Vendril: Midnight Excursions

Vendril watched the hooded figures slip across the rooftop, then stood up and followed, mimicking their movements as he slipped in among them. There were six of them, and for a moment he seemed a seventh. Then, with a light touch of silence and the quick flick of a blade, he left the sixth in the shadow of an enclosed stairwell and became the sixth himself. 

He'd come up to the roof because being in high places helped him relax and think. He hadn't intended to thwart an assassination, but as long as he had the opportunity...

Ahead of them, the roof ended at a low stone wall. Beyond that, it dropped to a lower roof, and from there to the training yards at the center of the temple. The intruders had come equipped with ropes and grappling hooks padded with strips of cloth to make as little noise as possible. It wasn't a bad approach; very likely nobody would have noticed if Vendril hadn't been standing on the roof already. 

He darted to one side and murdered another would-be assassin, leaving the corpse in a pool of shadow. The dagger was new, as was the bracer on his left forearm where it usually rested. It was an artifact in two pieces, the weapon and protection of the Shadow of the Clan. 

Five figures reached the inner edge of the roof at carefully-spaced intervals, and for all that his garments didn't quite match theirs, Vendril stood and moved as one of them. There was a momentary pause as they stopped to assess their course. Then the one on the end gestured-- and caught himself, realizing that one of his companions was missing. 

By then, though, two of the assassins were already over the wall and down, leaving behind ropes hooded to the stone wall. 

Vendril threw the dagger. It should have been an impossible shot, but the dagger was enchanted to fly further than an ordinary blade. It struck the leader and he staggered; the remaining assassin turned, silently drawing a pair of daggers. Vendril drew his rapier as the dagger returned to his hand. 

The assassins on the lower roof had realized something was wrong; Vendril could hear the faint scuffing as they came back up their ropes, but it was too late to matter. The rapier did its work, and the assassin in front of him fell: uncut, but too battered to move any further. That one would live. He ducked aside as a trio of darts flashed past him, probably tipped with something horrible, and used the bracer to make himself invisible as the other two scrambled over the edge and onto the upper roof. 

They were well-trained, and knew how to work as a team; they immediately formed a triangle, putting their backs to each other. 

Vendril took a moment to pick a target and judge his throw; then he put the dagger into the back of someone's neck. The assassin staggered and collapsed, and the other two turned on Vendril: attacking had made him visible again. 

He dodged another trio of poisoned darts, but took a dagger to the shoulder. Damn it. They moved in, trying to flank him, but he caught the leader with his rapier and he -- no, she --  fell. The remaining assassin attacked desperately, but he was scared now and it threw off his technique. Vendril took him down with the rapier as well. 

So: six assassins, three dead and three still alive. He could turn them over to Vigo, of course, but no. He remembered too well what that had been like. And there were other ways to get information. 

A healing potion took care of the cut on his arm, and a few minutes of careful searching relieved the assassins of their equipment. He used their own ropes to tie up the survivors, and their own hooks to hang them off the side of the temple. 

* * *

"You can't make me talk," said the assassin. The man was human, his face red as he hung upside down. "Kill me and get it over with."

Vendril leaned out from the wall, sitting comfortably in the rope harness he'd tied for himself. "No," he said. "That's not how this works. I know you'd rather die than tell me who hired you. I also know that given enough persuasion, you'll tell me anything I want to hear. But I don't have that kind of patience, and I don't enjoy that kind of work. So if you don't tell me what I want to know..." He nudged the man's shoulder with his boot, turning him so that he could see the other two captives. "...I'm going to drop him, just to show you that I'm serious. And then, if you still don't answer, I'm going to drop her." 

He was betting that would do it. The assassin might not fear his own death, but getting his companion and then his leader killed would be something else again. 

"You won't do it," the man said. 

Vendril laughed and kicked off the wall, swinging out and coming back in beside the next assassin. "No," said this man. "Please. Not like this."

Vendril took hold of the rope; the dagger was in his hand, its magically-sharp edge parting strands already as he touched it to the rope. Don't make me do this, he thought, but he let nothing but utter indifference show on his face. "Your call." He moved the blade, and the fibers started to part. 

"Wait!" yelled the woman. "Just-- just wait!" She was struggling against her bonds. Useless, since the best she could hope for would be to free herself and fall to her death. 

Vendril turned his head to look at her. 

"They can't tell you," she said. "They don't know. I don't know."

"What," asked Vendril, "do you know?"

"Jacqueline Bouvier," she said immediately. "That's who we were sent for. She's here in the temple somewhere, spying for her father."

Vendril decided not to argue over the details. "I know," he said. 

"Then you know we have to kill her. We're here to help the king, not to... not to kill him."

Well, that's a refreshing change. "I don't think the king will see it that way," he said thoughtfully. "He knows who she is, and he seems quite taken with her. And Giles Bouvier has been reconciled, and sworn loyalty to the Fontaine heir."

"He... what?" The woman struggled briefly, then settled again. 

"Someone's been feeding you bad information," Vendril told her. "Though I suppose the news wouldn't reach Brightland all that quickly."

The woman stared at him, and he knew he'd guessed correctly. "Benoit?" he asked. 

She nodded reluctantly. "Lara Benoit. That's how you should know we wouldn't..."

Vendril nodded. "Very well. Try to stay still. I'm going to fetch a couple of big, strong paladins to haul the three of you back up."

* * *

"We're in your debt," said Lara Benoit, looking at Vendril and then down at Brother Birno. Behind her, five other hired killers murmured their thanks. Three of them were still weak from resurrection, but they were all on their feet. 

"Properly," said Birno, who had done the resurrections himself, "justice should be done for your attempt at murder."

The woman flinched but didn't look away. "Then let it come for the one who hired us -- and who let us think that we were assisting the king's cause. The one who failed to mention that the Silver Fox was guarding this hen house."

Vendril raised his eyebrows. 

"Tabor saw your ring," she told him, then stepped forward and proffered a dagger. 

Vendril took it and looked it over. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, with Benoit carved into the guard. "If you ever find yourself in need of aid," Lara said, "present that blade to any of our people, and you'll have it. I won't say it was a pleasure, but..." She shrugged. "Sometimes it's good to meet your heroes."

Vendril: A Gift from the Clan, Part Four

It was late and the dining hall was empty, but Aesa and Vendril had disappeared into the kitchens and returned with trays of bread, cheeses, and some fruit preserves. Doubtless the cooks would complain in the morning, but it wouldn't be right not to feed their guests.

Aviril pulled a loaf of bread from the stack and offered it to Tavros. "Will you break bread with us, Your Majesty?"

Tavros took the loaf, broke a chunk off the end, and handed it back. "It will be a pleasure."

Aviril broke off a somewhat larger piece for himself, then handed it to the younger woman beside him and reached for the jar of cherry preserve. She followed suit, taking a piece and passing it down; the scowling man beside her took the end, nodded, and pulled a fresh piece of bread to hand to the woman at the next seat down.  

"We are grateful for your hospitality," said the woman beside Aviril, who had given her name as Talyra.

"It would hardly be right not to welcome you after you came all this way," said Tavros. "Even if you had your own reasons for the journey."

The man beside Talyra -- Valaar, his name was -- grunted softly, but everyone ignored him so Tavros did likewise. Aviril said, "It is a rare pleasure to meet the Fontaine heir. Our clan has long been loyal to the throne, though we show it mainly by sending some of our number to support the force at Fort Dido. The attempt by Giles Bouvier to take over has been troubling, but thus far we have not suffered for refusing to come to his assistance."

"Would you come to mine?" asked Tavros, sounding more curious than anything else.

"As we could," answered the elder, cautiously. "Understand that I lack the authority to negotiate; I was sent for... other reasons." 

Tavros nodded. 

"That said... Yes, we would help as we could. Some archers, some scouts, some dark-walkers... And, of course, you have the loyalty of our Sacred Shadow. Even so, we are not a military force. We are a clan of related families. We pay little in taxes, for we produce little that humans consider valuable; we do not hold lands; and we live... strategically. But for all that, we do pay when assessment comes."

"I would not ask more," Tavros said simply, and took a bite from the bread in his hand. 

Aviril finished layering the cherry conserve on his own bread, and took a bite as well. 

"Giles Bouvier is a concern for me as well," Tavros said, when he had finished swallowing. "Perhaps when you return, your clan might send someone to speak with me officially. The assistance you spoke of... Bouvier has been moving almost unopposed, and I would like to see his power-seeking slowed. Were some of his food and materiel to disappear, perhaps, or his wagons to develop a rash of broken wheels... I'm sure we could work out some suitable compensation for anyone willing to risk such attempts."

