Chapter 275: 271: The Offer

The Champion, knights and rangers made good time traversing the countryside. Most were mounted, but Hart was on foot; with The Champion’s power filling his long limbs, he was able to tear through the distance like a charging bull. He kept pace with the mounted knights and rangers as they crossed the wilderness following the trail. Though he’d been running hard for close to an hour, he felt as energised as if he’d just awaken from a refreshing afternoon nap.

Hart smiled, keeping an eye on the pack of hunting hounds that loped ahead, focused on the scent they were trailing.

“We’re likely following people, not monsters,” one of the rangers said to Hart. “The tracks were made by boots or shoes, not bare feet or claws. Might be Chitterers who robbed the dead for their boots, but I doubt it: the trail’s too uniform. Too disciplined. More likely it’s people marching at speed.”

“Right,” Hart’s voice boomed from beneath his visor. He turned to one of the knights close to him. “I don’t remember any patrols scheduled to march this way, do you?”

“Not I, Champion,” the knight said. “Most likely these are bandits or maybe civilians who failed to evacuate. …maybe even foreign pirates.”

“Pirates, eh? I wonder…” Hart said. “Well, we’ll find out soon enough.” He turned back to the ranger. “How far behind do you think we are?”

“It’s hard to tell,” the ranger said. “But the dogs are keeping the scent, and the trail was fresh when I picked it up back where we fought those Chitterers.”

“So not far, then!” Hart grinned. “Keep up the pace! We’ll have ‘em by the balls soon enough!”

###

“This…I know this mark.” Drestra ran her hands over the round table in a mix of awe and incredulity. Her fingers rubbed a slight depression in the wood. “When I was first learning my foster mother’s knife, I cut my finger and dropped the blade. The knife nicked the table right in this spot.”

She looked up at Lord Aenflynn, who was watching her like a cat perched above a fish pond.

“Do you like it?” The fae lord’s deep voice rumbled through the hall, seeming to echo from every timber, stone and even the air itself. “I had the crafter take extra care to preserve the table’s full…character. You’ll find that it is quite the same as the one in your home. Down to even the grain of the wood.”

“This is…a replica?” Drestra blinked her reptilian eyes. “How would you know all of these details?”

Lord Aenflynn smiled again, revealing his wolf-like fangs. ”The mortals of Thameland notice little. We notice much; it is the way of things, as it has always been. My kindred are everywhere, even in places you folk might not give any thought to, and as bad as you are at noticing the small things, is as good as we are at remaining hidden.”

“I…can’t believe this,” Cedric murmured, eyeing a knot in the pine wall: it was identical to a spot in his clan’s ale hall that his uncle had once used as a target for an impromptu axe throwing contest with his grandfather. Every mark from that drunken evening lay in the wall as though they’d been made yesterday. “I thought I’d seen everything lately: monsters, magic that hid whatever was in The Cave of The Traveller, but all this…”

“I had hoped that tokens from each of your homes would help set you mortals at ease,” Aenflynn said. “It is the least I could do: after all, it is so…rare that Heroes of Thameland come here to speak to me and my kin.”

‘At ease’ was the very last thing Cedric was feeling right now. After fighting monsters for a year and seeing people die in ways that would scar most folk for life, he’d begun to think that nothing could shake him anymore.

But, this? This shook him.

‘How in the name o’ everythin’ did y’get all these details right?’ he wondered, watching the seated fae lord. ‘Magic to look into our hearts? Did y’get pixies to crawl about and creep through our childhood homes? How long ‘ave we been watched? And what about-”

“The Fool,” Merzhin said, leaning forward over the table with his hands clasped before him. “You said you might know something about them? Please, I ask that you tell us…” He paused, then added in a more polite tone. “It would mean much to us, and you would have our eternal gratitude.”

‘Good,’ Cedric thought. ‘Keep it polite, Merzhin.’

“I said that I might…and I said that I might not,” Aenflynn said. “I know that your people think the Fool’s presence might…ease your burdens against The Ravener. …how curious that is.”

“Curious?” Merzhin frowned.

“Well, if I understand it, most of you mortals consider the Fool to be useless,” Aenflynn said. “So, why bother with them?”

“The Fool has a role to play in Uldar’s plan.” The Saint sat erect in his chair. “…Lord Aenflynn,” he quickly added the title after a brief pause. “I do not question Uldar’s plans. If The Fool is alive, they must join us. Only then are we complete.”

