Mel

Cerne, 5th of May of the year 31,780

The Cerne peninsula jutted out from the Northern shores of the Thervic Kingdom, stretching out two hundred miles into the Western sea by the Kingdom’s estimates, and covering a hundred miles in diameter at its fattest point. It was not an insignificant part of the Kingdom, but Thervians were only just beginning to tame this land. For centuries, the Northern border-people, who were far less civilised than their southern siblings, had lived on these rugged, windy slopes, side by side with monsters of all kinds.

Monstrous beings – humans corrupted by dark forces unknown to the magic of the elves – hid in the impenetrable forests that stood between the mountains and the cold beaches, preying on the settlers as they tried to clear the woods, or riding out on raids into the Earldom of Falfor. Only the bravest adventurers would dive into these woods and slay the wicked monsters, or tame them and bring them to civilisation.

That was what the slavers told themselves, since coin alone was not enough to drive away the nightmares brought by their work. For the group that now trundled down the adventurer’s road, a legal party registered in the adventurer’s guild, it had been a decent season. They were now returning to the Hold – a castle-town at the edge of Cerne, administered by the guild itself – with a wagon filled with monsters, to be sold at the hideous market.

The party was five strong. All knew magic; one was an especially proficient healer-mage, and another showed the ears of a wizard half-way to becoming a witch (witches are humans who have been transformed into an elf by extended use of high-powered magic). They hailed from all corners of the kingdom, and varied in age and gender, but the leader was clear: A well-built man in titanium mail, who rode on the cart beside the driver with a heavy bludgeon on his lap. Occasionally he would look back into the cage they were carrying, and re-appraise the value of his “wares”.

There were six goblins, all women and still in their traditional robes. They were efficient for transporting and would make cost-effective labourers, but were hardly a rare prize. A much more exciting prospect were the two Bran, bird-folk of the North. Though they were hardly good for work, they were famous for their jet-black plumage, which sold for a fortune on its own. These two, however, were likely destined for a cage in an aristocrat’s court, or the Revinium zoo.

The most interesting out of them all, however, was the bee. Insect type monsters were the most repulsive of all the abominations, and so they were quickly dealt with whenever their nests were found. This one had been alone when they found her, hiding in a mossy crack between two granite slabs. The party wouldn’t have spotted her if not for the yellow and black colouration at end of the abdomen which extended from her tailbone.

When they pulled her out, they found not a hideous monster, but a pretty woman with blonde hair and a freckled nose. The bee’s head and torso were all but human (except for antennae at her temple), though her arms and legs traded soft flesh for hard, black, exoskeleton. It was a strange find, but soon it was obvious what had happened: the bee’s wings were clipped, and her stinger removed. She must be an escaped slave who had fled to Cerne to hide. It was ironic that her luck ran out only after she reached relative safety.

The leader turned back to the road ahead. They had a while until they reached Hold, and though he was bored, he was no amateur. He scanned the forest to either side of the tenuous road; they were towards its edge, but still far enough in that there were no settlers to come to their aid. Noticing something, he beckoned to the knife-eared wizard, and spoke with him quietly. The wizard nodded, then cast a quick spell to see into the woods

The driver, a swordsman with a round helmet, made the horses slow, and the cart shook to a stop. The riders jumped down to the muddy ground and joined the rest of the party in a defensive stance around the wagon, with weapons drawn.

“Who’s out there?”, the leader bellowed, hefting his club. “Don’t try to hide, you’re being scried.”

The undergrowth rustled; the stalker was on the move. The wizard tracked them as they moved a few metres up the road, and then, to the party’s surprise, emerged from the vegetation onto the road. They stood with their back to the yellow clouds of Heaven, where the sphere hung to the West.

It’s a revenge attack from the goblins, or a barbarian raid, thought the leader, but there was no sign of anyone but this hooded figure. There they stood clad in the trousers and thick woollen cloak of the border people, facing the slavers with a bronze sword in hand.

“Out of our way, barbarian”, the swordsman said. “Unless you want to join the goblins in our cage, for outlaws can also be sold.”

As he spoke, the healer moved over to the wizard. She hissed, “Bronze. This guy’s a mage.”

The person in the road was already pulling their hood back. Instead of a wizened barbarian man, it revealed the pointed ears of an elf, and the silver-white hair of a witch. And the face that glared at them in righteous anger did not have the complexion of the border-people, or of an old mage, but of a Thervic lady.

The witch spoke, with good pronunciation: “Vile raiders! The Lady who stands before you is Estrild, student of Narven. I order you to liberate these innocent captives which you have cruelly wrested from freedom. Do it now, and there will be no need for violence.”

The leader, seeing the conviction in the witch’s blood-red eyes, decided further talk was pointless. He had heard of this Southern aristocrat attacking adventurers, who claimed to be the successor to the wretched Witch-King Narven, and knew she would not let them go. He silently cursed himself for not following the motto shoot first, ask questions later – and shouted: “Fire!”

The wizard pointed his staff at their assailant, and lighting leapt from its copper head with the boom of a cannon. The flash of light was as bright as the sun, and the thunder was deafening, even though the party was prepared. The smell of smoke filled the air. Such an elemental attack was enough to scare whole tribes into rout.