Aviril looked thoughtful. "Again I tell you, I cannot pledge my clan. Still, I think the elders would be amenable to some such arrangement. Likely they will send someone."

"Have them send someone if Bouvier comes after your clan as well," Tavros said quietly. "I will send what aid I can."

Aviril glanced at Vendril, who nodded back with a slight, almost invisible movement of his head.

"It is well," he said. "Now come, tell us of yourself, and we will tell you of our people, and in the morning we will depart for home."

Vendril is a mix of ranger and rogue, about two parts ranger to one part rogue. He is also now the Sacred Shadow of his clan, which gives him some additional resources. Talyra, I think, took a single level of rogue and then switched to wizard; she's perfectly capable of going Full Wizard for blasting or buffing or conjuring, she just prefers to be more subtle. Valaar is basically a pure ranger, except that in the Clan tradition rangers get sneak attack instead of favored enemy. Aviril is, I think, a wizard turned loremaster.

Vendril: A Gift from the Clan, Part Three

"Come in!" called the voice, and Vendril swung the door open:

"Your Majesty? A small delegation has arrived..."

Tavros turned, stared, frowned for a brief moment, and then said: "So it's true. I'd heard rumors that the Silver Fox was still here. What have you been up to?"

Vendril kept his expression blank, as much a mask as the fox had ever been. "This delegation..."

"Now?" Tavros glanced at the window of his small cell. He wasn't supposed to be here -- Vigo hated when he did this -- but Vendril knew he stayed here as often as he could manage. And the half-dragon didn't seem irritated, merely surprised. 

"They came under cover of darkness," Vendril explained. "They come from my clan -- not Duendewood elves, but dwellers along the coasts around the Forbidden Desert."

Tavros looked at his quill, then moved it away from the parchment before it could drop the ball of ink gathering at its tip. He wiped it and placed it back in its holder, then capped the bottle of ink. "They came to see me?" he asked.

Vendril suppressed a wince. "Not exactly, Majesty. They came seeking me, but with that matter resolved I thought they should speak with you as well."

"Well... all right," said Tavros, and rose. He was still in his armor, still wearing his sword. If he reclaimed the throne he would be a warrior-king, and not some spoiled child whose advisors served only to remind him how wise he truly was. "Have they eaten? We could meet in the dining hall, if they have not."

Vendril managed not to shake his head. For all the airs that Vigo wished to force on the half-dragon heir... he was a paladin at heart, with a paladin's priorities. Still, unlike the nobles, Vendril's clan would appreciate that. "I'll bring them there."

He'd thought to give Tavros a few minutes to prepare and be waiting when his clan-mates entered, but Tavros simply nodded and said, "I'll come with you."

Oh yes, Vigo is going to be most disappointed. The Silver Fox suppressed a grin at the thought.

Vendril: A Gift from the Clan, Part Two

Vendril had his rapier out and was lunging at Valaar. In the same motion, his free hand sent a dagger spinning through the air towards Talyra. He'd expected them both to come at him at once, but Talyra dodged his knife by lunging at Valaar as well. Valaar came up with a pair of shortswords, parrying madly, and managed to cut Talyra once before she got inside his guard and traced a line of blood up his arm with her dagger. 

Then Vendril's rapier connected, and Valaar staggered back, shaking out his shoulder. "That--" He twisted around Talyra, trying to put her between himself and Vendril, but she moved with him, reflexively denying Vendril a shot at her back. She attacked him again, and for a moment they merged into a blur of motion, weapons sliding against and around each other so quickly that Vendril couldn't focus on a target. 

He lunged again anyway, stabbing with the rapier and drawing a fresh dagger. 

Valaar took the blow and collapsed, and Talyra stepped away from him, wariness in every line of her body. "Now how did you manage that?"

Her familiar appeared behind him, becoming suddenly visible as it reached out to attempt an attack. Vendril ducked aside, and it missed, cursed, and flapped away again. He'd been expecting that; he hadn't forgotten that for all that Talyra trained in stealth, she was also quite adept as a wizard. He also remembered that Talyra could work her magics without speaking or gesturing, and had doubtless used that skill to prepare in advance for this encounter. 

She didn't attack immediately, though, and Vendril circled warily. "I was right," she said. "It should be me, but if it isn't me it should be you." 

Vendril glanced around, but her familiar -- an imp -- was invisible again. He wished he was wearing his mask; he could have given the little demon quite a surprise. "For the clan," he said simply, and stepped in. 

She turned his rapier with the blade of her dagger, holding it close against her forearm in a reverse grip, then stepped in closer to try to stab him. He blocked her second dagger with his own, rolled the rapier blade around her forearm, and stabbed down at her gut; she raised her arm beneath it, forcing the point away, and he rocked back to make room for his longer blade, then tried a light stab of the sort known as pointing. 

Talyra hopped up and back to keep her knees out of the way; the blades of her daggers weren't long enough to block a low-line attack. She came in again immediately, blades shifting and stabbing, and Vendril felt one of them open a line of fire across the back of his forearm. He flinched away immediately, and managed to slip loose from magic that the blade released. Lucky, lucky... That magic would have pinned him in place, left him open for Talyra to finish. 

She must have put everything she had into preparing for this, all of it done without words or movements. Talyra was more mage than rogue, and might have done better to stand back and take him with spells; but perhaps she wanted to prove that she could hold her own in this sort of close combat. 

Then Valaar came up from the ground and slammed into Talyra's side, just as her familiar appeared again and touched Vendril's shoulder with the force of a small thunderbolt. He staggered, twisted, and cut with his rapier; the imp fell to the ground, stunned. Talyra, wholly surprised by Valaar's deception and the fall of her familiar, looked down at the shortsword in her gut, and crumpled to the ground as well. 

"Of course you'd both be afraid of me," snarled Valaar, and came at Vendril. He seemed surprised when Vendril flicked his blade aside and extended, just in time to let Valaar run onto the tip of his rapier. Valaar staggered back, shaking his head, looking down at his chest and not seeing any blood. 

In that brief moment of distraction, Vendril leaned in with his other hand-- not attacking with his dagger, but touching the back of Valaar's right hand with his silver ring.

Valaar snarled again and shook his hand as if bee-stung. "What was that?" he demanded. 

"A battle-kiss," Vendril told him. "Come and see what it does."

Valaar attacked, but now his blows were rough and imprecise; his blades wanted to jerk back, to turn aside. His body no longer seemed willing to attack, however much he demanded it. And when Vendril leaned in and lined up his rapier, his hands were slow to bring his swords across to defend. That dull-gray metal blade poked him in the chest: once, twice, a third time. Darkness closed in around the edges of his vision, and Valaar went down. 

Vendril sighed, sheathed his rapier, then bent down and sliced Valaar's cheek with his dagger. It wasn't much of a wound, just enough to draw blood and perhaps leave an interesting scar. Then he stepped back quickly, looked at his uncle Aviril, and said: "Blood has been shed. The terms are met."

Aviril clapped his hands. "The terms are met. The Choosing is finished."

Vendril's rapier is magic, and is imbued with the Merciful enchantment: it deals non-lethal damage unless he commands otherwise. When Vendril is out for blood, he uses daggers instead.

Vendril: A Gift from the Clan, Part One

Vendril was throwing knives in the practice yard of the Temple of Amun when a voice behind him said, "Master Fox?"

He turned easily, then nodded down to the halfling priest Birno, with whom he'd passed a couple of pleasant evenings at cards and stones. "Master Birno?"

The halfling quirked a grin. "Could I borrow you for a small matter? I have a group of elves at the gates, but they won't come inside. They're looking for someone, and it might be you -- if your true name is Vendril."

Birno knew damned well that the Silver Fox's true name was Vendril, but the Abbess had decided that it was better to keep that a secret from the townsfolk, and so half the temple didn't know or had grown confused. The other half, including Birno, was cheerfully pretending to have no idea as to the true identity of the Silver Fox, even if he'd deigned to take shelter among them. 

So Vendril frowned and nodded. "I'll see what I can do," he said, and they left the practice yard and made their way back to the gate.

There was indeed a group of elves there, and they were indeed familiar.

"Uncle Aviril," Vendril said quietly, and offered a bow. 

The elf regarded him without expression. There were others gathered behind him, a dozen or so cousins of varying degrees, and they bowed politely while the older man remained still. "I see you, Vendril. I call you forth."

Vendril stepped forward automatically. "I answer. What is the matter, Uncle?"

"The matter is the Choosing," said Aviril. "The Tellers of the Clan have read the signs, and they say the time has come again. The Clan must have its Sacred Shadow." 

Vendril nodded. Beside him, the halfling priest Birno said, "Should I call for...?"

Vendril shook his head. "No. Only step back, and witness. This is not secret, but it is sacred." 

