Chapter 382: Dueling Perspectives

“Are they gone?” one centaur asked, clutching his bloody and bent leg as he languished in the rubble.

“Yeah, they’re gone,” one of the older centaurs said, peering out overtop the pit of that human’s making.

A pyrrhic triumph spread in the centaurs, battered and defeated though alive they were.

One strode to another over the loose dirt and rocks and pounded him on the shoulder. “Mother be praised, Matesh. You were right of that man, and what ill he spelled for us. Perhaps, if we heeded you better…”

The centaur named Matesh looked to the side where his friend grimaced. “It is done. All saw him defile the Holy Mother and her sanctuary. I did not add much in naming him genocider. But… I never imagined he’d grown this much since the wetlands.”

“If he was a genocider, then why did he pass us by?” One skeptic, though bleeding and broken, had mind enough to ask this question.

Matesh unstrung his bow so that its wood would not lose its strength remaining bent. “Even the most grueling of sadists would not genocide for its own sake. Though I have no doubt he feels himself superior to us, he has other aims. That is why he talked to us.” He looked around at those unconvinced, then inquired, “Babur. When they left, where were they headed?”

Babur, a giant white brute, spared a glance towards Matesh. “They split up. Some went to where the elves fled… and others proceeded where we’d come from.”

Matesh nodded, looking at the unconvinced yet again. “Is that enough for you? We should return, treat the wounded, and lick our wounds in the Mother’s Steppe. And we must be sure to be ready for what comes. Nothing must pass us by.”

“That’s for the council to decide,” Babur reminded Matesh. “But I’m sure they’ll agree. This was a disaster…”

#####

After experimenting with the slow fall offered by Artur’s enchanted armor, Argrave used it recklessly. It was extremely thrilling to jump from tree to tree, floating down as though he was on the moon and not on earth. With the enhanced strength the reforged royal enchantments offered, he felt the most athletic he’d ever been in his entire life.

He’d thought Anneliese a bit foolish when she’d experimented with her wind-enchanted boots in Quadreign, flying across the dunes of snow up there… but now, he understood it entirely. Having this kind of mobility under his control brought a pleasure without an equal. The slow fall consumed his magic, but with the blood echoes well at hand it felt a negligible thing to tap into his magic supply at this point. And with events unfolding as they were, speed felt paramount.

“After all that talk, we return empty-handed?” Artur questioned, not quite challenging Argrave, but not exactly being docile either.

Argrave looked at him. Of the people that could remain at his side even as he jumped through the trees, Artur was one, keeping easy speed with that enchanted mantle of his.

Argrave joked, “If you want me to fill your hands, I’m sure we can ask one of my royal guard to hand you their supplies. Hover down, ask them.”

Artur shook his head and looked away, floating through the air in what seemed an effortless display. Argrave refrained from telling him anything of substance, and he’d caught on. Perhaps the Magister with dwarfism would feel discriminated against, his loyalty brought to question after he’d been contacted by Onychinusa… and he was right. Argrave excluded him and just about everybody. Barring Anneliese, he told everyone only what they needed to do, not why they did it. And with her remaining behind to facilitate his plan with the centaurs, he had no one to speak to, not even Orion.

This extreme measure came from Anneliese suggesting that they use the time before the full-scale battle to seek out the rot in their party—namely, anything tying them to Erlebnis. It was a threat Argrave needed to take seriously. Kirel, the elves… they had simple, and well-known, motives. Erlebnis was comfortable enough to come slinking into the scene, but his motivations were depressingly difficult to guess. The ancient god had not been subtle about being present, either. That did not bode well.

Spotting their destination, Argrave found a solid branch and leapt long and far. Though he moved quickly, he fell slowly. He had become adroit enough to change his direction with his arms, moving through this gargantuan forest with the skill of those long-armed gibbons that had harried them in the wetlands many months ago.

Argrave landed nimbly on a construction of the wood elves, almost a landing platform. He was joined in short order by Artur. Behind, Orion scrabbled up, requesting even as Argrave walked ahead, “Your Majesty should not lead from the front. It’s dangerous.”

“Wait ‘til you hear about the real danger…” Argrave left behind, walking into the home ahead. Once there, someone drew a dagger and moved it towards his throat. He caught the wrist that bore it long before it came near his throat. The elven guard seemed surprised.

“At ease,” the Supreme Myriarch caught on to the situation before it ballooned into something more serious. “The king is unfamiliar with military procedures. We cannot fault him for that. Though perhaps, Argrave, you may alert us better next time before entering this area…”

If there was a door, I might’ve knocked, he wished to say, but smartly refrained.

The Supreme Myriarch sat with the myriarchs beneath him at a simple wooden table—mostly familiar faces, Argrave realized. His gaze lingered upon one in particular, however, for half a heartbeat. Myriarch Otgon, the malfeasance Argrave had mentioned to Anneliese in time past. Another sat with them all—Nikoletta.

His cousin rose, walked to him and said excitedly, “Argrave. My father, he… they think he… he might still be alive.”

Argrave raised a brow. “That’s… hah. That is good news. I can’t stay longer, congratulate you properly, as the centaurs aren’t totally dealt with…”

“They aren’t?” Altan, the only woman myriarch, furrowed her golden brows.

“Their entire army is incapacitated. At least a week, by my estimation,” he said, taking hold of Nikoletta’s shoulders even as she trembled in nervous excitement. “But like I said… I will turn them against our enemies.”

The myriarchs seemed surprised and pleased by the news of the incapacitation alone, and they shifted in their chairs in involuntary surprise while retaining their dignity.