“Hmmm…perhaps I am…misinformed about mortal customs in this land,” Aenflynn said, but his tone indicated that he in no way believed himself to be misinformed. “Why such a need for them? What specifically do they bring?”

“We cannot hope to understand the full extent of Uldar’s plan,” Merzhin answered with confidence. “Our holy God crafted five Heroes, and while it is true The Fool has given into weakness in previous cycles, if they were unnecessary, then only four Heroes would be marked. We cannot simply abandon Uldar’s plan because of other mortals’ past faults.”

“Fascinating,” Aenflynn said.

“So, what do you know about The Fool?” The Saint asked in earnest.

“…you do not know much about negotiation, do you, Merzhin?” the fae lord said. “Why would I tell you anything before a pact is made? We are not even allies.”

“With respect, we do not even know if you do know anything, Lord Aenflynn,” Drestra said. “By dangling knowledge that you might have, you create interest without giving anything away at all.”

“Now this one has bargained before, I see.” The fae lord grinned.

Merzhin’s face reddened.

“Well all that aside,” Cedric quickly jumped in. “We didn’t come ‘ere lookin’ for The Fool. That can come later. Lord Aenflynn, why don’t we give you our offerin’, an’ then we can jump right ta business, aye? I know y’must be a busy lord, an’ all.”

“Oooo yes, the offering,” Lord Aenflynn rubbed his hands together. The light from his eyes flared. “I have one for you as well.”

He stretched out his left hand and snapped his fingers once. A basket—seemingly woven from pure silver—appeared in his hand, and he offered it to Drestra. “An offering for an offering, to show good will. Do not peek inside the basket yet, for doing so will lead to ill. Once you’ve departed my realm, enjoy it as you might. It is my hope that this gesture will make our futures brighter.”

“Thank you,” Drestra said, glancing at the lord’s offering with curiosity before handing him the basket she held. “You can open it whenever you like.”

“Ah, it would be poor manners for me to open your gift early when I have told you to wait for mine. So yes. Down to business.” He looked at Cedric. “You’ve spent much effort to arrange this meeting, but I should ask, why are you meeting with me? There are other lords and ladies of the fae you might speak to. Indeed, I am not known for my…overt friendliness with mortals. One might call you being here almost…foolhardy.”

Merzhin threw a look at Cedric, but The Chosen met Aenflynn’s silver eyes without blinking. “Aye, that be true. Other fae lords have had more friendly relations wit’ mortals in the past. But I’m no’ lookin’ for an alliance with friendly pixie nobles or brownyie lords. Y’know what’s happenin’ in Thameland: we’ll be needin’ fighters. Warriors…and there are few lords of the fae in all of Thameland who commands warriors as fierce as yours, Lord Aenflynn.”

The fae lord raised an eyebrow. “So you seek the services of the Moonguards?”

“An’ the Crimson Head Brigadiers.”

Now both of Aenflynn’s eyebrows rose. “They are mercenaries, what makes you think that I could command them to fight for you?”

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“There’s no fae lord in all the isles that’s fielded them as much as you, whether it be against mortals, fae or other spirits: you’ve called upon their services many more times than any other in livin’ memory. The Brigadiers regularly refuse contracts…but never one o’ yours. At least, accordin’ to most tales.”

“Tales often lie, little Hero.”

“Aye, that they do, but my clan’s lore keepers know much o’ the ways to sift out the truth from the ramblin’s of drunken bards.”

“…I see. Then let us say that I could provide you with the services of both. For what purposes?”

“Fightin’ together. Your forces could hold places where we can’t be an’ help us break monster hordes so we can raid dungeons easier. There’s another force that’s come to Thameland that’ll help us with breakin’ dungeon cores, but the wilderness needs to be cleaned up of monster-kind in the meanwhile. They’re multiplyin’, spillin’ out all over the place, and I’m tired o’ just runnin’ around like chickens wit’ no heads as it were. We’ve been so busy grapplin’ wit’ monsters that we haven’t even made progress in findin’ the damn Ravener yet.”

“Perhaps that is for the best.”

“The best?” Merzhin sat up straight. “The Ravener hides like a coward, delaying and preventing us from carrying out our God’s great work to its conclusion.”

