Mind of Fire

She recognized him instantly.

The way his jawline curved up to his ear like a rusted hook, the dark and sullen eyes. His nose, thick and clumpy in the middle, like a sculptor had packed on three layers of clay. He had a new scar since the last time Roan had seen him. She guessed it had been during the massacre of Midholme, after they had finished with the fortress. He also had new armor - traveling leathers with accents of burgundy and a cloak to match. Perhaps it was part of his promotion, or his choice to don them following the event.

Roan kept her distance at the bar, watching as he approached the young elven waitress. His posture spoke of expectation. Hers was all nervous glances and fidgeting hands, but with a stiff spine. It made her look puppet-like, Roan thought. Not a contact then.

Dormeil had arrived just that afternoon; alone, to Roan’s surprise. He had made no reservations at the inn and had only spoken to one merchant about picking up health poultices and one guard about visitors to the local lord. His mare had looked thin and spindly. If Roan hadn’t given the animal a sleeping draft the poor creature might’ve given out on Dormeil from exhaustion.

Roan wondered at the urgency. A part of her was worried he’d picked up on her presence, but rather than preparing himself for any attack, the lieutenant pressed onwards. He’d left no papers on his horse, had hardly spoken to anyone, and barely rested from the trip south. Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps it was anxiety about the territory. Dormeil’s master hardly had allies there, though Roan didn’t want to rule out the possibility.

The elven waitress had gone completely silent. Dormeil leaned over her, his arm poised to block at least one of her exits. He placed something into her hands. Her face went ashen and she gave the smallest of bows before scurrying off to the kitchens. Dormeil watched after her. He wiped sweat off of his chin. The raccoon circles made his expression grim in the faint light of the tavern. Roan turned to her drink, biting back her disgust.

Gods forgive me for this. She thought.

She heard the hard leather boots pad around, then the tavern door open and close into the night air. Roan drank deep from her goblet. That burning coil in her stomach asserted itself. She was so close. But she had time.

There were three directions one could walk surrounding the tavern. Up or down the main street past the shops and hovels, and one alleyway behind it. Dormeil had been antsy but he was hardly fool enough to take the alleyways during a time like this. No, he would take the open path, finish his business with the few remaining guards, and then he would wait for the relief he’d paid for. Unlike his master’s former lieutenants, Dormeil was nothing if not predictable.

The tavern had been placed near the entrance of town, offering travelers a place to rest much quicker than they would have otherwise in the labyrinthine layout of Levara. It was a charming enough place between plains, forest, and the Grey Mountains. Roan had watched as the townsfolk went on with their days, logging, hawking, cleaning, and mending. It was as if nothing had changed. Even with the majority of their men having marched north, the village itself was somehow preserved. Life went on here. Perhaps it had to.

The elven waitress continued her chores sweeping and tending to the customers. Her name was Sebille, if Roan remembered right. Like all her kind she was almost waif-like. She had dark black curls and sickly pale skin. Her hands shook as she carried plates and goblets. She would step through to the back rooms and sigh deeply, smoothing her hands on her apron so many times the apron’s tie began to loosen. Roan wanted to say something to her, to reassure her of what was to come later, but she couldn’t risk it. Dormeil couldn’t know.

Roan waited until the evening arrived in earnest. She placed her gold on the bar and stepped outside into the shadows. She stood for a moment, breathing deep the cool evening air. The smell of the western forest carried with it dried leaves and rock. It was earthy and clean. She still hadn’t gotten used to it.

A couple rotten fish stalls might improve it. She thought.

A slender hooded figure emerged from the tavern. She tightened her cloak, glancing briefly around the street before she stepped down the main road towards the outskirts. Roan watched until Sebille was far enough into the night to be a silhouette. She murmured a silent prayer to the Goddess Imren, then followed.

Sebille hated walking at night. It had been worse when the soldiers were still here, but at least then she could see them. The streets felt so empty now. Her grandmother had been worried about thieves and bandits who would see Levara as vulnerable, but Sebille never feared them. Let them come. She would gladly take their blades than the groping and horrid looks of the local humans. She would have done anything to get out of this town. Anything.

She pulled her cloak tighter around her as if it were a shield. She had a clean dagger, and she gripped it close when she passed the alleys. The shadows there would stretch on forever this time of year, as if some yawning creature lay just beyond waiting for one such as her.

She knew there was rarely anything there, but her imagination always tried to convince her otherwise.

When she reached the familiar back streets she was able to relax a little. Her pace became more measured. She knew each of the houses by heart. She could recall all the little scandals that had happened between them; Lemet’s wife having an affair with her sister-in-law Alena, the stable boy sneaking off to drink with the pigs, how Rask the tannerman was believed to be a magic channeler because of his neighbor’s poor harvest… Silly snide rumors between them all.

