The Wyelands rushed away in every direction, a sea of rippling green that stretched as far as the eye could see. It blanketed the human world, from the ramshackle northern city of Wolf’s Head to the Shattered Sea that split them from the ashen lands of southern Isyrith. The wind toyed with the sparse few trees that punctuated the idyllic landscape, and the sun bore mercilessly down upon them. Celestine’s ebony hair was pulled back into a bun at the base of her neck but even so, loose strands of it stuck unattractively to the sides of her face. Carefully she picked at it, piece by piece, to keep her hands busy.
The red brick walls of Wolf’s Head City rose behind her. She could feel their solid, comforting presence like an anchor holding to her to everything she was duty-bound to protect. She took a deep breath and held it for a moment, savouring the salty smell of the air. The sea lapped at the coastline not quite close enough to be seen, but in the tense silence she was sure she could hear it.
Her stomach was fluttering. Thirty trained soldiers stood in neat lines behind her, each of them ready to lay down their lives to defend Wolf’s Head if it was necessary, but it wasn’t enough to comfort her. The dark elves would be here soon. She turned and caught the eye of the woman beside her, standing protectively close.
There was nothing to her but bone and wiry muscle. Her hair was cropped so short that the brown skin of her scalp was easily visible underneath the stubble, exposing a long scar that began at the crown of her head and ended in a nasty pucker of flesh behind her left ear. She didn’t smile but there was calm in her deep brown eyes. Not even a horde of rampaging dark elves could ruffle Joselyn.
“High Priestess!” Celestine raised her head as her title sailed through the saltwater air. A scout was running up the road towards them, her face red and sweaty. Her armour was lighter than that of the soldiers behind Celestine but regardless, it was far too hot to be wearing so much leather. Celestine stepped forward as the young woman doubled over, her hands gripping her knees as she heaved in breath after breath. She touched the scout’s shoulder and leaned down to look her in the face, pressing the flask of water from her own satchel into her hand.
The scout drank noisily. The cold liquid dribbled over her chin until she was sated enough to straighten up and speak. “Thank you, High Priestess,” she gasped, offering back the flask.
“You keep that,” Celestine said, with a smile. The scout nodded, and pointed back down the southern road with her free thumb.
“The Necromancers,” she said. “They’re almost here. There’s maybe twenty of them, in total. Two of them are human.” Celestine thanked the young woman, and sent her back into the city.
“One of those human Necromancers is going to be Elyse Lockwood,” Joselyn muttered through gritted teeth.
“That doesn’t change the fact that we promised these Necromancers immunity, Jos. All of them.” She slipped her hand into Joselyn’s and smiled softly. The hardness of Joselyn’s expression eased a fraction, but only for a second. “I promised I’d hear them out.”
“Against my wishes, High Priestess,” Joselyn said. She squeezed Celestine’s hand and then pulled away from her. Closing her fist around the grip of her single-shot pistol, she turned to ready the ranks of the Magi for an assault.
Celestine wanted to believe the attack wasn’t coming. The son of the dark elven king had contacted her directly to ask for a truce, agreeing to bring only a small contingent far beyond the boundaries of the Wyelands that had already been conquered by King Adoran. They would be outnumbered in hostile territory. Attacking the Magi here would be folly.
Even so, she found herself clutching the hilt of the ornate, golden dagger that rested at her hip. She ran her thumb along its elaborate gilding as she watched the horizon.
“You don’t have to be here, Celestine,” Joselyn said, from behind her. She would have much preferred Celestine to remain behind the city walls, nestled safely in the Temple of Vosa behind the City Guard and all of the Magi, several powerful defensive enchantments and a locked door.
“Of course I do, Joselyn.”
The air began to chill noticeably. It should have brought a reprieve from the relentless glare of the summer sun, but Celestine knew the shift in temperature for what it was.
“Necromancy,” she whispered to herself. The Magi behind her began to fidget. Within moments, the dark elves would be upon them.
Celestine had never met a dark elf in battle; she had only ever seen them from a distance, from the safety of the walls of Wolf’s Head. She was intimately acquainted with their brutal, merciless methods of war only because she had insisted upon being so. If her people were to go to battle, she would know what she was sending them into.
The forces of Isyrith fought like nothing the Magi had ever seen, their mastery of Necromancy utter and terrifying. Their skin seemed impervious to damage, healing if it was breached. Only the most grievous injuries seemed to slow them down.
They took no prisoners. They left nothing in their wake but blood and ash.
It was the sacred duty of the Magi to bring order to the wild, ancient magic of the Twin Kingdoms, and she was losing the war. She was failing to rein in the most destructive force of chaotic magic the world had ever seen. Her predecessors had held the dark elves at bay for thousands of years and unless Celestine found an answer very soon, she would be the High Priestess who stood while humanity fell.