"Ah," said Birno. A moment later, with unexpected and devastating insight, he asked: "Then do you wish me to send for Aesa?"

Vendril hesitated, then nodded. 

Aviril held himself still as Birno withdrew, and pulled in one of the acolytes to carry the message. As the young man hurried away, the elder elf asked: "And who is Aesa?"

"My beloved," answered Vendril. "A priestess of Amun. You will see momentarily."

"Let it be so," Aviril said, and nodded sententiously. "All involved should witness."

"And who all," asked Vendril, "is involved?"

One of his cousins straightened, grinning like a wolf. "Vendril," she said. "I hadn't expected you to be hiding here."

He shrugged. "The clever hunter places himself where the prey doesn't expect him. Talyra, it is good to see you. You were selected?"

She nodded. 

"Well earned. It will be a pleasure."

"Tchah!" said a male voice, and both Vendril and Talyra turned to look at their cousin Valaar. "Vendril, you should withdraw your claim. You do not serve the clan; you are much too far away."

The elder Aviril drew breath, but Vendril spoke first: "I did not make my claim," he said. "It is not my place to withdraw it. I serve as best I may. If you fear to face me, perhaps you should withdraw your own."

Valaar scowled. "I do not fear to face you, Cousin." 

Vendril offered him a bow. "Then it will be a pleasure to face you as well."

Aesa came into the gatehouse then, but stopped beside Birno to regard the scene. Vendril could see his kin evaluating her, feel their reactions, but he held himself completely still and waited. She came forward after a moment, stopped just behind his right shoulder. "May I fight beside you?"

Vendril shook his head. "This is a matter of individual prowess, but you are my beloved and you should witness it."

There was a momentary pause while Aesa digested that. Then she nodded. "You know I trust you." She stepped back, paused, and added in very precise Elvish: "Kick their asses into next week." Then she went to stand beside Birno. 

"Is there any further reason to delay?" asked Aviril. It was a ritual inquiry. 

Vendril held no doubt that his own father had submitted his name as a candidate, and refused to either withdraw it or summon him back. That was why the challengers had come here. "I find myself suitably armed," he said. "I am prepared to begin."

"Likewise," said Talyra. 

"At last," said Valaar. "I stand ready."

"Very well," said Aviril. He stepped back, drawing the remaining cousins with him. "Let the will of the gods be written in blood. Begin."

Caristhium: A Question and an Offer

"Did you know he was going to do that?" asked Anica, looking across the table at Aesa. 

"No," said Aesa. "Well... maybe. That's why I used Hold Person on Valinir." 

"I thought he'd gone back to... whatever he was doing."

"I don't think so," Aesa told her. "He's lost the companions he had, and the capital is... dangerous, even for him. He got Tavros and the others out, and he's been here ever since. Or nearby, anyway."

They were back in the Temple of Amun, just outside of Caristhium, reunited with their children and Anica's lovers. Tarric and Werendril were sitting beside them, and Rune and Rose were buckled into raised seats that strapped to the wooden benches. 

"What happened?" asked Werendril, just as Tarric asked: "Who are we talking about?"

Anica shook her head, frowning slightly. "Aesa and I went out to take care of those bandits in the savage hills," she said, "and we'd just lured them in for a proper battle when the Silver Fox showed up and took them all prisoner."

"You did what?" asked Tarric. "That's why the two of you were gone?"

"We still have our duties," Aesa said firmly. 

Tarric shook his head. "I just don't like the idea of you endangering yourselves. Either of you."

"Too bad," said Anica sharply.

Werendril put a hand on Tarric's shoulder. "We can be concerned," he observed, "without trying to tell you that you shouldn't do it."

Anica hesitated, then settled back.  "...That's fair."

"I was concerned too," said Vendril, setting a plate down beside Aesa and turning a bland face to the others, who were gaping with astonishment. He turned his attention to Anica. "Still, I'm sorry if I stole your thunder, Paladin of Amun."

Anica closed her mouth, opened it again, then closed it yet again. Finally she said, "Much as it pains me to say it, I think it's better that you were there. The elves all survived, and neither of us got stuck with arrows. That's an outcome to be wished for."

Aesa reached over and clasped Vendril's hand, smiling at him. He smiled back, briefly, then leaned over and kissed her cheek. Werendril and Tarric exchanged a quick glance, then nodded and set to eating while Anica just stared.

Caristhium: A Small Band

The cart rolled steadily along the road, pulled by a single ox, and Aesa shifted her weight on the wooden bench and wished she'd thought to add a cushion to it before starting out. She wore the dark coat and pants of a modestly successful trader, and a broad-rimmed hat that was supposed to help hide the fact that she wasn't quite as male as she trying to appear. 

There were bandits on the road as it passed through the savage hills -- elves, according to the reports, probably the remnants of the ones who had tried to take over Caristhium, gathered together with a few others. They really should have stayed, Aesa thought. Martini would have had them worked into shape as city guards. Of course, the guards were all terrified of Martini, but it was the sort of terror that meant that they'd follow her into the face of death itself. 

I wish I knew how to do that, Aesa thought, idly watching the road ahead, and that was when she came far enough around the latest curve to find that someone had managed to lay a mid-sized tree across the road, almost as if it had fallen there. 

She sighed, and make a clicking noise for the ox, who obediently slowed. 

Muttering to herself and gesturing, she set the brake and climbed down from the cart, then walked over to the fallen tree. It was browning, a little too long-dead to be a convincing recent fall, but maybe the elves didn't want to keep cutting down fresh trees for their banditry. She'd left her blade under the bench; she made better bait that way. 

"Your pardon for interrupting your journey, good trader," said a voice, and Aesa made herself whip around. 

It was an elf, of course -- a common elf, proud and graceful, but nowhere near so formidable as Ruin or Werendril. He was tall and slender, lithe and lean, with soft grey hair that was almost silver and skin the color of honey. "My friends and I, we have need of your cart. More need than you, I fear. Still, we are not unreasonable. If you walk away now, no harm will come to you." 

"A gentlemanly highwayman," Aesa said, looking carefully around. She could see another elf on the road behind the cart, and one just past the fallen tree; all three were holding longbows. "I was hoping to find you here." 

He stiffened. "Were you?" 

Anica sat up from beneath a half-roll of cloth in the back of the cart, reached around under the bench, and tossed Aesa her falchion. Aesa nearly fumbled catching it, but managed to get her hands around it and bring it into a ready position. She unclasped the cover, but didn't draw it yet. "May I have your name, good sir bandit?"

He shrugged. "Valinir Goldstem." 

"Aesa Borrington," she replied. From the back of the cart, Anica added: "Anica desAmun." 

"Very well," said the bandit. "You've found us, and I've offered my name. What is it exactly that you have in mind? There are still only two of you, and twenty of us." 

Anica laughed, apparently delighted, and Valinir glanced at her. 

"An end to your banditry," Aesa said. "The True King Mythandril calls you to service."

The elf shifted, raised his bow. "You," he said. "You claim to speak for the True King?"

Aesa spoke the spell she'd been holding ready, and Valinir fell as if pollaxed. The archer to her left, beyond the fallen tree, was already down; Anica hopped off the back of the cart and headed for the woman on the road behind it. An arrow shattered against her shield as she approached. 

"Archers!" called the bandit woman. "Damn you, archers! Cut them down! Now!"

"They can't," said a soft voice, and Aesa had the rare pleasure of seeing Anica startle back. There was a man standing behind the bandit woman on the road, rapier drawn, his face hidden by a fox mask. She spun, drawing an arrow lightning-fast. 

The fox-masked man behind her didn't so much cut her bowstring as hold his blade in place and let her swing the string across its edge. She stood still for a moment, staring, and no doubt feeling the point against her throat. "Come," he said. "We have better work than this."

The woman swallowed. "The Silver Fox?"

Vendril nodded. "The True King lives, and he calls to his own. Let us gather your companions. You are summoned."

"But--" She looked around, almost desperately. 

"They are alive," whispered Vendril. "You, Valinir, the five archers who thought they were hidden in the trees. I do not kill our own kind, not without the greatest need."

"My lord," the elf breathed, and dropped to her knees. "Command me. Take us to our king."

Slack-jawed with shock, Anica looked back at Aesa, but Aesa could only shrug.

Tavros: Aftershocks

"Tavros?" asked Aesa gently.

There was a balcony high on the western wall of the citadel that was the Temple of Amun -- not a large balcony, but large enough to hold a wide wooden bench, and placed so that it overlooked Caristhium itself and offered a brilliant view of the sunset. Tavros was seated on one side of the bench, his battered sword leaning against it in easy reach, a bottle in his right hand. He didn't glance back, but he lifted the bottle and used it to motion her forward. 

