Book 2 : Chapter 22

Jungfrau, Nussegrund

Benedicia of Goldenwood

Brief naps interspersed between long periods of casting, moving, and vigilance. A slave army of the improperly resurrected crashed upon the shores of their defenses like the waves of the shore. A stink of rot weighed down upon them like a crushing blanket, and the silent shuffle of corpses surrounded them like a prison.

It was not the most tired she had ever been, nor the worst situation. Fleeing from Demon Country after the death of Heroine Palmyra was worse, but it was a definite third or fourth place. 

Her shoulders were heavy, her legs ached, and her lips were bruised. Constant tantric exchanges between herself and Heroine Mari were not enough for a full replenishment, only enough to keep her running on bare scraps of energy as the siege progressed. Were the Heroine to engage her in deeper coitus, then a much larger share of boundless mana could be passed along, but Mari was not comfortable enough with her to do that yet.

Benedicia had been slacking in her efforts, a shame on her name. Every time she looked at dear Mari, she saw Palmyra, and her heart broke again. She had lagged in making the Heroine comfortable with regular intimacy, and that had potential to doom them here. They could not afford restraint, not after the previous failure.

It was an advantage too critical to shun for something as meager as Benedicia’s heart.

Ilsa flicked an ear towards her with eyes focused on the foreign elf before them. A silent question asking if Benedicia knew who he was. Hair of rich gold and eyes of vibrant green, with an aristocratic fairness to his features and the broadness of a veteran warrior. He was almost certainly of royal blood and martial inclination.

Which made it exceptionally curious that Benedicia had no idea who this was. Benedicia flicked an ear towards the young princess, an equally-silent reply in the language that only elves spoke. ‘No’. 

“I’ve come to offer my aid to you, Chosen Heroine Mari.” The elven warrior raised a hand over his heart in a solemn gesture. “To the defeat of the Demon Queen, my prowess as a warrior is yours.”

It took Mari a moment to process the statement and respond, the poor dear thoroughly drained and exhausted by the constant battle and prophetic dreams. It was a little-spoken burden of Heroines, a hidden truth that Palmyra only spoke to her of a single time and never again. A gift of foresight that guided the Heroines on the path to victory in their divine missions. 

Palmyra always seemed so uncomfortable when it came up, so Benedicia refrained from speaking of it as much as she could. 

Mari shook her head and then nodded, bringing her hands together in front of her chainmail dress. “I- Yes! Yes I would- I would welcome that…”She fumbled her words, looking down and then sighing miserably. “I’m sorry. I’m- I’m very tired right now, Sir…”

“We’ll be glad to have you along! Certainly better than another pansy!” Hilda laughed uproariously, stepping forwards to clap the heroine on the shoulder and nod towards the elven man. She spoke in the tongue of the Empire now, albeit with rough pronunciation and strong hints of her native tongue. 

The elven man raised a brow at her. “Why are you naked?” It was scandalously blunt, which added to the mystery of who exactly this strange elf was. Or perhaps it was conveying a meaning so well hidden that even she couldn’t perceive it, an intriguing prospect.

“I’m not naked, much to my shame.” Hilda shook her head with a huff. A large round shield hung off one arm, suspended by a leather strap tucked into the crook of her arm, and a sheath on the interior of the shield carried her iron sword. Two scraps of fur concealed her decency, one around her shoulders and just barely coming down to the peaks of her chest, and the other suspended on leather strings and going before her groin. Both of which concealed little of the pale flesh beneath- more of her skin was covered in that strange blue paint than any article.

The men of Seaxlund had a strange culture, where clothing was synonymous with shame, and their companion gained and lost fragments of clothing as she performed well or poorly in battle. Hilda tugged at her scraps of fur, then leaned forwards slightly. “After tackling that boney eagle like you did- I’d say you’ve earned the right to toss aside that tunic. A feat Einhar would toast at, eheh-!”

Benedicia smiled faintly, raising a hand to hide it. The brutish Hilda had just giggled like a bashful maiden.

The strange elf processed that with a blank expression for a moment, then gave a wide, proud smirk. Locks of gold framed his face beneath a helmet of carved bone. “I killed a dragon and had it skinned for this armor, woman, you’re telling me to throw away a trophy like that?”

Benedicia had remembered something like that, when they first heard of this elf some weeks ago. The slayer of the dragon Malamadr, ill-famed for her devouring of prince Drasil, lord of the Greenwood. Perhaps this elf had a connection to the Greenwood family- an uncle or cousin she had not heard of or something along those lines. 

Hilda recoiled slightly with that statement, giving an awkward cough into her fist and glancing away. “Ah- no I’m not. I was just thinking that you’d… you’d look good bare chested, is all.”

There was an amused exhale from one of the men behind the elf. The scruffy one with an eyepatch. “Took you all of one sentence to have a pass made at you, elf. You got a talent for it.”

“It comes with being handsome, Bastard.” The elf turned to grin at the scruffy man, who let out a roll of chuckles and stepped forwards. 

“Rayne the Bastard, good to meet you.” The man offered a hand towards Mari, who shook it after a momentary glance. “We met earlier, when the elf was screaming at the bird, but we didn’t have time for a proper introduction.”

