Set in Stone

[Cyrus]

I first posted this story on this site way back when it was Ulthuan.org...

SET IN STONE

Damien loved Athel Loren dearly, but sometimes it seemed that the sorceress Belwenne was the
only elf here who he could really talk with. The common folk were taught the legends of Isha
and Kurnous, but few knew anything about the old gods. Belwenne’s study of magic made her
the exception. But even she could sometimes mystify him with her ignorance. Somehow she
had convinced herself that elves possessed free will.

The thought was absurd, of course, and he told her as much. “The life stories of all the Phoenix
Kings, past and future, are already written in stone in the Shrine of Asuryan,” he told her. “How
could that be if the future is not already decided?”

She was confused for a moment. “The Phoenix King knows his future? What’s to keep him
from avoiding his death, then, if he knows the circumstances?”

“The King doesn’t know. He’s never entered the Shrine. Only the Phoenix Guard have, and they
never speak.”

“If they don’t speak, how do you know that they’ve seen the future?”

Damien had to think about that for a minute. Finally he chuckled. “I’m not sure. My father told
me once, and I took his word for it. I imagine the Loremasters were the ones who told him. I
believe the Phoenix Guard sometimes communicate with them in writing.”

“That’s a silly way for them to go about it. Anyway, all you’ve proven to me is that the Phoenix
Kings have no choice in their lives. What does that say about you or me?”

Damien shook his head at her. “You’re grasping at straws now, Belwenne. You practice life
magic, don’t you? You should know that all life is the same. There is nothing that makes you or
me different from Finubar, except his favor with the gods. Especially me. I might be the next
Phoenix King for all you know. If that’s so, my life is etched in stone on those walls.”

Now it was her turn to laugh at him. Only she did not chuckle, but laughed out loud so that the
Wood Elves they passed in the glade turned to watch them curiously. Damien felt a little
embarrassed. “It’s not so far-fetched,” he said in indignation. “I’m the son of a prince. And I’m
descended from a Phoenix King, I’ll have you know. Morvael is my direct ancestor.”

“And what makes you think that the princes would ever choose as their king an elf whose father
has abandoned Ulthuan for the Old World?”

Her eyes glittered merrily as always, but Damien took offense. He scowled and spoke carefully.
“I only said it for the sake of argument. You needn’t poke fun at my family.”

At once she was serious, and laid a hand on his arm. “I didn’t mean that.” She looked at him a
little sadly. “Does it dishonor your lineage for you to live with us here?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Asuryan is a strange god to make his followers worry so much over fate and dishonor.”

He shrugged off her hand and turned around, heading for the small cottage the Wood Elves had
given him. He heard Belwenne follow behind, but paid her no heed. He needed to be alone.
These Wood Elves made him question so many things, especially her.

As he rounded a corner, his eyes came upon a Wood Elf maiden leading a group of children
through the clearing. It was a surprise to see so many children in one place, for elves had few of
them. Then he looked at the woman more closely, and was taken aback by her beauty. She had a
simple look, not delicate like the ladies of Ulthuan. Her blond hair was a little worn and frayed,
and her eyes looked a little tired. She smiled at Damien, and he awkwardly smiled back.

He found that he had stopped in his tracks, and Belwenne caught up to him. By now the woman
had led the children into a large hut. “Who was that?” he asked Belwenne.

The sorceress frowned a little. Damien wondered why. “Her name is Miruel. She teaches the
children how to read and write.”

“Is it common for women to work here? I thought you were one of the few.”

“She is a widow, so she has to make her own living.” Belwenne’s frown did not leave her face.

“Belwenne, I’m sorry I was angry-”

“Never mind,” she said. Her voice was a little sharp. “I’ll leave you to your business.” She
walked hastily away, leaving Damien wondering what he had said to anger her.

------------------------------------------------------------

The forest was a challenging place to ride. A horse had to be directed carefully and yet urged on
confidently, for the close together trees made them afraid to run at full gallop. But Damien had
raised his mount, Eaglefeather, from a young age, and there was a strong trust between him and
the beast. Nonetheless, he was glad when the forest broke a little to reveal the shore of a small
lake. He let himself relax a bit and ran the horse several times around the shore.