The setting sun had turned the clouds into a painter's pallet, and nobody else was around. Aesa came forward and matched him, taking a seat on the far side of the bench and placing her new falchion -- his former weapon -- so that it leaned against the outside arm of the bench. "Are you all right?" she asked quietly. 

Tavros shrugged and took a long drink from the bottle. He hesitated, then took another drink, and finally said: "I don't know. I think so. But this..." he waved his free arm around vaguely, "...is a lot to take in."

"How so?" asked Aesa. She thought she could guess, but maybe Tavros needed someone to talk to about it. He and Ruin seemed to be friends, which had come as a profound relief to her, but Ruin was busy coming to terms with being the parent of two young children; his mind was elsewhere. And Martini, Marshall, Ruin, and Leira all had their own concerns as well. 

"My mother is dead," said Tavros. "Start with that. Even if we can bring her back, it's a shock. I never imagined her being... mortal. And Ruin told me something of what happened between him, and you, and Anica... but learning that you both had his children was nearly as big a shock for me as it was for him -- or for you, I've little doubt."

"It was certainly something," Aesa said, glancing sardonically up at the sky. "But go on." 

Tavros shrugged and took another long drink. "I'm not the only one in mourning," he said. "Ruin's mother, Martini's brother... I knew him. I didn't entirely trust him, but I liked him." Something sharp and metallic flashed past his head, and Aesa flinched away; but Tavros didn't react. "Sol Povos is overrun with demons, and flooded with the same sort of perpetual storm that plagued Fanaxia, and I might be the sole heir to its throne... if we can somehow defeat this werebear barbarian that Vigo tells me occupies it now, possibly along with her allies the necromancer and the vampiric sorcerer. And Vigo and Dante are here... those are two worlds I never expected to collide." 

He paused, took another pull from the bottle. "Should I keep going?"

"I think," said Aesa, "that you should hand me that bottle." 

He shrugged and passed it over, and she poured a bit down her throat before passing it back. The stuff was like liquid fire -- gnomish whiskey, she thought. It was a good flavor, but Tavros was drinking it like it was water. But then, Tavros was half-dragon. I'll know he's had too much when the stuff makes him breathe fire instead of ice. "Yes," she said, and wiped her lips. "I think you should keep going."

"As you wish," he said, and paused. "The Silver Fox, an outlaw famous for rescuing elves from under the noses of the King's Archons, turns out to be one of Geddy's former companions from Fort Dedo, an elvish scout named Vendril from a border clan loyal to the throne. But, of course, he vanished before we reached Caristhium, possibly because he knows Vigo and Dante are here and he doesn't want to talk to them. Or possibly because he has other business elsewhere." He took a long drink, then added: "Geddy is suddenly elderly, and Eva -- who was described to me as a little girl -- is full grown."

Aesa nodded sympathetically. 

"And you," he said, turning his head to look at her and offering the bottle again, "are now a battle priest -- in part, I'm told, because of Ruin." 

Aesa nodded. "I don't think he was any less surprised than you are, for all that he made the suggestion."

"Anyway..." said Tavros, and then trailed off. After a moment he asked, "Shouldn't you be looking after Rose?" 

Aesa watched the sunset. "She'll be fine," she said. "Ruin has her."

"Does he?" asked Tavros, and found that he was oddly satisfied by this turn of events. "Good."

"...And we both thought I should come and check on you."

She watched Tavros' eyes flutter closed at that, but couldn't read the emotion behind the gesture. "Yes, well..." he made a vague gesture with the bottle in his hand. "It's been a lot."

"So what are you going to do about it?" Aesa asked. 

Tavros tilted his head, watching the sunset thoughtfully. "Become the King in the East," he said. "I hate it, I don't want the title or the throne, and I'm desperately afraid that if we do somehow pull this off I'll bugger the politics of it seven ways from swordspoint... but there's nobody else, and no other way to restore order. We do what we can with what we have, and hold to the faith that it's all for the best."

"Yes." Aesa nodded encouragingly. "You want some advice?" 

"I am prepared," said Tavros, with a sort of half-drunk gravitas, "to listen to anything you have to offer."

"Sleep it off," Aesa said. "Sleep as long as you need. Not so much for the whiskey, as for everything else. Then go back to the chapel, and spend a while in prayer and contemplation. Center yourself. Then visit the Chapel of All, and offer your prayers to Demeter as well."

Tavros nodded slowly. "That... that is well-taken."

Aesa smiled. "And more than anything else, don't forget that you have friends and allies, people who care about you. You, Tavros -- not the throne, not the kingdom, not some role you might be forced to play or some power and wealth you might inherit. We might not be able to help you against the Solari Hunters, but there are things we can do. And Vigo isn't the only schemer here: the Abbess is sharp and subtle, and doubtless a great deal more principled. Let her counsel you as well."

Tavros nodded and rose from the bench, collecting his sword and buckling it onto his belt. The sun was almost down, the bottle almost empty, and he felt drained of emotion... but in a good way. Yes. Time to settle in, and begin again. "You've grown," he told Aesa. "As a woman, and as a cleric. It's good to see it."

"Do you know," she asked, "that this bench is where I first met you and Ruin both? It's a good place. Almost sacred, for me."

"It is a good place," said Tavros. "Good night."

"Good night," returned Aesa. 

She watched the last sliver of sun slip below the horizon, and the clouds darken into reds and purples. 

Behind her, a deep, gravelly voice grumbled: "I didn't vanish. Your Tavros just hasn't realized that I'm still around."

Aesa started. Then, without turning, she asked: "Vendril?"

A moment later the legendary elf was sitting beside her on the bench. "It's good to meet you," he said.

Vendril: Towns and Guilds

(Another plot-advancing, world-building contribution from our DM. Vendril was the rogue/ranger who was originally part of the "good" party who supported Sol Povos and its king. He comes from a border clan of elves -- not from Duendewood -- and his family has a tradition of military service. It's their way of showing loyalty and contributing to the greater good.)

Vendril slid cautiously into the tavern, making sure to close the door quietly behind him. He didn’t like this. No, he didn’t like this at all. Luckily, the tavern was quite busy.

In the time he’d spent in Solstar, one thing he’d learned was that the guilds were everywhere. No matter how stealthy he was, or how much care he took to cover his tracks, they were always right there, crawling up his ass with their army of spies and informants, like well-organized cockroaches. In truth, he mostly got along with the major guilds, and all had attempted to recruit him at one time or another.  He rebuffed the offers, of course; he was not here for profit. Still, it seemed they held a certain respect for him, and it afforded him a pass in most matters. But now they’d just vanished. And that was something Vendril did not like at all.

Across the room he saw the man he was looking for: Erwin Fourfoot, former guildmember and insufferable gossip. Vendril made two passes of the room and counted to five hundred before making his way to Erwin’s table, drink in hand. The man smiled as soon as Vendril sat down.

“So nice of ‘e to be joining meh,” Erwin drawled between his broken teeth.

“Likewise,” Vendril replied.

“I thought you’d ne’er be coming o’er. I thought per’aps you ain’t seen me.”

Vendril glared at him, “Of course I saw you. But I was being inconspicuous. Anybody in here could be an informant of one of the many parties who think they run this city.”

“Oh, ‘e mean the guilds. Well ain’t no need worry ‘bout them no more.”

“Is that so?”

“That so.”

Vendril gave him a hard stare and finally let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine, how much?”

“10 gold.”

Vendril reached for his purse.

“And a bottle of ‘at wine that noble lady be drink’n o’er there.”

Vendril squinted across the bar at the well-dressed lady, sipping deep burgundy wine from a real glass. His eyebrows went up, “That’s a 537 red from Summerwynne! It’s worth well more than the 10 gold!”

“I ain’t care how much it cost, I ain’t ne’er had fine wine a’fore. I wanna taste it.”

“Gods,” Vendril swore, “what a waste of time. Look, how about I just make it 15 gold and we call it a day, eh? Think how much heavier your purse will be.”

“10 gold,” Erwin insisted, “and m’ wine.”

Vendril grunted and made his way to the bar. He was right – the 21-year-old vintage cost over triple what he was paying the man for information. Cursing Erwin for an idiot, he purchased the bottle and took it to Erwin, whose eyes lit up like a child receiving candy. He immediately poured wine into the fine glass all the way to the brim and chugged it down in a single motion, his Adam’s apple pulsing with each gulp. It was a stark contrast to the lady across the room, carefully nursing her drink.

“Well?” Vendril asked.

Erwin poured a second glass – also to the brim – and continued chugging the criminally expensive wine. “Damn, this is good!” he exclaimed, spewing droplets of wine onto the table.

“My information,” Vendril insisted.