“Hello- uhm… If it’s not rude, why are you called the Bastard?” Mari asked, shaking the man’s hand before letting go and pulling back again. The man shrugged and offered a hand towards Hilda, who shook it firmly.

“It’s what I am.” The apparently-named Rayne declared, curly brown hair bouncing slightly with his shrug and smile. 

“Honesty is the virtue of common men.” Ilsa spoke up, bringing herself into the conversation after her period of observation. A mild compliment and observation followed by an elegant flourish of her hand to brush back a long lock of dark red hair. “I am Ilsa, Swordswoman of Goldenwood. I’ll trust that you know what that means.”

“That you like wearing the slutty parody of proper armor?” Mallorn asked in a dry and sarcastic manner, ears pulled flatly back in an annoyed manner as the princess presented herself. Benedicia almost let out a scandalized giggle as Ilsa recoiled slightly, clearly not prepared for the immediate verbal prod.

After a moment, the princess had her reply. “What a mannish response. Any proper elf should know the pursuit of martial perfection does not permit handicaps such as armor.”

“We’re surrounded by an army of corpses and you’re more worried about getting fractionally more skillful at footwork over staying well protected.” The elf shot back immediately with an unimpressed drawl, tilting his head and looking down at the princess. “Those are your priorities?”

“Y-you speak as if they’ll land a blow on me.” Ilsa’s defense was cracking at the steady, focused hammerblows of observation coming from the male elf. He was quite practiced at this, perhaps indicating an older elf. “Not a one of them is my equal.”

“When the limits of your stamina are reached, it doesn’t matter how skillfully you can move, because you won't be able to.”

“An outlandish scenario. I’ll simply leave well before my limits are reached to recover and return later.”

“And leave all these innocents to suffer behind you.” The male elf said in a terribly blunt and cold manner, staring down at the princess with great antipathy. The words stopped the princess flatly, making her snap her mouth closed and ears flicker with ill tension. “The problem, I’m sure you realize, is that sometimes you have to take hits so that other people don’t. And if you’re not wearing armor, that isn’t an option.”

“Very well said, Sir Mallorn!” The mustached human said with a firm nod and warm smile. The other humans were giving considering or approving gestures of their own. The audience had turned against the princess. 

Ilsa remained quiet for a moment, then glanced away, tips of her ears flushing red. “I suppose that’s what we’ll have you there for.” She muttered. An utter defeat on the young woman’s part. Benedicia smiled and her ears flicked as she stepped forwards with hands raised in a conciliatory manner.

It was good for the princess to lose the occasional verbal spar, lest she develop an unreasonable ego. Benedicia couldn’t do it herself, because Ilsa refused to ever engage her in a debate, merely relenting immediately thanks to her experience in the previous Heroine’s party. A more-senior companion in the same line of work that was heeded without fail- hardly the best grounds for healthy argumentation.

“We’ll be glad to have your expertise with us, Sir Mallorn.” Benedicia nodded and smiled, wiggling her ears in a friendly manner. 

“There are others who’d like to join as well, but of course, they’re on the other side of that gaggle of ghosts.” The man named Rayne declared, nodding at the armies of stationary dead that surrounded the city in silent lockstep. “We’ll need to break the siege if you’re to meet them.”

“Speaking of- commander, do you have any plans for that?” Mallorn turned, looking back to the grey-earred man who lingered at the edges of their conversation. 

A feline ear gave a flick in a manner almost resembling an elf, but not quite. “That’s the current topic of discussion, yes.” He grumbled, casting an eye towards the elf. “We had some early success with bombardments, catapults and the spells of Lady Benedicia and Mari, but they targeted our siege weapons early and hard, and have adjusted their positions to be just out of range of the spells.”

“Destroying the anchor-bone of each is possible, but it would be much more efficient to kill the necromancers controlling the armies- if we can find them.” Little Morgan spoke up now that her subject of expertise came up. “The problem is, this many dead would need an army of necromancers to control- its difficult to control more than ten risen dead, let alone thousands like this.”

“But if such a ratio was maintained, we’d see an army of necromancers, but we do not.” The grey-earred commander slammed an angry fist down on the edge of the wall, glaring out to the enemy. “If we try to simply destroy the key-bone for each abomination that attacks, we’ll be worn down and killed through exhaustion. If we ride out, we’ll be surrounded, dragged down, and slaughtered. We cannot break the morale of the already-dead, we cannot exhaust their supplies.”

“We can always await a legion to respond and break the siege for us, but we’ve no idea how long that might take.” Orrin muttered, reaching up to rub his mustache. “Perhaps I could hurl some rubble at them, but that would only be for three hours a day, and the time is already passed by now…”

“Do you have any goblins left to throw at them?” Rayne asked with a dry wit. “Maybe they can kill a necromancer or two before they die.”

“The goblin-men died buying the rest of our force time to get behind the walls.” Commander Descan spoke with bitterness. “They were first line defenders when our scouts were slaughtered.”

“Gah- I know if Lir were here, he’d come up with a solution in a split second!” Orrin complained with a huff and crossing of his arms. 

