Prologue: Rebellion's End

Elvan tree-mansions burnt like pitch throughout the once-serene glen. Screams hung in the air in the distance, drowned out by the clash of steel on mithril.

A lone figure in fine, folded armor waded through the carnage. He donned a helmet and clasped the face guard into place. His sword arm tensed, well-disciplined and honed through a century of training.

Nimble goblins fell upon him first. A mithril blade twitched, and the wave of squat green menace fell over, slain by the dozen. Gob-shamans died before they could even utter their twisted mockery of elvan spellcraft. The warrior-king sliced and swung until no goblin dared cross his path. The elvan warrior trudged back towards his defensive position. There was one regal treetop mansion that the horde had yet to burn.

Next up came the Orcs. As tall as an elf, uncultured as a human, and far stronger than any goblin. They swung great steel axes, pilfered from the mansion's woodworking sheds.

“Treacherous thieves,” the elf warrior muttered as he cut these hulking savages down all the same.

Finely forged mithril blades cut through muscled orc-flesh as well as any armor. Still, the horde rushed to defile his mansion, and still the warrior cut them down at the perimeter fence.

“Auron!” came a bellowing cry as the tallest figure yet rushed through the garden gate.

It was a great orc chief, or the nearest approximation of one that remained in what passed for guttural orc culture. The elf-king grimaced, as if insulted that the barbarous orc ever deigned to learn the elvan tongue.

There were no further words, just a clash of blades. To the great and powerful Auron’s surprise, his mithril sword did not slice clear through the barbarous orc’s twin axes. While the weapons appeared crude, they’d been up-armored by the horde’s traitorous allies among the free people of the world. Rectifying that problem would be an issue for the coming days. For now, Auron had to rout the rebellious rabble.

Slaying this war-chief ought to suffice for that task.

With the sword and axes of equal strength, Auron sought out the weakness in his towering foe’s defense. A second, shorter mithril blade shot from its scabbard, and the twin swords raked against gaps in the orc chief’s armor near the shoulder joints.

The orc screamed in rage and pain as his arms were severed from his torso, axes still held tight even as they hit the finely kept stone path through Auron’s plantation garden. Another twin strike sliced deep gashes into the crippled chief’s chest, then the blades met at the orcs neck, separating his head from his body.

The head flew back, past the mansion’s front gate, and to the feet of a now-terrified gaggle of orcish reinforcements. Auron, the great elf hero and manor-lord, pointed his longest sword at the rabble.

“Return to your quarters.” The war mask caused Auron’s voice to boom through the burning glen. “Throw down your arms and return to the barracks, and you will have amnesty.”

The horde outnumbered their elvan master fifty to one. Yet, this show of force discouraged them. A handful of goblins began to slink away, heads hung low.

“Do not. Falter.” A voice came from behind, from within the manse.

Orc and goblin both looked up, hope renewed. There, at the steps leading up to Auron’s tree-mansion, was a tan-fleshed, round-eared human. Only, this man was not of the highmen, themselves preoccupied with their restive lesser cousins from the hills. This man wore tattered garb unlike anything in the land of Aeirun. And his weapon was not a sword, but a metal club of a make unknown to this world.

“Throw down your weapons and flee if you value your life, Auron,” said the human in a rough, guttural accent—further proof of his alien nature.

“An elf lord does not leave his manse to be pillaged by the lower races.” Auron brandished his sword at the human now.

The human gripped his metal club in both hands. “Never let it be said I didn’t give you an out.”

“There’s been talk of a strange human. An outlander, traveling with a party. Cavorting with orcs and goblins and the other servantfolk.” Auron addressed the crowd. “Return to your bunks before this outlander’s head hits the dirt, and you shall be spared. There will be clemency. I guarantee it.”

Some would be slain regardless. It was the natural order of things. A severed head or two outside the manse grounds kept the others docile. Ensured goblins and orcs tilled the ornate elvan gardens and pruned the tree-mansions, while the masters of the grounds waited high above, handling more cerebral pursuits, as was their right.

Only, the mixed crowd of riotous orcs, goblins, and the odd wild hill-tribe manfolk did not disperse. They began to cheer no this outlander with the odd war bat.