“Yes, yes. The guilds be gone ‘cause they all in Brightland.”

“What? That doesn’t make any sense. Brightland was just sacked by that necromancer and his evil army.”

“Well, see, that was last month. Our good guild friends, well they be enterprising fellows. They sees an opportunity when it presents itself.”

“Wait,” Vendril gasped. He was sure his jaw dropped all the way to table. “Are you saying the guilds took over Brightland?”

Erwin intimated a toast to show his approval, “That’s right. And why not? Ain’t nobody else ruling it.”

Vendril sat back in his chair, stunned. It was one of the craziest and most obvious things he’d ever heard, all at the same time. It seemed the five major guilds had pounced on the opportunity to take over the ruler-less county.

“I hear,” Erwin belched, “that the common folk sing their praises in the street. They’ve set the whole city to right, arranged for food, protection, all o’ it. I heard the common folk say that the be better rulers than the right proper lords!”

Vendril couldn’t help chuckling as he shook his head. Who better to run a city? The guilds had extremely well-organized networks and a strong, built-in sense of hierarchy. On top of that, they had resources and connections. And unlike the nobles before them, they cared nothing for divine right or the sanctity of nobility. They’d have the city and its businesses back up and running in no time. To the common folk, it would probably seem as if the war had never happened. And once the war was over? Well, he suspected the king might not be so quick to displace those generating more tax income than previously enjoyed.

“See, Brightland’s the place to be, I says, not like Flowerhedge,” Erwin hiccupped, “overrun by vampires.”

Vendril’s eyes darted to the man. He was drunk now, rocking back and forth in his seat. Vendril immediately ordered another bottle of wine – a younger vintage, much cheaper, but in the same bottle with the same label. Erwin squealed like a girl when it was delivered.

In the end, it turned out to be a much more profitable night than Vendril had anticipated. One more bottle of cheap wine was enough to milk Erwin for everything he knew. It seemed the necromancer and his minions had turned everyone in the Flowerhedge castle into vampires before they left. There were 30 vampires, if Erwin were to be believed, plus over a hundred spawn they’d created in the weeks since Flowerhedge was sacked. Like the guilds, they’d capitalized on a power vacuum and organized themselves into the new rulers of Flowerhedge. It was a dim fate, but better than the cities further down the river. Rockdale had been given to a Wildlander warlord called the Iron Lion. Garamond, meanwhile, lay in ashes.

The scariest part, however, was that this small army – apparently a vampire, a necromancer, and a Wilderlander warrior princess – had worked their way up the Rockwind, sacking one city after another, leading them all they way to Brightland, which was adjacent to the royal duchy itself. In fact, all that stood between the capital and Brightland was Duke of Erikol, a ceremonial seat for the most senior member of the royal family not in the line of succession.

As Vendril walked out of the tavern that night, he was filled with dread.

Vendril: The Spymaster and the Hunter

Provided by our DM: 

Vigo the Whisperer plodded lightly down the stone steps, ducking expertly wherever the blocks of the stone ceiling hung low. He was a thin, gangly man, but tall, and had to take great care not to crack his head in the narrow dungeon corridors beneath the castle. There were nine such hazards on this particular staircase, and bile rose in his throat as he recalled how many times he’d traveled these steps. At the bottom, he saw the flicker of torchlight beneath the imposing oak door, but did not hear the customary screaming. It was as he expected.

Upon entering the room, Vigo took in the scene around him. Chained against one wall was a badly used man in black robes. The manacles pulled his arms tightly above his head, and the distinctive tattoo of an eye shone on his forearm. Kas Guerrian was his name, and he appeared remarkably calm for one in his situation. Two guards flanked the man, armed to the teeth and clearly on edge. On the other side of the room, one of the interrogators was brandishing various implements of pain, explaining their devious intents, and becoming increasingly frustrated that his victim was not exhibiting the typical response. Idiot, Vigo thought.

“Leave us!” Vigo commanded. Underneath the commanding façade, his stomach rolled. He hated this room, and despised the long hours he’d spent here over the years.

The guards regarded Vigo warily, but obeyed. It was known that he advised the king and held great power. They did not see the sense in Vigo’s request to be alone with the prisoner, but they would not defy him. The interrogator, on the other hand, seemed to think his services were indispensable and was thus exempt from the order. He exited quickly after Vigo threatened to chain the man up and use his instruments against him. After all three had departed, Vigo was left alone with Kas Guerrian and the echoes of slowly dripping water.

“I know you,” Kas said, “You’re Vigo the Whisperer.”

“Yes,” Vigo replied, walking toward the man.

“You’re not going to torture me?” Kas asked curiously.

“I know it won’t work.”

“Oh? How do you know that?”

Vigo smiled, “I know a secret.” He walked closer, “In fact, I know a lot of secrets.”

Kas Guerrian smiled back, “So do I. And I am very curious about one of those secrets right about now.”

Vigo took two more steps and was standing directly in front of the captive. He was wearing a long, quilted coat, as was the king’s style at court, with enormous cuffs and flamboyant lace sleeves underneath. It was ridiculous but excellent for concealing things. He deftly fetched the key from his sleeve and unlocked Kas Guerrian’s manacles. “Brother, let us talk and exchange secrets, always one for another, for with sacrifice comes boon, and with every gift comes a cost.”

As the manacles clicked open, Kas slumped, barely able to support his own weight. Vigo helped him onto a stool, and the man rubbed his bruised wrists. Vigo fetched a skin of water from the interrogator’s table and offered it to Kas. He drank furiously for several moments, water streaming down the sides of his mouth. Then he sighed and looked at Vigo for a long moment. “You’re one of us.”

“So you have given me the gift of knowledge,” Vigo replied, “So I must honor the Shadow Pact and pay the price.”

Kas nodded and waited.

“The king has fetched Duke Corbin to Springhollow to set order to the town. This leaves Grand Marshall Or’fevre in charge of the northern front. The Duke is most displeased by this development.” Vigo said.

Kas wrinkled his nose, “This is not a secret.”

“…and he has made inquiries with the royal assassins, behind the king’s back.”

Kas raised his eyebrows in surprise, nodded, and took another drink of water.

“Now, it is my turn,” Vigo said, “The elven provost sent emissaries to make an alliance with the Hierophant.”

“So you have given me the gift of knowledge,” Kas replied, “So I must honor the Shadow Pact and pay the price. The emissaries killed Kas Drachma and his underlings, and no agreement was reached.”

“But the Provost will have his alliance,” Vigo added.

Kas looked at him, debating how to respond. It was not exactly a secret that had been shared.

“And,” Vigo continued, “He is one of us. He works even now to form alliances behind Mythrandril’s back, and desires to see the boy king deposed.”

Kas nodded approvingly, “Yes, Kas Luthien will have his alliance.” He took another long drink of water, held up the skin, and nodded toward it. “You guys have the good stuff, here. The water in the east tastes like rocks and feels like oil on your tongue.”

“Interrogations don’t work on the Dark One’s followers. Most do not understand this.” Vigo nodded toward the interrogator’s table with its various implements still laid out from the earlier presentation. “They think pain will eventually break any man.”

Kas swallowed quickly and replied, “So you have given me the gift of knowledge –”

“They don’t understand the magic.”

“Vigo, you have shared much brother, now I must speak or my debt will become too large.”

“It’s not that you do not break. You DO break. All men break. But you are unable to reveal your secrets outside the constraints of the pact.”

“Vigo, why do you share so much?” Kas was becoming agitated and started coughing.

“What our fine interrogator doesn’t know is that by the time he breaks you, he’s already lost, for those inducted into your order embrace a sacred pact with the Dark One. In exchange for promulgating his secrets across the land, he protects you from unwanted or even accidental disclosure of precious information.”

Kas dropped the waterskin and doubled over, clutching his stomach and coughing violently. A small trickle of blood ran down the side of his mouth.

Vigo stood up and began walking around Kas in a circle. “The magic is ingenious. Torture is useless and in fact almost merciful. Your dark god’s magic would kill you before you experienced true pain; you simply choose to give in and his magic takes over, snuffing you out of existence.”

The stool clattered loudly across the floor as Kas fell to the ground, spasming. White foam was forming at his mouth and the front of his shirt was damp with bloody spit.

“Naturally, the first thing I tried was trickery. Perhaps I could trick one of you into slipping up and revealing something accidentally, before the magic prevented you from speaking. But alas, the magic protects you not only from consciously revealing a secret, but also from accidental revelations.”

A low thump-thumping echoed through the room as Kas Guerrian’s body convulsed and slammed itself on the floor repeatedly.