“...What do Necromancers sound like, out of curiosity?” Mallorn asked with a focused stare on the horizon of dead, brows furrowed and ears adjusting in fearsome concentration. 

Before anyone could answer him, the sounds of weariness interrupted. Mari tried to muffle a yawn, failing dramatically. She let out an embarrassed squeak as eyes turned towards her.

Commander Descan shook his head. “It’s moot until the Warmage returns from inspecting our siege weapons or another attack commences. Heroine Mari, please go get some rest while you have the opportunity- we can wake you if there’s an emergency.”

“I-” She was interrupted by another ferocious yawn, miserably nodding as she relented. “-Okay. I’ll go… sleep.” There was a shiver in her shoulders as she spoke, turning around and making for the tower on the wall and the stairs leading down within it. 

“That includes you, Lady Benedicia. You’ve gotten just as little rest.” Commander Descan attempted to lecture a woman who was at least five times his age. Benedicia smiled and deigned to relent, turning and moving to walk alongside the Heroine.

Poor Mari was practically staggering, having not the elven constitution or experience to maintain poise after so much activity. She had long reached the limits of her stamina, and only continued on in staggered steps with brief slumped naps to push her along. Her mystical stamina was endless, but her physical stamina was just that of a common woman.

Benedicia hesitated for a moment, then slipped an arm under Mari’s and rested a hand on her hip, supporting the younger woman as they walked along. Mari gave a bright, weary smile up at her in thanks.

Palmyra’s smile flashed over her view. Benedicia’s heart gave a wobbly, mournful beat as she smiled warmly back. “The man speaks sense, Mari, it’s good to rest while we have the opportunity.” Benedicia declared, before leaning forwards in a slightly conspiratorial manner. “And if you are still having night terrors, you can cling to me while you sleep, okay? I don’t mind.”

Mari flushed before looking down and away, a complicated, messy expression on her face. Grief and pain and mounting terror. Benedicia said nothing, allowing her pupil as much time as she needed to reply, walking down the stairs and out to the patrolled streets, towards the housing they were offered to rest in.

The lodge of some portly nobleman, a wealthy landowner of local repute who was quick to further his reputation with the gesture. Benedicia made sure to keep firm eyes on him at all times.

“...That bird… dragon thing…” Mari whispered, face twisted into apprehension. “It would’ve- it could’ve killed us in a dozen ways. Your spells would melt its armor but not stop it. Morgan couldn’t speak to it. Ilsa would’ve been caught by its teeth. Hilda ripped apart by its claws…”

Benedicia’s ears pulled back and low, rubbing smoothing circles into the Heroine’s lower back as they walked. 

Mari swallowed fearfully, shivering slightly. “It could’ve…”

“But it didn’t.” Benedicia reminded gently.

Mari nodded her head shakily, shivers slowly leaving her frame. “It didn’t… it didn’t…”

A slightly awestruck hint came into her tone. “And then… that elf. Sir Mallorn… He came in and killed it in an instant. He took it out of the air and then… it never came close to killing him…”

“He is an accomplished dragonslayer last we heard, remember?” Benedicia smiled, ears wiggling as she picked up on the emotions of the heroine. Something of a romance could brew here- she would have to be careful to nurture it into bloom. “From the town crier. He has done this at least once before.”

“Do- you mentioned last time that his name implied he was royal.” Mari muttered, glancing to the side with a twinge of pink on her cheeks. “Do you recognize him from the capital?”

Benedicia thought about it for a few moments, mind scanning through all the elves she had met over her three hundred years of life. Men of the royal guard, tall and handsome, clad in bright colors and plates of flowing mithril. Women of the faith, fair and fearsome, wearing white silks and golden thread. 

The King himself, Raurnac, of blood red hair and brooding eyes, a tremendous seven feet high and rippling with lean muscle. The centennial portraits she had seen of his many sons, princes of the woods, and grandsons thereafter. Her mentor, Cano Ara’aranel, a towering eight feet in height and of such ethereal beauty as to steal her breaths away.

This Mallorn was a warrior elf for certain, with height and frame both, clad in distinctly unelven armor and speaking exclusively in mannish tongues. Wielding a great weapon with sensibilities no classically trained elf would have. 

Perhaps he was raised by non-elves?

“I do not recognize him, no, although that is not terribly surprising.” Benedicia replied after awhile. “The capital is larger than any mannish city, and its buildings at least twice as tall as the tallest mannish towers, and there are a great many elves who make it their home. Even an elf would struggle to meet every other elf who make it their home.”

“I see…” Mari muttered. “...I hope he and Ilsa get along. I would hate for them to argue evermore.”

“Like Ilsa argues with Hilda and Morgan, you mean?” Benedicia pointed out with a sly smile.

Mari sighed despondently, hanging her head as they stumbled along. “Yeah…”

“I’m sure they’ll get along- the humor of the elves is not like mannish humor. What may seem a bitter argument amongst ourselves often conceals a deep love.” Benedicia nodded wisely, assuringly.

“...They don’t have to get that close.” Mari muttered with a very mild heat. 

Benedicia’s smile widened, and plots of romance began to brew between her long ears.