“So— your elven roadblock stemmed from that deer?!”

Thus pieced— that spring hunt’s kill by Arendel’s shaft— no mere quarry, but key to some elven rite sacred?

Some prophetic sense scented the “slayer’s” nearness,

dispatching hands to bar our train . . .

bit by bit, the tangled threads seemed to unknot.

“You mean that deer your offering to ancestor shades?

You loosed it to roam wild, claiming our duty to shield your rites?

How ne’er heard I of such observance?

Not last year, nor prior—why this year alone such phantasm?!”

I could not forbear snapping sharp.

The elven elder wheezed threadbare:

“Our calendar heeds the Horned Star’s return . . .

not your human solar vulgarities . . .”

“Horned Star?

What ken?”

Swift I scoured memory.

Fortune: in Kritiya’s schooled lore, it lurked—a comet?

Streaking nightly veils with tail long, once per seven-to-eight decades . . .

“A rite every seven-eight decades—

why no forewarning?

Now mishap strikes, you lay blame at our door?!”

Ire nameless blazed; fist clenched bone-white.

But next breath, chill dread doused the blaze—

I seized sudden: not just squandered precious ticks on this elder, but gleaned sole surety: the guide yielded, no other ingress to the veiled elven stead.

“Thus, sans ‘guide’ . . .

how pierce that mystic-shrouded haven, to forestall the looming horror?

. . .

“My lord Viscount . . .

that old elf’s words—trustworthy truly?

I feel . . .

unease gnawing.”

A young soldier hushed,

“Aye,”

another gripped hilt tight, murmuring assent,

“those elven bowmen’s prowess you witnessed—we fear them not, but this wood deep and leaf-thick—

what if ambuscade . . .”

In midnight’s primal wood, damp of loam and rot-leaf hung thick.

Dozens of pine torches flickered defiant in the black, popping soft; their sullen glow limned profiles half-veiled by helms—youth and strain unmasked.

Viscount Arendel halted; his gaze swept the faithful behind.

Torch-shadows danced his chiseled features.

“Vigilance serves, but shun excess doubt.”

He stated level,

“The old one’s pried lore hangs coherent—

those ambush mages and archers hailed from the Highland heartland.

This stead before us—

no elven cradle . . .”

As he spoke, hand rose to point ahead;

“Nay, a fringe hamlet, aloof from the main—

elves tarrying brief.

Thus, sentries few, if any—and like as not the aged and frail, minding the stead.”

“Ah, so . . .

the Viscount not just doughty in arms, but sage in stratagem—piercing the feint ere.”

The asker eased, tone laced admiring.

Arendel raised palm slight, stemming flattery’s tide; eyes keen on the item in hand—odd-formed twig, aglow soft with spell-light, pointing sure and dim.

“Silence!”

He hissed low, tone light yet iron.

The squad froze instant, breaths reined soft.

Arendel inhaled deep, parting slow the dew-kissed boughs before.

Next instant, a vista wondrous yawned.

No ramparts, no watchtowers—no overt craft of ward.

Elegant timber huts nestled clever ‘twixt ancient boles, or hewn to nature’s crags—as if grown innate from the wood.

Soft glows, moss-born or fungal, dotted sparse the hamlet, weaving calm, serene—a dream unbarred, nigh defenseless.

“My lord Viscount . . .

this . . .

the fabled elven realm . . .”

A soldier gasped, scarce hushed, gaping slack at the verse-wrought scene.

Arendel turned slow; torch-gleam delved his deep eyes.

He surveyed each face turned his—strained, yet thrilled faint—and with voice clear, low, meted the final charge, word by weighty word:

“Hear and heed—

our aim: seize those assaultants fled that day—

those shameless affronts must pay dear; beyond, heed no extraneous!

Lawbreakers!

By code, condemn!”