Rask hadn’t been a channeler, but he knew how to make poison - and that had been useful. Affairs were ammunition, and Alena had a solid hand on the resources coming in from the forest. A little pressure, the right words, and the right person saying them was all it took to secure those resources. Sebille’s neighbors had no idea the power of these simple knowings.

And they had no idea that an elf like her knew.

The thought was as exciting as it was fleeting. Elves like her were a figment of the past, dwindled into history like the Fae subjugation. Perhaps these small acts in some way made her ancestors proud… While it lasted.

She knew the border town, she knew the rumors, and she knew since the soldiers had marched through with black banners and impassioned speeches there had been less and less news each day. Less guards on the roads, less incoming trade, less people to work the forest or visit the tavern. If not for travelers, word might’ve stopped altogether.

She passed the familiar homes and headed further out of town towards the barns. She found the human kneeling by a sleeping black mare, stroking it’s matted coat. Sebille found the scene disturbing. It was filled with a tenderness that she had not come to expect.

“About time.” The man grunted.

Sebille steeled herself. “I had work. Guess that means something different to you.”

“Don’t test your luck.” He warned. “What have you heard?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Levara won’t be getting more men, and those left are too young to train. The next logging shipment will take more time. We don’t have anything to give now.”

The man snorted. “I’ll say… rotten logs and the incoming winter… you southerners can hardly fight as it is.”

He stood and adjusted his leather tunic. His face was twisted in disappointment, a look he seemed to reserve for her. She crossed her arms over her chest.

“We don’t have anything more to give.” She repeated.

He laughed. “Do you take me for a fool? You think the militia don’t talk?”

“What do you mean?”

He stepped forward. Sebille felt her spine weakening, and she clenched herself against it. She wouldn’t back down. She had done so much. She was useful, she knew it.

“Your lordling has been having eastern visitors, hasn’t he?” He said. “I heard a certain city Lady is expressing interest in trade.”

Sebille set her jaw. “My lord, do you see Levara as a pig slaughtered for meat, or a goat you’d shave for wool?”

“Careful.”

“Why? Is the elf making sense?”

He slapped her. Sebille cried out and clutched her cheek, staring at the ground. The man’s voice came out as a low, deep growl.

“The elf better start talking.”

Sebille felt the cold in her gut. She remembered that tone when she first told him about her knowledge of Levara; how the elves had always been outsiders in a human town, where she could move along and listen in easily.

“Levara has nothing more to give yet.” She pressed. “If there was more time, more trade, there might--”

“Might.” He echoed.

Sebille winced. She was grasping, she knew it.

“Your would-be king must be worried about his claim if he’s depending on us so badly.” She muttered, clenching her fist. “Did the Astalons not deliver?”

The second blow came and she fell to the floor. Tears blurred her eyes. The human stood over her, his face contorted into a snarl. Cold dread fell over her with that look. An icy hollow feeling struck her: she was alone, and she was no longer useful.

She closed her eyes and prayed her grandmother would forgive her.

Roan heard the second strike connect. Her stomach roiled now, demanding action. She moved up to the barn window. Dormeil was standing over the elven woman with his blade. Roan raised her bow, her arrow knocked. Then when she saw an opening, she let it fly. It struck home in Dormeil’s shoulder and he cried out in surprise. As he whirled around she loosed a second arrow - striking his left side. He roared this time, nearly brought to his knees by the pain. Her mouth twitched into a grin.

Roan vaulted over the window ledge. “It still hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Dormeil spat.

She raised another arrow at him. “I’ll give you three guesses.”

He growled as he charged for her. Roan let her arrow loose at his feet, ducking aside with the movement of his attack. He slashed, and she let her bow take the second blow. She pushed their weapons out and away from herself. Roan closed the distance and grabbed his blade with her right hand, letting herself spin her left elbow into Dormeil’s face.

He yelped and staggered back, clutching his clumpy clay nose.

“Guess one.” Roan grinned, pointing her borrowed sword at him.

“Some dead whore!”

Dormeil drew his belt knife and moved in. These slashes were faster, angrier. Left then right. Roan brought her sword to meet them. She backpedaled, belatedly glad for the open space. Dormeil was far more skilled with the shorter weapon than he was with the sword. Roan briefly wondered if he’d been a thief before his promotion. Her sword was brought up a fraction too late and the momentum of a strike carried the dagger through her shoulder.

She grit her teeth. Focus, Roan, focus.

She brought her left arm up and shoved the dagger aside. Dormeil grinned. Roan felt warmth blooming under her armor. Dormeil swung his dagger back again. She ducked under his arm and spun behind him. She grabbed the arrow in his shoulder, and ground it deeper into the wound as she kicked the back of his knees. Dormeil howled as he went.

“Guess two.” She hissed.

“A fool!”

