Arc 1: Chapter 25: Executioners

    When Catrin and I were alone in a room within the elven manor, she whirled on me.

    “What the fuck was all that?”

    I met her glare, bemused. “What was what?”

    The dhampir lifted a hand, gesturing in the direction of the dining terrace and the Sidhe lord. “That. These bastards took us prisoner, shot me, forced you into a fight for your life in front of an audience, then sent you on your merry way to fight their enemy. And you just... just...” She made a clawing motion with her hands, baring her teeth in frustration. “You just nodded and thanked the scarred bastard like he was the blessed emperor of Urn!”

    I turned and walked toward the single window in the room. It was more spacious than the one I’d used at the Falconer castle, all blue stone walls and faerie lights, a narrow window without glass cut into the far wall. There was a bed, a small fountain, and an armoire.

    “Well?” Catrin asked at my back, when I pressed an eye to the little window and didn’t reply.

    I sighed. “They’re immortals. There’s no point getting mad about anything they do — it won’t sway them, and won’t get us what we need.” Also, I thought tiredly, they had good reason to treat me like they did.

    “It just doesn’t seem right,” Catrin groused.

    “Yeah, well...” I turned to the armoire and checked it. No wisps or wraiths. I knocked on the inside in several places. No illusions. “If you want quick justice from the elves, you’re going to be disappointed. You want to call in a debt with them, do it, but I’m not going to sit around waiting for the oradyn to balance the scales. We’re lucky I won that duel.”

    “Lucky?” Catrin propped a fist on her hip, watching me search the room. “Looked like you thumped him good from where I was sitting, big man.”

    “He wanted me to win,” I said. “I think. Not real clear on that point. Anyway, if he was truly trying to kill me I don’t think I’d have made it out of that intact.” I turned a hard look on the dhampir. “And you need to be careful how you talk to the Sidhe. They’re quick to forget trivial things, but not slights. Irn Bale was giving you slack because his people shot you with banemetal, but his indulgence will only go so far.”

    Catrin scoffed. “To the Pits with that. I don’t let human nobles treat me like I’m mud to be stepped on, and I won’t let him do it just because he’s ancient and glowy.” She folded her arms and studied me thoughtfully. “Though, I suppose you’re used to dealing with the like, being some sort of holy crusader.”

    “Don’t call me that,” I snapped. Catrin reeled back, surprised at the venom in my voice. “I’m not some dogmatic zealot, persecuting heretics in the God-Queen’s name. That is not what the Table was for.”

    Catrin watched me in neutral silence. In a flash of guilt, I realized I’d been very quick to persecute her for what she was.

    I was born this way, she’d said.

    “What was that he called me before?” Catrin asked. Her brow furrowed as she searched for the word. “Malcathe?”

    “It means misbegotten,” I said. “They use it for most things that aren’t men or eld.” Mostly things of fiendish origin, I added silently. One more reason not to entirely trust the changeling.

    “I’ll bet,” Catrin said. A bitter smile curled her lips.

    “We need to get ready to leave,” I said, changing the subject. “What’s this plan of yours? You left before I could ask last night.”

    “Yeah...” I could tell Catrin hadn’t forgotten the subject, but she let it pass for the moment. She moved to the bed, sat, then let out a small sound of surprise as she nearly sank into it. She patted it a few times, marveling at the softness.

    When she caught me glowering in impatience, she coughed self-consciously and crossed her legs beneath her long skirts. “Remember when I thought we were both going to die and I told you about the baron’s pet?”

    I nodded. “You said it was some kind of demon.”

    Catrin’s face drained of some of its color. “Yeah. I can... I don’t know. Feel it. Like it’s making my blood shiver.” She did shiver, as though to demonstrate. “But it’s not just my hunch. All these factions sending representatives to treat with Falconer are taking him seriously because he bound some dark spirit leftover from the wars in the east. And... you don’t look shocked.”

    I shook my head. “I sensed it too, with my powers. Remember when you brought me to the castle?”

    Catrin’s eyes widened. “I thought you were some kind of mage. That was because of this paladin thing?”

    “It’s the gift of the Table,” I confirmed. “I can sense Things of Darkness.”

    Catrin’s smile turned a touch shy. “Didn’t sense me.”

