The Conquest of Mytheyr

Vath stood at the back of the house, throwing knives at a wooden target. He didn’t remember hearing any stories about the Great Lady Morgan. She didn’t look like much of a Great Lady. His father always said they were powerful, graceful, and… they all had endured some great tragedy. Come to think of it, Vath had actually heard very little of the Dragonkin Elves in general. They weren’t all that important in Mytheyr’s history, and their stories were not very popular in his town. Still, he felt there was something important he was forgetting…

“Hey,” Morgan’s voice came softly from behind him. Vath turned and stared a bit. Before, she had been wearing the same tan, loose linen everyone in the desert wore, but now she had changed into garb she was obviously more familiar with. Her black, high-collared sleeveless tunic and leggings framed every muscle that made up her powerful, lithe body. When Vath had first met her, she had been covered in sand and sweat but now she was scrubbed almost pink, and her thick hair had been done into a ropelike braid. Her wings were uncovered, and the light shone through the aquamarine membrane like stained glass, dancing off the metallic purple flecks within them. Vath could almost make out the legendary scar on her left forearm, which hung loosely by her side, her right arm hidden from view by a dark gray cloak draped over it. Morgan noticed him trying to get a glimpse, so she showed it to him, turning her arm to reveal her inside forearm. A long, straight scar ran the length of it, starting a little below her elbow and nearly reaching her wrist.

“Do all Dragonkin have that same scar?” Vath asked curiously.

“Yep,” Morgan affirmed, “it’s a badge of honor, and sometimes one of identification.” Their conversation died before it was born as the male Dark Elf from before came to speak to them.

“Come to my house,” he told them, “I will answer your questions, and you will answer mine.”

It was a humble house. Like the others, it was built of wood and adobe. They entered into the central room, which had three doorways leading out of it, not counting the one Morgan and Vath knew led outside. The packed dirt floor was covered with an assortment of colorful woven rugs, with cushions scattered about. The Dark Elf sat on a cushion by an empty fire pit in the middle of the room, motioning for Morgan and Vath to do the same. They each retrieved a pillow and took a place around the pit.

“Forgive me for not introducing myself before. My name is Teren.” the Dark Elf began, “I am the head of this village. And you are the Great Lady Morgan Silversword.”

“Great Lady means nothing,” Morgan said, her voice congenial, “It’s just a title given to certain women by storytellers. The only one who lives up to the descriptions is Lady Drie-El, and that’s because all Sylvian Elves are like that.”

“Forgive me,” Teren said, not looking sorry at all, “But it seems a fitting title, if I may be so bold.”

“You don’t have to be so formal.” Morgan said, blushing a tiny bit, “Just Morgan will do.”

Teren smiled good-naturedly and turned to Vath.

“Burntbush, you said? I thought they had all died.”

“My mother and father, yes.” Vath said quietly, “It’s just me and a few uncles left.”

Teren stood, and went to fetch something from another room. When he returned, he carried a rectangle piece of wood in his hands, ten by five inches and a half inch thick. He sat once again by the empty fire pit, and showed them the carving in the wood’s surface.

The carving was beautifully done. It was an image of an elf with a brooding expression, looking at something off to the side of the viewer. His hair was swept to one side so it ran down his shoulder, but it was carefully done so that the hair did not hide the medallion the elf wore, which was small and circular, and bore a crest of a withered tree, being struck by a lighting bolt.

“This is my son,” Teren said, “He died a week ago. He was young, just getting used to manhood at one hundred and fifty years.”

“I’m sorry.” Morgan said, looking sadly at the image. She found herself wondering what he had been like. Before she got far in her musing, however, Teren spoke again.

“Thank you.” he took a moment to compose himself. “He died a week ago, and returned four days ago. He was among those you fought today. I… don’t know how they died. They were all warriors from our village, and we found their bodies without a scratch on them. We brought them home to be mourned, and… they woke up.” He abruptly stopped speaking.

Morgan looked at Teren empathetically. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like, for your child to die, but then to return before your eyes, as something else. She didn’t want to press him, but she needed the information.

“Where did you find them?” she asked. She layered a little magic into her voice, a gift the female Dragonkin have to clear darkness out of the hearts of men. This was the first time Morgan used it on an elf, and not a human.

It seemed to work, as Teren’s heart returned.

“About a mile north-east of here. Their weapons were in their hands, and their bodies were scattered about, but they lay no more then ten feet from each other, at the farthest.”

“I only have one more question, Teren.” Morgan said, her voice soft. “What did they do when they woke up?”

“They said… that they were our guards. That they would enforce law for King Semele.”

Morgan hissed under her breath. She swore to herself that Semele would pay for the pain he had caused.

“What do you intend to do?” Teren asked her.

“We’re raising an army. My lieutenant is in the north forests now, recruiting. We mean to meet with her.”

“Then I would ask you,” Teren said somberly, “We have twenty six men and women who wish to fight, myself included. We would be glad to join your army.” Morgan nodded, and looked to Vath.

“You don’t mind if they travel with us?” she asked.

Vath was stunned. He had been feeling as if he were just along for the ride, that he was only there because he might be useful, because of some prophecy. But he realized that that wasn’t what Morgan intended at all.

“Um… sure. They can come.” He answered, not knowing what else to say. Morgan smiled, and nodded.

“I need to send a message to Raven.” Morgan said, standing up and dusting off her leggings. “We can leave tomorrow. Have your people ready.” Vath looked back at her as she went out the front door.

“I recognize that look.” Teren chuckled.

“What look?” asked Vath.

“Oh, it’s a look young men sometimes get.” Without further explanation, Teren left Vath alone with his thoughts.

Outside, Morgan had little trouble convincing a passing crow to carry a letter. Mischief managed, she wrote on a scrap of paper. She handed it to the crow, which took it in his beak and shook out his wings, taking off into the cloudless, impossibly blue sky.