Nikoletta continued, “Rovostar apparently travelled along the eastern shore. He never even entered the Bloodwoods—far too scared for that. The elves have been watching him, but thus far he’s stayed far away from the woods, staying on the beaches. He seemed to be trying to make it to Quadreign. Movements along the northern border made him scare, and so he’s… he’s been camped out, five or six days now. The group’s at least six strong… and one of them has blue hair,” she finished, voice tight.

“Yes, we’ve been helping your cousin as requested. And why have their been movements along the northern border?” the Supreme Myriarch looked at Argrave pointedly.

“In case this forest dies, I wanted them to be ready for what was sure to come,” Argrave said, then looked at Nikoletta. “You think I’d try anything with my cousin here, with myself here? Not a chance. Like I said, we’re in this together. And on that end… you’re caught up on the plans for the battle?”

“The forest will never die,” Myriarch Batbayar said. “It—”

“It already is,” the Supreme Myriarch interrupted. “Merata… our god… he spoke of how the redwoods actively seek poison. Salt, sulfur, foul minerals in the ground… whatever foul thing stretches out from its dark recess in the northern woods, it intends to kill the forest and all within it to make room for its demons.”

“Let me take care of this, then we can talk,” he whispered to Nikoletta, then stepped away towards the table of the myriarchs. “You intend on carrying through with the plan, then?”

“I have communed with our gods. It may be so,” the Supreme Myriarch gave a cautious answer. “My Kheshig—I need to hear from them. Are they…?”

Just then, a knock sounded. Ganbaatar entered half a second later, coming to stand behind Argrave. He was quite winded.

“What’s wrong?” Batbayar questioned, concern leaking into his voice.

Ganbaatar eyed the man uncomfortably—Argrave knew they had some history together. Batbayar was something of a mentor to Ganbaatar.

The returned student raised his hand and said, “Just… hard to keep up,” he said.

Moments after, the Kheshig assigned to Argrave entered, each of them as winded as Ganbaatar. They walked to the Supreme Myriarch and saluted shakily, saying, “Sir.”

“…go wait with your brothers,” the Supreme Myriarch commanded after sizing them up in surprise. The leader of the elves looked back to Argrave. “To answer your question: yes, our gods have spoken to me of your plan. A feigned retreat, followed by a decisive, surgical strike.” The Supreme Myriarch tapped the table as he let the words hang. “Feigned retreats are difficult to pull off. And those beneath me are uncomfortable placing all of our hopes on the strike of another.”

“It’s hardly ‘another.’ It’s your gods,” Argrave reminded him.

“We’re still discussing it,” the Supreme Myriarch said decisively. “We cannot move until we’re utterly confident.”

“I need that discussion to end quickly, elsewise it’s going to delay what I’m going to do with the centaurs,” Argrave held his hands out. “This operation is very precise, and every moment waited is another chance for the enemy’s servants to come free of that breach between the realms.”

“…they have been difficult to deal with,” Myriarch Altan admitted begrudgingly, placing one hand on the table. “Before long, it may not be a feigned retreat, Supreme Myriarch, sir.”

The Supreme Myriarch sighed, looking stressed. “…King Argrave. Please, visit with your cousin about the matter with her father. By the time you return…”

“Sounds fine,” Argrave nodded, turning back and shepherding Nikoletta past everyone.

“Ganbaatar—you stay here,” Batbayar called out as the wood elf made to follow them.

#####

“What’s his character?” the Supreme Myriarch inquired.

“Sir…” the head of the detachment of the Kheshig began, the others looking to him expectantly. “He is… he’s decisive before those he leads, he’s a lover before his queen, and a storm before his enemies. He seldom allows any to know what he truly thinks, sir.”

Some of the myriarchs seemed dissatisfied by the vagary. The Supreme Myriarch waved and said, “Tell us what you saw.”

“Very little. He travels fast and hard, working dawn until dusk and even past that. He remains in good humor, but never to the point of jeopardizing his goals. And he… he is powerful. An S-rank spellcaster.”

“Impossible,” Batbayar shook his head. “He has insufficient magic for that.”

“I know not the details of magic…” the Kheshig reported cautiously. “But he left a crater in the earth enough to trap the entire horde of centaurs.”

“What do you mean?” Altan looked at him in the corner of her eyes.

“He buried them, sir. All of them, in the earth,” the Kheshig explained. “One single attack of his collapsed the earth deep enough to incapacitate thousands of centaurs. They were subdued enough for an easy slaughter… yet he refrained, believing he had a better use for them.”

“Perhaps it was not him alone,” Batbayar suggested, and the others seemed content to let it be there.

Otgon set his hands upon the table loudly. “Regardless, he should have killed them all then and there. Does he truly have our best interests in heart, preserving our sworn enemy?”

“If I may speak, sir,” Ganbaatar suggested.

“You may,” the Supreme Myriarch turned his body, looking at Ganbaatar.

“Argrave fought against his father to put an end to his barbaric rule of conquest and tyranny. He was praised as merciful and benevolent to those who surrendered,” the returning elf explained.

“But these are humans,” Otgon cut in. “We have no idea how he’d treat elves.”

“On another front, sir,” Ganbaatar continued. “He has a steady and strong alliance with the Veidimen—that is, the snow elves. There is no bad blood between them, and rumors persist that he put a stop to their invasion of human land diplomatically.”

Altan held her hand up. “He does marry an elf, even if one of impure lineage.”

“Do we all so soon forget he rouses our gods?” Batbayar questioned.

“Some say the gods are tyrants, not to be welcomed,” Altan looked at him bitterly.

“But the faith holds they saved us long ago, and they promise to do the same again,” the Supreme Myriarch shook his head. “Speaking to gods… is not something soon forgotten. I believe each of you must do it. And in time, you will. For they are here.” He stood. “Then, let us call back Argrave. I am decided, after counsel. We must begin the cooperation in earnest.”