Auron and the outlander lunged for each other.

--

Bat met blade, and neither gave way. Outlander metal was impressive, alien, like nothing before seen in the realm.

The human gave a full-force, two-handed swing straight to Auron’s chest. Mithril could block a thousand spears, but sheer percussive force staggered the elf-lord. Another blow dented the flawless metal of his war helmet. Still, the expert elvan swordman lashed out with a wire-thin blade.

The sword struck the vile outlander on the upper arm. Fabric ripped, but the blade caught on hydraulic-jointed dwarven greaves running up to the human’s elbows.

Auron let out a rough tsking exhale, his breath billowing out from the war mask. Slippery dwarven-kin would hawk wares even to restive property. Elvan arrangements with these dwarf marketers were far too lenient, overdue for negotiation. The elf lord suspected he’d have more than a few dwarven craftsmen indentured into pruning the manse garden once this late unpleasantness was quelled.

The outlander balled his fist and slammed it into Auron’s breastplate. The blow staggered the proud elf, and the deadlock broke.

Before Auron could resume his attack with focused blows on the human’s unarmored upper arms, his own garden turned against him. Knots of vines and beanstalks rose to entrap him, binding his neck and limbs.

Magic. Nature magic. Only, its access was tightly controlled. No true elf would dare turn coat and aid the riotous lower castes.

Auron glanced to his left as the vines wrapped around him further still. A she-orc knelt amidst the ruined garden, dressed in ceremonial furs long-thought stamped from history. She chanted out a spell — ancestral curses upon the foolish Libertines who dared grant the rabble literacy! — and the pristine elvan garden, designed by Auron’s great-grandfather and its upkeep delegated by his proud line of slave lords, warped to serve her.

With an enraged war cry, the elf stood. Vines snapped as he flexed, and he cut more away as they rushed to further encase his armor.

The she-orc stood her ground, continuing to grant mana to her spell. But elvan strides were long, and mighty Auron neared stabbing range. He thrust his sword at the she-orc’s neck.

“Lamora!” A lithe, swift figure dived between elf and orc.

That outlander from before threw himself at Auron’s blade. He partially parried, but the thin mithril tip sliced a red streak across the human’s throat. It continued carving a gash along the outlander’s exposed jaw. Still, the human defied Auron.

“You’re not even from this realm,” Auron spat. “And yet you would take the blow for this lowly thrall. Some greenskin soothsayer?”

The human held the sword at bay with his dwarven gauntlets. Still, the edge crept ever deeper into exposed flesh.

Too late, Auron noticed that the vines and roots of his palatial garden had ceased. Rather than restrain him, they’d shifted to retrieving an axe, still in the severed hand of the slain orc chief.

The human juked, his head passing a hair’s width from cold mithral, and delivered a bone-crippling strike to Auron’s kneecap.

The tall elf toppled over, off-balance. The she-orc grabbed the axe and swung. Finely crafted steel met elf flesh at the neck. Helmet and head both flew far from Auron’s body, landing in an irrigation ditch. The unstained and shiny metal was swiftly covered up in mud and muck.

Auron, elven slave lord, stood headless amid the smoke and flames. Gravity won out and the armored knight toppled over backwards, leaving only the human outlander and orc priestess standing.

--

Victory at last.

“You did it.” The orc priestess spoke in rasping breaths. “You saved us, Skott of Omaha. The manses burn, and the elvan flee.”

The outlander maintained a hand on his jaw to staunch the blood. Lamora the orc priestess, gently tapped it and muttered some appropriated Elvish. The wound reversed course, mending itself well enough for the human to stretch his jaw and speak:

“Yes.” He exhaled, stretching his jaw. “We did.”

A mixed unit of broad-shouldered orcs, squat goblins, and humans from the surrounding hill clans rushed into the largest of the elvan tree mansions. Not to burn it, but to claim it as a forward base by which they could spread the rebellion further still.

The pair looked at each other and smiled, basking in victory. The rest of their party— a mixed group of a goblin, a human clan-chief, and another human spellsword— would surely find victory in the lands of the high-men as well. There was still a long road ahead, but for now, they could hope for a night of celebration in the newly-liberated tree mansion.