This way Eaglefeather would stay fit and ready for battle, but Damien wondered about himself.
It had been a month since he’d lifted his sword. He flexed his arm a little, wondering if the
muscles were still there. If any of the Ithiltaen under his command back in Dahl Quain had let
themselves slide this way, he knew he would have been livid. But this was not Dahl Quain.
Here he was not a warrior. Here there was peace. That was why he had come here, against his
father’s wishes.

He heard a little noise from the woods, like branches crackling under feet. Perhaps Loren was
not so peaceful, he thought. He brought his horse to a stop.

The noise came closer, then stopped just behind the canopy of trees. Peering in, Damien could
see another horse and rider. His wariness abated as he recognized the thin form of an elf. The
rider dismounted and led the horse out onto the shore.

It was Miruel, the Wood Elf teacher. She had the same look of tired beauty about her that had
captivated Damien the day before. They greeted each other.

“Care to ride with me for a few minutes?” he asked her. “My horse is still full of energy. He
needs more exercise.”

So they took several more laps around the lake. It was not hard riding, by any means, but
Damien could see that Miruel rode with obvious finesse.

“Do all the lords of Ulthuan ride for pleasure?” she asked him when they were finished.

“Not just for pleasure, I’m afraid. We also ride in war. Happily, there seems to be little need for
that here.”

“More than you realize, Prince Damien.”

He wondered what she meant by that. “You’re very skilled in the saddle yourself,” he said.

“I was a Glade Rider once.”

That surprised him. She had seemed gentle. Not at all like a warrior. “No longer?” he said.

“Not since I lost my husband. He was a Rider as well.”

Damien feared that he had struck a nerve here. “I’m sorry, we don’t need to talk about this,” he
said.

“It’s all right,” she said. “My story isn’t unique. War reaches us here more often than you might
think. He was killed by beastmen. I’d have fought by his side that day, but I was pregnant and
could not ride.”

“I’m sorry,” Damien said again. They were quiet for a minute. He wondered what he felt for this
woman. She was a Wood Elf, and he was nobility, meant to marry a wealthy lady from Ulthuan
or the colonies. But looking at her, he didn’t think he ever wanted to return to the lands of the
High Elves.

“I have to return to the village glade,” she said at last. “A friend is watching over my son. I need
to get back to him.”

“I’ll go with you,” Damien offered.

She looked at Eaglefeather. “Your horse still needs more exercise, from the looks of him.” She
turned her horse around and rode back into the trees.

Damien’s heart fell for a moment. “I’d like to see you again,” he said, almost pleading.

She turned back and looked at him for a long moment. The forest and the lake were still. “All
right,” she said. Then she spurred on her horse and was gone.

------------------------------------------------------------

Damien was with Miruel when the attack came. They were taking lunch in her little dwelling-
fish that he had caught, mostly. Her child slept in his crib next to the table.

They were talking about fate. “So you believe that the gods have already written the life story of
every elf?” she said.

“That is what Asuryan has taught us,” he said. “He is a great god, and in his eyes the lives of the
elves mean very little. When he gave his blessing to Aenarion, he also wrote his fate, and all of
ours as well. Like Aenarion’s, every elf’s life will be a mixture of tragedy and triumph, until our
race is no more.”

“All right,” she said, and took a drink from her cup.

“Do you believe it?”

“Who am I to question the scholars of Ulthuan?” She thought for a moment. “But why would
you try anything, or struggle for anything, if you knew the outcome was already fixed?”

“It is in our nature to struggle, and so we must.”

It was then that Belwenne’s nephew burst loudly into the room. He did not knock, but threw the
door open and ran in, out of breath. Damien was angry at first, but then he saw that the youth
was in distress.

“Skaven,” he said, “at the edge of the forest, marching in. Lord Omeon has called out the
warriors of the glade.”

Damien calmed the youth with a hand on his shoulder. “Where is Belwenne?”

“She’s with the warriors already, preparing her magic.”