It had been Prince Arkreth who had reached out to her. Joselyn believed it to be a trap of some kind and Celestine could understand why; without peace, his people would destroy hers. Necromancy would swallow the world whole. His bid for diplomacy did not make sense.
The dark elves crested the swell of the meadow. They walked in a kind of unison, but it was unlike what she would expect of her own soldiers. It was as though every movement was choreographed, down the the way their feet fell and their hands gripped the hilts of their sheathed weapons.
Each one of them carried a weapon hewn from black glass that seemed to swallow any trace of sunlight that dared to caress its dark surface. It was called Void Glass. Stories told that the dark elven city of Lyath Syr was of the same material - that it was magic, frozen and solidified in bizarre, malformed towers which the Founder God, Moreph, had torn through from the Void Between Worlds.
Every part of a dark elf was made of magic, from their grey skin and colourless eyes to the black, Void glass teeth they bared. It was as though all colour had been sucked out of them, leaving nothing but grey spectres moving strangely against the vibrant backdrop of the Wyelands. They were alien, only appearing humanoid because the world they were a part of had forced their essence into that shape.
Prince Arkreth stood at the head of the congregation, his stark white hair pulled back and tied at the base of his skull. He had a high-cheekboned, sharp-featured face, and silver skin that shone like dull metal. He was paler than each of the elves behind him and marked out by his bright, steel-blue eyes. They were the only trace of colour amongst the dark elves.
They wore little armour. There was a plate of Void glass over the Prince’s heart, the edges of which were detailed in silver, but aside from this simple piece of armour all he wore from the waist up were the blackened leather straps that held his longsword in place across his back.
Elyse Lockwood walked beside him, her amber skin bright against the mosaic of grey. She dressed just as minimally as the dark elves, exposing the scars and callouses that patterned her abdomen and arms. Her dirty blonde hair was tied over one shoulder, framing one side of her fierce, pinched face. She seemed at home amongst the dark elves, and there was nothing but disdain in her narrow brown eyes as her eyes met Celestine’s.
Celestine felt Joselyn draw closer to her as the Necromancers came to a halt.
“High Priestess Celestine,” the prince said, in flawless Wye. She hadn’t expected to be able to communicate with them in her native language. Ley Speech was innate to Necromancers and almost impossible for anybody else to learn to understand. Even the Temple’s expert on Necromancy could only speak scraps of the arcane language, and he had spent more than a decade as the captive of an Orcish Necromancer in Isyrith.
She glanced back into the ranks and found him, one of Joselyn’s youngest and least experienced agents, shrinking away from the hard glare of the dark elven prince.
“Prince Arkreth,” Celestine greeted, pulling the dark elf’s attention back to her. She inclined her head politely. He did not mirror her gesture.
In the silence that ensued, Celestine scanned the crowd before her until her eyes met those of a young woman. In most respects she was much like Elyse, with bright skin and small features, but the piercing blue eyes staring at her in youthful fascination were the exact same colour as Prince Arkreth’s. Her hair was bright white, just like his, and braided over one shoulder. The end of the braid was wrapped around her hand and she was fiddling with it nervously.
Her shock must have shown on her face, because Elyse reached out a hand to grip her daughter’s and pulled the girl close beside her.
Dark elves didn’t mate for life. Their children didn’t come from their unions. They were crafted with magic and brought into the world juvenile but fully formed, ready to begin training to fight and wield magic that nobody should be able to wield. It shouldn’t be possible, but here she was; a half-dark elf.
“Elyse Lockwood,” Joselyn said, stepping forward. Celestine took her by the arm and pulled her to her side, a gentle reminder that they were here to end a fight, not to begin one. Reluctantly, Joselyn relented. Celestine let go of her second-in-command and smoothed down the voluminous red robes that swathed her portly figure. She cleared her throat and clasped her hands together politely.
“Elyse,” Celestine said. “While you’re here as part of this delegation, I want you to know that you’re protected. We have no intention of breaking the agreed-upon truce.”
“Sure, I believe you,” Elyse said, drily. Her eyes were fixed on Joselyn.
“I think it might be for the best if we allow you to set up camp and settle in, before we talk,” Celestine said. She spoke to Arkreth, but she kept a watchful eye on Joselyn and Elyse as she did so.
“Aye,” he said. “It’ll give everybody a chance to give serious thought to anything they may come to regret doing.”
“You may send a runner when you are prepared,” Celestine said, bowing her head respectfully. When she looked up, the prince and his people had already begun to walk away.
***
Prince Arkreth sat in a high-backed wooden chair. It was carved painstakingly with unquestionable attention to detail by somebody who loved their craft, and it was the least comfortable piece of furniture he had ever had the misfortune to have to sit on. It matched the long, rectangular table that lay between himself and High Priestess Celestine like a no-man’s-land.