Vigo leaned down and stared into the man’s eyes. “A great many of you died in our custody having provided no information. But then I discovered two very curious things that, taken separately seem innocuous, but taken together provide me the tiniest loophole. First, your pact does not restrict you to exchange secrets with those of your order. In fact, the whole point is to exchange secrets with those outside the order, in hopes that you can convert them.” He picked up the stool, righted it, and sat down. “Second, your pact does not require you to affirm the veracity of the secrets you receive. Which means I can tell you secrets, or at lest things I think might be true, and you can confirm my suspicious. So long as I know where to start, I can extract a tiny bit of information before your dark lord’s magic does…” Vigo gestured to the flopping body on the floor, “this.”

The thump-thumping ceased as Kas Guerrian’s body seized up one final time and his eyes rolled back in his head. Vigo smoothed his coat, straightened his sleeves one by one, and left the room. The interrogator was standing outside. When the door opened, he looked into the room. “My lord! The prisoner has died! Now we will no longer be able to provide us information.”

There was a smug look on the interrogator’s face, as if to accuse Vigo of botching work that should have been handled by a professional. It was useless to correct him. Vigo understood the truth: All servants of Vecna served as his eyes and when captured were not liabilities, but rather spies behind enemy lines. They needed to be used quickly and disposed, for the Dark One was watching. This simpleton was not capable of understanding the underlying brilliance of this structure, so he stared at the man until he moved aside, then began climbing the stairs. He was late for a meeting with his king.

-----

The king’s council had already begun when Vigo arrived at the small chamber. Archon Marriq was waiting at the door for him.

“Vigo, I must speak with you.”

“Not now, Marriq.” Vigo looked through the crack in the door and saw Mal Zeral standing and speaking confidently. He cursed under his breath. “How long have they been going?”

Marriq moved his jaw slowly back and forth. It was a characteristic sign that the man was thinking, and that he would provide truthful information. It was important to know every man’s tell.

“Since I’ve been here, at least… an hour?”

Vigo cursed again, “So they started early. Damn the Archmage.” He reached for the door, but Marriq grabbed his forearm. It was uncharacteristic.

“We need to talk,” Marriq whispered urgently.

Vigo jerked his hand away, “Archon Marriq, what is of such importance that you accost me so?”

“It’s about the Silver Fox.”

Vigo rolled his eyes, “The elven patriot?”

“He’s undermining the king’s loyalty mandates.”

Vigo cringed at the mention of the mandates. They had enough challenges at present without inciting an elven revolt in Solstar. Unfortunately, this was a matter on which he had a difficult time controlling his liege. “And? What’s your point?”

“I believe I may have a solution,” Marriq said, “I’ve been contacted by a bounty hunter, one I believe has the capabilities to end the Silver Fox and his band. But he appears to be… unconventional.”

Inside the king’s council chamber, Mal Zeral was making an emphatic point. Frustration boiled in Vigo’s belly, but he forced himself to consider Marriq’s words, taking deep, practiced breaths to control his emotions. “Thank you, Archon Marriq. I will speak with you on this matter after the king’s council has adjourned.” Marriq nodded respectfully, stepped back, and Vigo entered the chamber.

Mal Zeral had just finished speaking when Vigo took his seat. “Well, what have I missed?”

Father Montagne spoke in a somber tone, “Vigo, I believe you already know. We cannot fight a war on two fronts.”

Vigo’s eyes went to Dante Alighieri, seated next to the king. He had a quill in his hand and a parchment in front of him, covered in writing. The ink was drying, but it had not yet been signed by the king. For his part, Luc III seemed to be pouting. It was clear the council had pushed him down a path he was not comfortable with.

Mal Zeral observed Vigo’s eyes on the parchment and explained, “We intend to strike a peace –”

“A temporary truce!” the king interjected, “Not a peace. I am not going down in history as a weak king who makes peace with a bunch of arrow-chucking elves just because they made too much noise.”

“Right,” Zeral corrected, “A temporary truce. We will end hostilities, but that is all. Mythrandril remains a pretender and we do not acknowledge any of the forged documents the elves have produced related to land rights.” The king nodded approvingly.

“I’m afraid that will be quite impossible,” Vigo whispered quietly. All eyes turned to him, and when he judged their attention sufficiently captured, he explained, “It is impossible because they are on the same side.” A small gasp of incredulity went through the room.

Father Montagne was the one to speak, “Vigo, they have crossed swords with the Dark Army as much as we have. What you say does not make any sense. You know what happened at Wellfort.”

“Those are Mythrandril’s lackeys. As you all know, he is a weak pretender, and not our greatest concern.” The council was definitely not convinced on this point, but it was what the king believed, so they all nodded in affirmation. Vigo continued, “It’s the Lord Provost we should be concerned about. My sources tell me he has connections to the Dark Army, and I just confirmed from our prisoner that he is himself a follower of the Dark One. From now on we shall call him Kas Luthien. He is working as we speak to strike a secret alliance with Maodeus and the Hierophant, so that they may attack us from two sides.” He left out the part where Luthien was trying to assassinate Mythrandril. “So you see, even a temporary truce will not be possible.”

Scanning the room, Vigo drank in their reactions. Montagne looked shocked whereas Alighieri simply seemed sad. The archmage’s face was a mask of cold rage, and the king was sputtering indignantly. What followed was an hour of incoherent, rambling anger from the monarch as he reviewed once again the many slights he perceived from their elven neighbors. The meeting concluded with orders to escalate the offensive against the elves in order to preempt any joint military move. The king’s councilors left the room quickly once dismissed, thankful to be free of his wrath, but Vigo hung back.

“Those bastards!” the king swore, “Those long-eared bastards! How dare they!? Vigo, I want them rounded up, and the loyalty mandates enforced!”

Vigo nodded, “Of course, my liege. My archons are ever vigilant.”

King Luc turned and jabbed a finger through the air at Vigo, “And another thing, I want this Silver Fox dealt with! It’s embarrassing. People are saying I’m weak, that we’re weak!”

“Lies, my liege.”

“I know that, but we need to show the people how strong we are. We need to make an example of this brigand!”

A smile crept onto Vigo’s face, “I believe I may have a solution for that as well. Does my liege care how we apprehend the Silver Fox?”

Luc waved his hands dismissively, “I don’t care how, just catch him.”

“As you wish, my liege.”

Luc sighed heavily, “What would I do without you, Vigo?”

“I am only doing my duty.”

“You’re fixing my problems,” the king asserted, “while the rest of my advisors just talk.” He shook his head, fatigue from the previous hour’s rant finally setting in. “You have my authority to do whatever is necessary to sort out the situation in Solstar and restore order. Now, go!”

Vigo nodded and silently left the room. Thankfully, Marriq was still standing outside. “Archon, we need to talk.”

Vendril: The Archon and the Hunter

"Archon Marriq," said a voice, and the archon stopped. He was just about to turn from Victory lane onto Loyalty street, where his house lay safe inside its high walls and magical wards. The guards moved up from behind him, forming a triangle around him: two behind, one in front. They blocked his view of the street ahead, but he didn't complain. It was, he understood, more important for them to be able to see what was happening, especially if there was about to be an attack. 

"You have a problem, Archon," said the voice, and his guards were still looking around, still trying to place its source. 

"If you're the problem," said Marriq, "then do whatever it is you came here to do... and let us resolve it. My time is valuable." He was uncomfortably aware that any number of magical attacks could engulf him and all three of his guards, but it wouldn't do for an archon to be cowed. 

"I'm not the problem," said the voice. "I'm your solution. Your problem is the Silver Fox."

Marriq laughed. "Children's tales," he said. "Rumors spread by elvish criminals to scare us and reassure their people."

"And how many of your inquisitors have had to retire from public service owing to the mark of the Fox on their cheek? How much does your office spend on magically removing those marks? I've spoken with four, so far: two who still bear their marks, and two who had them removed. None of them felt that enough was being done. And I know full well that Vigo the Whisperer is offering a bounty... Perhaps his Highness the King doesn't feel that enough is being done, either."

"And you're here to fix that for me?" asked Marriq, gesturing the guards aside and stepping forward even as he reviewed the spells at his disposal. He was not a mighty wizard, but he was no mere bureaucrat either. "Very well. Show yourself, and let us deal."

A figure stepped out of an arched doorway that Marriq would have sworn was empty. "As you wish." 

He was human, broad-shouldered and powerfully muscled, wearing a plain brown tunic and orange pants tucked into high brown boots. There was a heavy, curved sword at his side and a black cloak thrown back across his shoulders. "I can catch the man that nobody can catch -- if there's enough money in it."

Marriq raised his hands, palms up, to either side. "You know about the bounty already. Five thousand for the Silver Fox, another thousand for each of his companions. How much more do you want?"