Damien turned toward Miruel. There was a pleading look on her face. Her boy awoke now, and
began to cry. She ignored the sound, taking Damien’s hand in her own. She knew what he was
thinking.

“Please stay,” she said.

Damien looked back and forth between the maiden and the youth. His sword was in his cottage;
his horse and his coat of Ithilmar were in the stables. He could be ready to fight in twenty
minutes. “I’m sorry,” he said to Miruel, and let go of her hand.

“Fetch my horse and armor,” he told the youth.

Back in his cottage, he found the sword underneath his bed. Experimentally, he drew it and
swung it back and forth through the air. The blade glowed a little blue with enchantment, and he
knew that no Skaven warrior or rat ogre would be able to withstand a blow. His arm felt good,
fast and ready to fight. It hadn’t been so long after all.

Belwenne’s nephew came in the door then, bearing the armor. Damien had him lay it on the
floor. He reached down and picked up the tall, winged silver helmet, the Ithiltaen from which
the order of knighthood took its name.

With the youth’s help, he buckled on the armor and the scabbard. As he donned the helm, he felt
that he knew his fate -- knew that he would one day die in battle. Even here in Loren, he could
not long avoid the call of war.

------------------------------------------------------------

When he reached the Wood Elf battle lines, the Skaven army was so close that the stench of it
filled the air. Reining in his horse, Damien could see a cloud of dark green gas wafting through
the trees. He dismounted.

The Forest Lord Omeon had seen him, and walked over from where his warhawk was perched.
“Prince Damien,” he said, “What is that cloud?

“Plague censer bearers, my lord,” said Damien. “If you have enough water, have your warriors
cover their mouths and noses with wet cloths. It won’t be much protection, but it’s more than
nothing.”

“I’ll give the order.”

“Where do you want me, my lord?”

“Go take command of the Glade Riders. They’re on the west end of the army. My messenger
will lead you to them.”

“As you wish,” said Damien, and spurred on his horse.

He had never ridden with Glade Riders before, but he had fought beside regiments of Ellyrian
Reavers and understood light cavalry tactics. He ordered the horsemen to spread out into a loose
formation. They rode along the edge of the Skaven horde.

The woods were crashing with the noises of the advancing Skaven, and of animals sent fleeing
by their march. The Glade Riders were past the cloud of the censer bearers now, and Damien
was grateful. After a time his scouts sighted the force of plague monks that followed the censer
bearers. Damien ordered his men to close and attack with their bows.

The arrow fire must have felled a few of the ratmen, but Damien could not tell. In the distance
he saw the cloud of plague censers meet the assembled Glade Guard, and after a time wild
screams could be heard from the Wood Elves. Lord Omeon’s warhawk circled overhead as the
Wood Elf Lord urged his troops to hold despite the brutal attack.

Damien’s forward scout arrived with bad news. “Another force of ratmen is approaching behind
and to the west of these monks. We’re caught between them.”

“How many?” said Damien.

“Two hundred, perhaps. They’re not more than eighty yards that way.” The scout pointed.

There was no time to circle these Skaven. Damien gave the order to form up for a frontal charge.
Luckily his Glade Riders carried spears as well as bows, but even so they could not strike with
the same force as the Silver Helms he was accustomed to leading.

The Glade Riders brought their horses to a full gallop with spears levelled. Damien could see the
enemy lines now. The rats wore motley armor and carried swords. Clanrats.

The elven charge hit with brutal force and the front row of Skaven bellowed as they were slain by
spears or trampled beneath the hooves of horses. Damien slashed at them with his sword of
might, splitting the heads of two clanrats. He felt his heart soar, for he could see that his men
were winning already. The rats had begun to flee.

He felt something strike his leg, and looked down beside him. A single clanrat had snuck up
beside his horse and attacked. Damien was surprised to feel the ratman’s cheap sword pierce his
Ithilmar armor and meet flesh. The cut seemed to sting out of proportion with its size.

He understood at once what had happened. An assassin. He had been struck by a weeping blade.

Damien kicked out with his wounded leg, and though it had already begun to feel weak the
assassin reeled from the blow and fell back into the brush. The elven knight threw himself from
his horse, swinging with his sword as he jumped. The skaven screamed and died under the
mighty blade. Damien stood and smiled, satisfied with the kill, but then stumbled as his leg gave
way. The poison was weakening him.