She was surrounded by people. At her side stood the tall, brown skinned woman that had looked at Elyse as though she was dirt to be scraped off of a shoe. Her wide jaw was set tightly and her small eyes only broke his gaze for long enough to lean down and whisper in the High Priestess’s ear. The others only seemed to be there for decoration. They spoke, but the woman at her side was the only one to whom Celestine would listen.
He was alone. Elyse had insisted that her presence was only going to cause arguments, but he wished she was with him nonetheless. His sword reclined beside him with its crossguard resting against the edge of the table. It was within easy reach, if the Magi’s bullets couldn’t penetrate his shielding magic first. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but optimism had never come easily to Arkreth.
“What I don’t understand,” the High Priestess said, filling the air between them with a thick voice that pooled like honey, “is why you would want to end this war. You have said it yourself, Prince Arkreth - we aren’t winning. You claim you’re here to talk peace while your armies stream north and pull innocent people from their homes. They burn buildings, salt fields, and leave nothing but carrion in their wake.”
“King Adoran’s army,” Arkreth interjected. “Not mine.”
“Do you expect us to believe that there’s a difference?” Celestine retorted. Arkreth grimaced and rested his head against the top of his chair, staring up into the wide pool of blue above him. The sky here seemed as infinite as the High Priestess’s capacity for wilful ignorance.
“There’s a big difference,” he said, his head still angled back as though praying for patience to a goddess on-high. He straightened up and latticed his fingers on the table in front of him, looking Celestine in the glowing, golden eyes and keeping a tight rein on his swiftly-growing exasperation. “King Adoran does not know I’m here. I work separately to him. I work against him. I’ve told you this.”
“Yes, you’ve told me. But I have no proof that these ‘Exiles’ of yours exist,” Celestine pressed.
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you, High Priestess,” he said, with a deep sigh.
“Why I should trust you, to begin with.” She arched a black eyebrow and watched him like a hawk.
“Who else have you got?” he asked, giving up all pretence of tact. “Once the King’s army reaches Wolf’s Head and you decide you need to surrender you won’t have the chance. Adoran won’t take prisoners. You know as well as I do that he wants nothing more than to slaughter every Mage on the face of the Twin Kingdoms, and to him every human is a Mage. You yourself will probably be dragged all the way back to Lyath Syr and strung up in the nets. If you can’t believe that I actually want to stop that, then perhaps you should believe that you don’t have any other options.”
Celestine pursed her bright red lips. One hand rested flat upon the top of the table, fingers tensing against the ornamented woodwork as she stared at him, waiting for him to expose the holes in the fiction she was certain he was weaving. She couldn’t fathom the possibility of a Necromancer that cared if his King was wrong. She would prefer to let her world to fall to ruins, as long as it would allow her to hide amongst what she already knew.
“Perhaps we should take a break,” she said. He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue. He stood and strapped his longsword into place across his back, his fingers lingering for a moment on the supple leather that wound around the grip. The sword was as light as a feather and as sharp as diamond. It was crafted from magic solidified, similar to fragile glass only in the way it looked. Only Necromancy could shape Void glass, and only Necromancy could break it.
His people were camped further across the meadow, the tips of their blackened leather tents barely visible above the cascading field of white canvas stamped with red, rising suns. The prospect of walking through the entire camp of close-minded, sycophantic Magi for only a brief reprieve from this exercise in futility was unappealing, so he put the red brick walls of Wolf’s Head to his back and walked out into the Wyelands.
The wind gusted and blew his straight hair across his face. He turned his face into the breeze and breathed deeply, remembering the thick, stagnant air of his homeland.
He had seen pictures of the Wyelands in the books his foster-father had used to teach him to speak the human language. Arkreth and his twin sister had spoken Wye exclusively as children; if they were going to be better rulers than King Adoran, their father reasoned, they had to be able to communicate with those outside of Isyrith.
Luce had been raised on the coast of the Wyelands, in a fishing village somewhere that Arkreth could not remember the name of. Although he remembered his childhood there fondly, it had always been tainted by the knowledge that he was the High Priest of Kariel, the spiritual leader of the Necromancers, born with glowing golden eyes and destiny he had no control over.
Arkreth had never heard Luce complain, but he knew he missed his home. That would have been enough of a reason for Arkreth to try and defend it. He and his family owed everything to Luce’s compassion, bravery and infinite capacity for forgiveness.
Dark elves were raised on stories of the Magi chaining them, enslaving them and restraining their natural power out of fear and cowardice, just as he imagined Magi were raised on stories of the Necromancers’ innate evil. True peace would take more time than they had before the dark elven army reached the city of Wolf’s Head, but with his people’s help the humans might survive King Adoran’s onslaught. It would lay a foundation upon which they could begin to build. That would have to be enough, for now.