    “No,” I said quietly. “I didn’t.”

    “You must,” Irn Bale said, his immortal voice melancholy. “You cannot afford to refuse it.”

    I raised a hand — one that trembled slightly — to feel the mesh of metal links that formed the armor. The coat of chainmail, a hauberk made to fall from neck to calf, was of elven make. Each ring was riveted with a master’s hand, wrought of an iron alloy so dark it was nearly black, though the faerie light of the oradyn’s home made shades of green and blue undulate along its length, so the armor almost seemed to be fashioned of liquid shadow or the water at the bottom of a deep lake.

    Considering I had threads of literal moonlight fastening my wounds together just then, I considered the possibility that was exactly what it was made of. Shadow, water, and aura. The elves rarely used only ordinary materials for their craft.

    “My sister wore this over a thousand years ago,” Irn Bale said, “in our war against the Cambion.” He brushed his hand along the metal, and its substance seemed to ripple at his touch. “Its magic has faded, but it will guard you well all the same. It will not weigh you down, even in water, nor will it make sound to give you away in stealth.”

    Elven chainmail. I’d seen the like before, but it was exceedingly rare, especially nowadays. Some of the other members of the Table had worn the like, preferring it even over dwarf craft.

    It was an invaluable gift, and not one I deserved.

    “If it wasn’t for us,” I said, voice bitter, “your sister would still be alive.”

    “Perhaps,” Irn Bale said thoughtfully. “Perhaps not. Do not bear all the failures of the world on your back, Alken Hewer, lest it break. You are but one man, and your battles are not done.” He nodded to the armor. “Hers are.”

    Several elves fitted the armor. The sides of the hauberk’s long lower half were slitted on the sides, allowing more freedom of movement for the legs — my thighs and waist were instead protected by a heavy belt strung with faulds. On its original wearer, the chainmail would have fallen to mid calf, like a robe or gown. On me, it barely passed my knees. The sleeves were short and topped by a pair of spaulders, and a harness of heavy elf-iron disks was hung over my chest. The set came with greaves and vambraces of the same shadowy metal, which were adjusted for my size.

    I was much bigger than Irn Bale’s sister would have been, but somehow the elven armorers made the whole thing fit, and fit well. It was like a second skin, even with the clothing I wore underneath.

    The armor had seen many, many battles. I could see scars along the closely riveted links of each and every ring, and deeper grooves on the finely detailed segments that were made of more solid plate. Links were missing along the sleeves and skirt, giving the whole thing a somewhat frayed appearance.

    “I will not give you her helm,” Irn Bale said. “That, I keep for my house.”

    I nodded, accepting this without question. “It is a kingly gift.”

    “No gift,” the oradyn corrected. “Our nations are sending you to war against the Adversary. This is a loan for that purpose.”

    Even still. “What was your sister’s name?” I asked. “So I can remember.”

    “Irn Raya.”

    Finally I donned my blood-red cloak, wrapping it around my neck twice before letting the rest fall about my new armaments. Catrin watched by the door of the fitting room. As I took my axe and approached her, I saw her eyes widen slightly.

    “The Baron’s going to piss himself,” she said. “You look like Death’s own executioner.”

    “That’s the idea,” I agreed.

    Catrin turned to one of the elves. “Where’s my fancy armor? I’m going in there with the big man too.”

    In answer, Irn Bale handed her a dagger. The blade was banemetal, the grip trollbone.

    “The arrow we struck you with was worked into that blade,” the oradyn told her. “And the handle is from the bridge troll Orson Falconer’s minions slew. You will deliver its justice to him, I trust.”

    Catrin swallowed, all the humor fled from her. “... Yeah. Sure thing.”

    “Let’s go,” I told her. “If you still want to be part of this.”

    “Hey, I was part of this before you showed up.” The dhampir sheathed the dagger at her belt, careful not to touch the cursed metal. “Believe me, I’ve got no qualms about sticking this thing into that bastard’s heart.”

    More serious she said, “Alken... All this new gear is going to make it pretty obvious to the Baron that you’re tight with the elves. Once you make it back to the village, they’re not going to just let you through the front door.”

    I nodded. “I know.”

    So armed, we went to war.