He bucked his head back. Roan’s face exploded with pain. A heavy force collided with her and she was on her back with a snap. At first she thought it was her skull, but it was Dormeil who cried out. She opened her eyes in time to see him bringing his dagger down. Roan’s weapons left her and she caught Dormeil’s wrists. He pressed all his weight down against her, and she pushed upward. Blood seeped out from the broken arrow in his side. Roan’s shoulder was on fire, her muscles ready to give out. The blade hovered over her chest. One slip up, one wrong move…

Dormeil’s eyes glittered and he licked his lips, almost laughing with the effort. Roan remembered that look as he’d held down her Nan, when he and his companions decided to have some fun...

Roan’s blood boiled. She roared against his weight. Her body twisted beneath him. He started to shift to hold her and his weight loosened just enough.

Roan forced the dagger to hit the ground beside her, throwing herself to land on his side with the broken arrow shaft. He cried out. She wrenched the dagger from his grasp and brought it down into his chest. Dormeil’s eyes went wide.

“Guess three.” She snarled.

He gasped, and she twisted the dagger deeper. Blood spilt over the hilt. He gargled. His hands dug into hers, trying to claw her off. Roan panted, putting her weight into keeping him down. She leaned down over him.

“You know who I am now?”

Dormeil gargled something, blood catching in his throat. His dark eyes were pitifully wet, and for just that moment, Roan could feel sorry for the poor bastard.

“Then we’re done.”

She pulled the dagger out and slit his throat.

~*~

Roan had a moment of stunned relief when it was over.

She looked down at Dormeil’s lifeless eyes, staring back at her in dumb shock. She had hoped it would be quicker. The others were, at least. This one made her feel sick as she saw the crimson pool growing beneath him. Roan closed her eyes again and took a breath. It was over. And there was comfort in that.

She leaned over to close Dormeil’s eyes, then stood up. Her body swayed a little as the adrenaline left. The elven woman, Sebille, had moved backwards into one of the barn stalls, clutching a pitifully small blade. Her large eyes fixed on Roan and the bloody body she stood by. Once it registered what had happened, Sebille’s face colored. She turned towards the barn stall and threw up.

Shit.

Roan retrieved her bow and shouldered it, then grabbed Dormeil’s dagger.

“Stay back!” Sebille shouted, holding her blade with two hands. “I-I’m warning you!”

Roan knelt in front of her. Sebille lunged and flicked her dagger across Roan’s face. The blade glanced over her cheek and nose. The action seemed to surprise Sebille more than Roan. The elf looked at the blood on her blade and almost instantly went green.

“I… guess I deserved that.” Roan hissed, holding the cut. “I’m not going to hurt you, Sebille.”

“H-how do you know my name?”

“You’re not the only one who listens.”

Sebille paled at that. Roan set Dormeil’s dagger down between them, the point facing back at Roan. Sebille blinked at it for a moment, then her eyes flicked over towards Dormeil. Roan shifted to block her view.

“In fact, I know you held something back.” Roan said. “And I want to know why.”

“What does it matter? He’s dead!”

“It matters because you could have told him when he hit you the first time.”

Sebille searched her face. Roan tried to make herself look friendlier than she probably did; the blood certainly didn’t help.

Roan sighed. “I know I’m not the best at introductions... My name is Roan. And trust me, this man could have and would have done much worse.”

Sebille blinked for a few moments. “You’re from Midholme, aren’t you?”

“Correct.”

“They took all our guardsmen there.”

“Correct again.”

“Then they…” Sebille’s eyes went wide again. “They really did it.”

Roan gave her a small, approving nod. A part of her was surprised; had the inglorious ballad he commissioned not reached the south?

Questions for another day. She thought.

“So why did you hold back on your information, Sebille? You could have told him about San Mer offering protection.”

“The lord hadn’t decided anything.” She said slowly.

“And waiting to tell him of this wasn’t simply for certainty’s sake… You were hoping San Mer would do it anyway and take Dormeil’s people by surprise?”

Sebille was quiet. Roan blinked a little, admittedly impressed. Levara would have been renewed in several ways by the support of Lady Herwig. Trade alone made it worth the risk.

“I hope they come too.” Roan said, standing. Sebille blinked up at her. “Lorenz and his people have bled you dry.”

She nodded very slowly. “I… wanted to get out.”

“Why don’t you? Informants are sorely needed in war.” Roan offered her a smile. “Take the dagger. It’ll be more helpful to you than that toothpick.”

Sebille stared at the blade for a long moment. Roan stepped back a few paces and, sure enough, Sebille slowly took the dagger. It looked rather large in her hand. After a few tests of the weight, the elf began to stand. Her gaze caught on Dormeil’s body and sickness looked like it might return.

“You’re doing better than I did my first time.” Roan offered.

Sebille looked at her in horror. Both of them paused when shouting echoed down the streets. Roan froze. Had the guards heard? Were they followed? Or, did Dormeil actually have more eyes here than she had seen?

All those ideas drained out of her when she heard a mad gallop rising like thunder, and the distant sound of a winding war horn blowing three times.