“The question is, can you conclude his work as you are,” Aenflynn offered. “I have seen many cycles, Heroes of Thameland, and I can tell you that this truly is the worst one I have seen in a millennia. The Ravener strikes at you like a mother strikes at the killer of her children: if you find it difficult to suppress its dungeon cores, what will you do against the great enemy itself? It will fight you like a cornered animal. But—as you battle its monsters—you gain strength and experience with your abilities. So perhaps you shouldn’t be so eager to rush toward the jaws of death before you are utterly ready to face them.”

“Uldar has granted us gifts that ensure our readiness-” Merzhin said with iron in his voice, but then he paused.

Cedric was giving the younger man a look. ‘Respect. With respect, Merzhin.’

The priest licked his upper lip and lightened his tone. “I…respect your concern-”

“It’s adorable that you think I am concerned,” Aenflynn said matter of factly. “I simply state facts. What you do or do not do is utterly outside of my concern.”

“…well, I can say with the utmost confidence that Uldar has prepared us for the coming battles.” Merzhin said.

“He has handed you a sword, young Saint. You are still only learning how to wield that sword. But what you do with your weapons and blessings is your own affair. Now, you say you would like to make use of the warriors I retain?”

“Aye, they can get around the isle faster than any mortal army,” Cedric said.

“But that involves risk for me. Fae do not often field armies in mortal realms because they are needed here. My neighbours might see my force departing to fight in your war as a sign of weakness. That is to say, I hear what you ask, but do not know what you can possibly offer in return.”

“I’m not goin’ to presume ta guess what someone of your power might want. So, name a price. If it’s too much, we’ll jus’ say no.”

Aenflynn cocked his head, much like a bird examining a shiny object. “You are not very experienced with negotiation either, are you?”

Cedric felt his face flush. “I-”

“Children,” the fae lord said.

Drestra, Cedric and Merzhin froze.

“What…what was that?” Drestra asked.

“I would like one hundred mortal children,” Aenflynn repeated, all smiles gone. “Fifty delivered immediately, and fifty to be delivered upon The Ravener’s defeat. They will be raised here, in the fae lands. They will be cared for. They will be loved, and when they grow up, they will have high positions in my armies.”

Merzhin turned red. “I-”

Aenflynn raised a hand. “I am not finished. These children may be orphans if you desire, but they must be younger than five winters. Mortals grow quickly and can replace any losses my forces incur in battle. In return, you will also take in fifty fae to be raised among you as ‘children’.”

“Changelings,” Drestra murmured.

“Yes, changelings. They are of races who look similar to fae and are nearing the end of their lives. Let them live among you and experience care and a mortal childhood until they pass. That is my price.”

Cedric’s knuckles turned white on the table. “You’re talkin’ about kidnappin’ children.”

“Orphans,” Aenflynn said. “Mere orphans who are destined to either die or languish unwanted in some poorhouse until they are grown: on a path to becoming bandits, criminals or worse. If anything, I am doing you a service. Now…there you have it, that’s my offer.”

“This canno’ be done. There must be somethin’ else you want.”

“I am afraid that is my offer at this moment: no amount of objects of shine, mortal currency or goods, will equal it. I ask that you do not disrespect me by spitting on my offer here and now. I understand why you might find this…distasteful at first blush, but you are the ones asking me for help. Not the reverse…and we fae have different ways of payment than mortalkind does. Think on it for the span of one moon, then you can either give your refusal, give me a counter offer or accept. This is what I am asking.”

Cedric ground his teeth. All thoughts of politeness had gone, and the only thing left in his mind was the thought of his weapon. ‘Shouldn’t’ve even tried this. Should’ve-”

“We will think on it, Lord Aenflynn,” Drestra said. “I thank you for your kind offer.”

The Sage had a tight smile fixed on her face as she glared at both Merzhin and Cedric, who had half-risen from their chairs. “We. Will. Think. On. It.”

There was silence as the Saint and Chosen looked at each other.

‘Right, right,’ Cedric thought. ‘No sense in pickin’ a fight. Leave an’ refuse later.’

He and Merzhin sank back down.

“Excellent,” the fae lord said. “Now, why don't we finish this lovely meal and then you can be on your way to think about what we’ve discussed.”

“Well looks like the meal’s being served early,” Hart whispered, peering through the trees. “Now, now, now, what naughty things have you lot been up to?”

Below—in a forested valley—a camp spread out, looking like it was ready for war.

And the people gathered weren’t Thameish.

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