"Double that," said the man, and there was something very disturbing in the way that he moved, stilled, stared. "I want twice the promised reward, and a public announcement, and a presentation to the king."

Marriq frowned, troubled. "I cannot promise any of those things." 

"I understand," said the man. "Still, you can talk to the people who can make such promises. I will find you again in three days, and you will give me an answer."

"As you say," Marriq regarded the stranger. "I can do this. But why should I -- or Vigo, or the King -- believe you can keep this bargain?" 

The man shrugged and smiled. "Because I can do things other men cannot. Your tormentor is hidden from people such as you, but not from me. And in any case, there's no loss to you if I fail."

Marriq found that he believed him. "I will... speak with the people I know," he said. "I will let you know what I hear back."

Vendril: The Unwanted Recruit

"Take me with you," said Teleian. "I can help." 

The Silver fox shook his head. Even in the light of mid-morning, even to elvish eyes, his face was still shadowed by his cowl. Teleian wasn't entirely sure how he could even see; surely the hood that shadowed his face and reduced it to nothing more than a voice behind a mask, perhaps the faintest gleam of his eyes, surely that interfered with his peripheral vision, at least. 

But it never seemed to. 

"Why not?" he asked, and his voice was suddenly too plaintive, too desperate, too much. 

The Fox went very still, one hand hidden by his cloak and one hand on the edge of a wagon. Then he said, softly, "Because I don't want my mistakes to get anyone else killed."

Teleian's mind went blank, and he answered before he had a chance to think: "You don't make mistakes! You're the Silver Fox! You've been making a mockery of the guard and the archons for months now!"

The Fox brought his head up, met Teleian's eyes. "Everything I did, everything that brought me here, was a mistake. Everything I thought we accomplished, everyone I thought we saved, I was wrong. We were tricked, all the way down the line, and I never caught on until it was far too late and the only option left was to run." His voice was soft, breathy, but less threatening than it had been when he'd been giving orders and sorting things out in the darkness of the elf-ghetto of Solstar. That sense of unspoken menace had been replaced by a tone of doubt and regret.

Teleian hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Do you think I don't know how that feels?" he asked, finally. "And knowing how it feels, do you think I can set that aside and just move on?"

"...It would be better if you could," said the Fox. "Stay here in Duendewood. Find a good wife. Raise fat babies."

"And wake in the night knowing that I helped King Elfsbane's Archons root out the resistance?"

The Boar, still in his pig-shaped metal helm, wandered over and stopped beside the the Fox. "There's a question?" His voice was deep, guttural, his words thick and accented. Teleian still wasn't sure whether the boar was male or female, but he definitely presented male. 

"He lets you help him," said Teleian, trying to make it sound like a reasoned argument instead of someone whining. 

"I once punched a warhorse unconscious because I didn't like the way it was looking at me," said the Boar. "What would you bring to the struggle?"

The Hawk and the Owl had been working on other things, but now they drifted over and suddenly Teleian felt like he was on trial. "I can use a sword, or a bow," he said. 

"Who can't?" asked the Hawk, with a chuckle. None of them had removed their masks, but the Hawk was definitely an elvish woman; she didn't bother with a cowl, just her hawk-shaped mask and feathered cloak. And she was right; he wasn't offering the sorts of skills that would be any use to a group like this. He wasn't showing them how he could help with the struggle. 

"I know people," he said. "I know my way around Solstar, and the ghetto in particular. I could get information, spy on things without looking out of place. And I'm fast and quiet -- enough to get myself and Tennira in and out of the human armory without being caught."

The Fox glanced at the others. The Boar stood unmoving, but after a moment he(?) rumbled, "That's not nothing."

"Can you disguise yourself?" asked the Fox. "Move unnoticed through a crowd?" 

"No," Teleian admitted, "but I can learn."

The Owl moved away from the others, circled around behind him. Teleian resisted the urge to flinch, and forced himself to stay still. 

"If you had to kill someone, what would you use?" asked a soft, sexless voice that was uncomfortably close to his left shoulder. He didn't know there was a dagger back there as well, but he could imagine it all too vividly. 

"Anything I had available, of course," he answered quietly, and forced his shoulders to relax. 

"Keep him," said the whisper behind him. 

The Fox glanced from Teleian to the Owl standing behind him, then to the Hawk and the Boar. He couldn't read their expressions through their masks, but apparently the Fox could. "What would we call you?" he asked. 

Teleian considered. He wasn't a great warrior. He wasn't a mighty mage, or divinely-inspired cleric. His talents, such as they were, ran to avoiding notice and knowing when to run. "The Mouse?" 

The Fox twitched, then twitched twice more before Teleian realized that he was quietly laughing. "Very well," he said. "I've no idea what sort of mask we'll find for that, for you, but it will be done. Just remember that this isn't an adventure; it's a job. And your primary duty is to stay alive and unnoticed."

Teleian nodded, trying not to show his relief. "I understand."

Vendril doesn't think of himself as a leader, but apparently he's just acquired the Leadership feat. The Boar is a half-orc, some kind of melee combatant, who thinks that wearing a pig-shaped helmet is ironic. The Hawk is an elf wizard, and the owl is a half-elf cleric with Trickery and probably Travel as domains.

Vendril: The Mark of the Silver Fox

"Helios' sacred buttocks, we did it!" The boy's voice was quiet, but fiercely proud.

"Shut up and keep walking," said the girl behind him. "We're not safe yet, and if they catch us now--"

The shutter of a lamp slid up, casting light all down the alley. Teleian was almost painfully aware of how exposed his face was; he could see feel the faint shift in the bag they carried between them as Tennira tried to duck her head deeper under her cowl. It might even work for her, but his own cowl had fallen to his shoulders several blocks back, leaving his face completely exposed: visible, memorable.

"...You'll have led us right to your meeting-place?" asked a human voice in better-than-passable elvish.

"Run!" said Teleian, but Tennira seemed frozen.

"Go ahead," said the human. "It'll save us time and make the Archon's job easier. All it costs us is a couple of crossbow bolts. No?"

The human was still an indistinct figure behind the light of the lamp; the streets and alleys of the elf-ghetto were dark even to elvish eyes. King Elfbane the Second and his troops wouldn't spare the resources to keep them lit, or warm, or clean. Still, when the peacekeeper gestured sharply with one upraised arm, the motion was visible enough: "Put them with the others."

"Run," said Teleian again, this time in a whisper.

"They'll shoot me," Tennira whispered back. 

They would, of course. They might miss -- they were only human -- but then they might not. But even that would be better than facing one of the King's Archons. Every rumor about them was more monstrous than the last. In the eyes of the King's justice, the elves were already guilty. "We surrender," Teleian said quietly. He glanced back at Tennira and nodded, and they knelt together, lowering the heavy canvas bag to the ground. The stolen weapons inside clunked as they shifted positions. 

Teleian kept one knee up and the other on the ground, but lowered his head. He had practiced springing up from this position, even without a blade. If he waited until the last moment, maybe he could take the crossbows by surprise and escape. He wouldn't be able to warn the resistance, even if he lived; he'd be lucky to escape the city. Still, better to die in the attempt...

The light flickered wildly as something heavy hit the ground. A moment later, someone slid the shutter closed and -- Teleian thought from the sounds -- set the lamp down on the dirty, broken bricks of the alley. 

"This way," said a voice, little more than a breathy whisper. A hand touched his shoulder, squeezed briefly, released. "Bring the bag." 

Teleian reached back, found his end of the bag, and lifted. Tennira must have done the same, because the bag rose without changing angle. "This way," said the voice again, and they followed. 

A narrow strip of sky was barely visible overhead; that was all that allowed them avoid the walls of the alley. The figure ahead of them was a shadow in the darkness, visible only as a faint gleam when it lifted one gloved hand to show the glint of a silver ring in the starlight. 

"You're him, aren't you?" whispered Teleian, and felt Tennira half-stumble behind him. "You're the silver fox."

The figure didn't answer, and a moment later Teleian became aware of the faint sounds of other people ahead. There were a full dozen at least, all of them standing in the dark; and from the whickering, at least one horse. The soft clop of a hoof suggested more. 

"Well?" called a voice, a soft baritone.

"It's done," said the breathy voice of the Fox. 

Faint light rose, soft balls of false flame spreading out. The walls of the alley became visible, one of them the back of the headquarters. Three small carts, loaded with wooden crates and rolls of cloth, filled the exits; the space between them was crowded with elves. 

Teleian recognized several of them: Mannanith Smokeleaf, who gave orders to the local cell; Evareth Nooncall, who hired all manner of people to work as her messengers, and quietly forged papers in the back room of her serving-house. A handful of others, all part of the resistance; Teleian knew their faces and names, but little of what they did. They should have been inside the headquarters; that was where he and Tennira had intended to surprise them with weapons stolen from the humans. 