The captain of the Glade Riders looked to him for guidance as the clanrats broke into a run. “Go
on, run them down,” Damien yelled to him. “I’ll be all right here.” The Glade Riders obeyed
and followed their enemies deeper into the woods.

Damien pulled himself up next to a tree and massaged his leg with his hands. There was no
feeling there at all. So he couldn’t walk. He would wait for the Glade Riders to return and bear
him back.

The numbness was spreading up out of his leg, which was just fine with him. His entire body
was in pain; the less of it he could feel, the better. He couldn’t even tell the wound was there
anymore. He took off his gloves and tried to open the bindings of the armor on his leg, but found
that his hands were trembling and could not get a grip on the straps.

He wondered if he was dying from the poisoned blade. The question seemed silly, irrelevant. If
he was dying, then so be it. That was his destiny.

The numbness began to reach his head, and he entered a state like sleep.

------------------------------------------------------------

He came out of his sleep for a minute to see Belwenne stooped over him. Her hands were
touching his leg, and he realized with surprise that now he could feel the leg again. There was
something magical going on there, he thought.

She seemed troubled, and was talking to him. She seemed to be crying out, and he wondered
what she was saying, but he couldn’t hear a thing. Some of the Glade Riders were standing in a
circle around them. Their faces were sad. He looked at Belwenne once more and thought he saw
some tears on her face. Why?

He slept again.

------------------------------------------------------------

“Did we win?” he asked Belwenne when he came to.

“Thank Isha,” she said, steadying him with her hand. They had mounted him on his horse, he
could see, and she was walking with its reigns in her hand. Wood Elves were all around them,
carrying battered weapons and armor, some of them wounded. All looked exhausted by the
battle. Troops that had assembled smartly hours before now stumbled tiredly in a ragged line.

“Did we win the day?” he asked again.

“We beat their army,” she said. Her smile looked a little sad, though.

He really was feeling much better. That spell of hers must have done the trick. Now that he was
waking up, he felt almost energetic. He flexed his leg. No pain. “Are we going back to the
village?” he said.

Belwenne looked into the woods and said nothing for a minute.

“Well?” he said.

“That’s right,” she said. “We’re almost there.”

“Good,” he said. He felt happy. Magical healing always seemed to fill him with euphoria.

“Damien --” Belwenne began to say something, but fell silent once again. She was looking at
the ground, away from his face.

“What is it?”

“We beat their army, but a band of gutter runners made it to the village and sacked it.”

“What?” He was suddenly afraid.

“I haven’t been back yet, I don’t know how bad the damage is...”

He said nothing more, but took the reigns from her hand. She seemed to protest at first, but
thought better of it. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and Eaglefeather responded, racing
ahead of the grim line of Wood Elves.

The path opened to the village, and he could see already that Miruel’s house was burning. He
slid down from the horse and ran to the door. Someone had opened it and dragged her out --
Skaven or other elves, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. She was dead.

Damien did not weep. He closed the corpse’s eyes and folded the hands. He knew there was
nothing he could have done to prevent this, nothing at all that he could have done differently.

Belwenne rode into the village then. She must have gotten a horse from one of the Glade Riders.
She dismounted and ran over to him, but by the time she reached him he had already gotten back
onto his own horse.

“Where are you going?” she cried.

“Back to Dahl Quain.” His father’s colony on the northern coast, where he would lead knights in
battle once again.

“But why?”

“Because that is my fate.”

She struck him with her fist and began to cry. “You have a choice. You could stay if you wanted
to.”

“Listen to me, Belwenne,” he said, catching her hand. “This is why I believe in destiny, in fate.
Because if I had a choice in what I do, I could have chosen to stay in this village. I could have
protected her,” he pointed at Miruel, “and maybe saved her life. Thank you for healing me. And
for being a good friend.”

Belwenne held tightly to his hand. “Please stay,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” said Damien. “I can’t.” Letting go of her hand, he reared up his horse and rode
away.