But the humans had turned their clever rebellion into an ambush that would have crushed this part of the resistance. Judging by the human guards who lay unconscious against the sides of the alley, it had worked... or it would have, if the Silver Fox and his companions hadn't intervened. 

There were four of them, now visible in the faint magical light. The Fox himself wore a leather mask worked with metal and flat black lenses, red-brown and black, with a snout to match his namesake. A black cowl fit tight around his head, hiding the rest of his features. Still, he moved easily and motioned to one of the wagons. "Put your bag there. I'll see that it gets put to use." 

Standing beside the wagon was the Boar, who wore a metal helm shaped to look like the head of a pig, complete with tusks. He -- or she -- grunted a deep-throated approval as the weapons clunked onto the wooden slats. The horse stamped, and the Boar reached out and put a hand on the rail of the cart, as if to hold it back with his arm alone. Then again, thought Teleian, looking at the size of that arm, maybe he can. Or she. Or whatever. 

"It's done," said the Fox, "at least for now. We'll take you out of the city, and send your families along as soon as we can. Climb onto those two wagons, and find a crate to hide in." 

Teleian watched as several of the elves moved towards the wagon. An owl-masked figure stood beside one, a hawk-masked figure beside the other. 

"I'll stay," said Evareth, and beside her Mannanith nodded. 

"They may not have looked at us too closely," he said. "Not enough to recognize us. It's worth the risk."

The Fox regarded them for a long moment, then nodded. "Be careful, as you can." 

"I'll stay too," said Tennira, startling Teleian. 

"No," said the Fox. "They know your face." 

"I had my cowl up," she said, lifting her chin defiantly. "They didn't see--"

The fox shifted slightly, and suddenly had a knife in each hand. "They've known your face for some time now," said that breathy voice. "So you let us take you away, or you go back to them. They won't believe you didn't betray them, but that's still your choice to make." 

Teleian said, "Tennira?" 

Her shoulders slumped, and all of a sudden she was moving past him, heading for one of the wagons. He tried to reach out for her, but she slipped past his hand. 

"Leave her," whispered the Fox. "We sent word to your family this afternoon; take the other wagon, and you'll rejoin them on the road to Duendewood." 

"And Tennira?" Teleian knew his voice was bitter, knew the Silver Fox didn't deserve that, and also knew that he couldn't stop himself. He had cared for her; he couldn't just let that go. Even if, he realized suddenly, she led me into this whole scheme and exposed the resistance here.

"She will go elsewhere," said that quiet voice, the one that commanded attention by its absence of volume. "There are other homes for those of our blood, and in time she might even redeem herself there."

Teleian hesitated, then nodded and headed for the wagon. Two of the others were already fitting themselves into crates. No doubt it would be a long and uncomfortable ride before he would be free of the city -- and longer and more uncomfortable still before his heart was free of Tennira. He wondered if she hated herself as much as he, in this moment, hated her. I was an idiot, he decided. I ruined everything.

"Quietly, now," whispered the Fox. "Get them on the paths."

Teleian pulled himself up onto the wagon, located a crate, and lowered himself into it. He knew he would be a minor piece of the legend: more elves rescued by the Silver Fox, more traitors against the King who vanished into the night, never to be captured. More of the Elfbane's guards left helpless with the mark of the Silver Fox upon them. I'll be more than that, he decided. I'll keep trying to fight. I'll take guidance from people I can trust. I'll come back to help the Fox, if I can.

He held that thought firmly as the Boar fitted the lid of the crate over him and hammered it into place.

More Vendril (Because, well, why not?)

Vendril came awake with a knife in his hand but caught himself before he stabbed anybody. He was in an unfamiliar bed, pressed against a warm body, and the hand that had woken him was shaking her shoulder, not his. He heard someone stumble back with a curse, and squeezed his eyes shut before blinking again and trying to see.

"Easy, easy," said a woman's voice. "I'm just trying to get Amra up so she isn't late for her shift."

Amra? Oh, right: that was the guardswoman, the one who had taken him out for al'cul, the one whose bunk he was currently occupying. Well, that didn't go the way I expected. This sort of thing didn't happen to him; it happened to Geddy, or sometimes Alexej. "Sorry," he said.

Amra groaned. "Al'cul," she said, "is not worth it."

Vendril wasn't at all sure of that. True, he had woken up in a human woman's bed; true, he wasn't immediately sure where his clothing was or whence he'd drawn the knife that was currently in his hand; true, his head was pounding and his eyes were all but glued shut; but that haunting sense of guilt was gone, replaced by the desire to do something even crazier than his erratic memories suggested the previous night had been.

"Juice," said the other guard, and Amra sat up. Vendril wriggled halfway out of the blankets and looked around for someplace to set the knife.

"Helios, Amra." The other guard looked disgusted. "You slept with a--" Her eyes widened and her expression went blank. "He's the scout."

Amra poured the contents of the pewter cup down her throat, then nodded. She half-turned to Vendril. "How are you doing?"

"Better," he said. "Even with the hangover."

"Al'cul is a harsh mistress."

"But it did as you said," he told her. "Burned away my cares and most of my common sense."

"So what are you going to do now?"

"Something stupid."

The other guardswoman chuckled. "If you two were into the al'cul last night, then I think you've already managed that."

Vendril grinned. "Then... something crazy."

Amra grinned back. "All right. You know where to find me if you want more of this."

"I do." He did. But right now, he needed to find out if his friend the gnome was alive again yet. And then he needed to find out what it might take to rescue the Baron... and the Baron's family.

After The Battle (A Vendril Follow-Up)

"You there! Halt! What do you think you're doing?"

Vendril glanced over his shoulder at the guard and her upraised halberd. He did not point out that he was sitting on edge of the crenelations of the highest tower in the palace of Solstar, because that should have been obvious. He did not point out that his weapons were all tucked away, because that was equally obvious. He very definitely did not point out that he was considering pitching himself off the edge of the tower, because that was none of the human guard's business.

"I'm talking to you, knife-ears." Then the woman stopped, squinted, and grounded the butt of her halberd. "You're him, aren't you? The scout from Fort Dedo."

Vendril nodded, and the human relaxed. "So what the hell are you doing up here?"

"Being up high helps me think." Dark thoughts, angry thoughts, but still thoughts.

"Helios. You're a gods-blessed hero, and I was about to..."

Vendril shook his head. "I'm not a hero. We fell into the enemy's trap, let ourselves get fooled into doing their work for them. For three generations my clan has worked with Fort Dedo to protect the borders of Sol Povos, and I failed them."

"You didn't fail them. You brought warning to the King, and if the stories are even half-correct you fought your hardest all along the line."

I did fail. We all did. Vendril didn't answer, just looked out over the city again, then down to the ground so very far below.

"Listen," said the guard. "I'll make you a deal. You stay up here and do your thinking... and don't do anything foolish, like deciding your life needs ending... and I'll put the word around to the other guards so none of them bother you. And in half an hour, when I go off-duty, I'll come back and take you to my favorite tavern and buy you enough al'cul to make you forget everything you ever knew."

Vendril blinked and looked back at her. "Al'cul?"

"It's a dwarvish drink, imported. Not sure what they brew it from, but it'll burn away your cares and most of your common sense."

Vendril hesitated, then nodded. "Deal."

He listened as her footsteps receded.

And he thought.

The colonel was dead. The Baron was captured. Maodeus was back in its original body, and the forces of Vecna had access to the great gates and at least some of the ancient Formorian weapons. Fort Dedo still held, at least as far anybody knew, but it was leaderless and cut off.

He could go back to the clan and tell them of his disgrace, but he knew already what his father would say: his duty was here, doing whatever he could to protect the king-- even this king, even in a city where anyone with the slightest hint of elvish blood was in danger of being murdered by the mobs or cut open by the Archons.

No matter the depths of his shame, he still had his duty. And when his time came, he could only hope to die as honorably and spectacularly as Geddy had. Until then...

You're a hunter, he heard his father's voice say. So hunt.

Until then, he thought suddenly, I have to alert the clan. They can aid Fort Dedo, or help to evacuate it. A troop held in reserve, behind the invading forces, could split their attention and tangle their strategy. Even with the gates, they'll need supply lines, and the clan could show the forces at Fort Dedo how to cut those lines. But first, we have to preserve those forces.

He made a quick calculation as he slipped back from the edge of the wall and set his feet on the tower top. Yes, he could get down to where the king kept his messengers and still be back here when the guardswoman finished her shift. He would send word to his father, who would set the clan into motion. And with the message sent, Vendril would let this human guard show him exactly what this al'cul could do...