But when vision returned (magic protected their eyes, but couldn’t let them see through the blast), they saw not a charred corpse, but Estrild standing over the swordsman’s unconscious body. His helmet had been knocked off, and strike of the pommel to his temple had quickly taken him out of action. Birds screamed overhead, the beat of their wings frantic as they escaped. The cart’s horses pulled at their reigns, whinnying as they tried in vain to free themselves.

Estrild was as fast as the wind, and a ranger beside her scarcely had time to defend his head before her foot hit it in a high kick. His arms would have protected him from a knock-out, if not for the magic that flowed through her foot wraps. He was thrown back with supernatural force, and left hanging in a bush. The goblins trapped within were now shaking the cage, spitting at the party to try to draw their attention.

“Fuck! You two, come around and encircle her!”, the leader growled.

They moved around the wagon, and Estrild found enemies to all sides. The party attacked at once: the wizard blew a cloud of flame, and strode through it with a sword of light. At the same time, the healer (an adept in technical magic, really), formed a spread of arrows in the air, and let them loose at the attacker.

Estrild closed her eyes, and formed the moisture in the humid air around her into a wetness that clung to her skin and clothes. The water protected her from the flames, while her sword deflected the magical blade with ease. The wizard was forced back, but what he saw now was beyond belief: the air around the witch had warped. With great concentration she was affecting space itself. The wizard then knew they had stood no chance. He would have thrown down his arms, but the healer’s projectiles had already been bent towards towards him.

An arrow hit his chest, puncturing a lung, while another buried itself into his thigh. He dropped to the ground, spluttering blood. The healer stepped back, appalled and terrified.

“I surrender!”, she cried, “Just let me tend to my friends.”

The feat had not cost nothing in terms of Estrild’s mana. Panting, she turned to the leader, who had clambered up upon the wagon. He seemed less eager to give in. Slavers couldn’t let there be any hint of resistance, or their trade would break down. He pointed his club at the cage, and a copper filament at its end caught the light.

“Listen here, you monster loving bastard. You’re going to leave right now, or I’ll torch these abominations with a cloud of fire. You have ten seconds.”

The goblins cried in fear, falling back from the side of the cage. Estrild glared at him, weighing her options.

“Nine-”, the slaver began.

Then his head hit the wagon with a thump. The rest of his body followed a moment later, the club rolling off and falling down, sticking into the mud.

...

Once the rest of the slavers were gone, having taken their leader’s body with them, she took a moment to regain her breath. Sweat gathered at her brow. The wind scythe had taken a lot out of her after she had already used Narven’s technique. Understandably, the goblin women loudly reminded her of their plight in the cage. Estrild nodded, coming over and breaking the lock open with a little magic.

The goblins and bird-people spilled out, and the witch broke their chains. The bran flew off without a word, but the goblins (who she knew well), stayed to thank her. However, Estrild was more interested in the bee, who would not climb out, and remained huddled in the cage, glaring at her with amber eyes. She knelt down and crawled in.

“I’m here to help. Do you know Thervian? Cerneish?”, she said gently.

The bee did not change her expression, but spoke rather intelligibly in the Kingdom’s language: “Why did you let them escape?”

Estrild frowned. “Who? The adventurers?”

“Who do you think I mean? Those scum make a living out of subjecting people like me to a fate worse than death. They deserved to die, but you let them go!”, the bee hissed.

“I don’t believe in killing unless it is absolutely necessary”, Estrild said calmly.

“Of course you wouldn’t. You can take the moral high ground since you’re from some literate, highborn household. But now that these guys are dead, you know what they’ll do if they find me? I won’t just be whipped and sent back to the latifundia. I’ll be crucified!”, the bee cried.

The monster found Estrild’s hand on her shoulder, as the other broke apart her ankle chains with a blast of magic.

“I promise I won’t let that happen to you”, she said. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

The bee reluctantly followed her out, and sat on the edge of the cart as the witch talked to the goblins for a short time. The bee couldn’t understand Cerneish, which she assumed they were speaking, but it seemed Estrild was well-regarded among them. The witch turned back to her.

“What’s your name?”, she asked.

The bee thought of the name the masters at the latifundia had given her, but that was something she ever wanted to be called again. She had not needed to use names among her sisters, or with her enslaved queen.

“I don’t have one”, she said, finally.

“Then I will call you Mel, after the Cerneish word for honey. Is that acceptable, or do you find it insensitive? I don’t mean to give you another slave-name, for you are a slave no longer”, Estrild said.

The bee tried to decline it quickly, but her voice caught in her throat. It was a thoughtless name, really, and she didn’t even know this woman. But the name was pretty. Her wings shifted uncomfortably.

“L-Look, I don’t care what you call me, as long as you’ve got somewhere safe I can go”, the bee said.

Walking around to free the horses from their ropes, Estrild spoke: “You can come with me and these ladies to the Goblin’s camp, where I’ll meet up with my friends. From there we can send you away with the other non-combatants.”

“Non-combatants?”, the bee asked, heart sinking. “You can’t mean you’re taking the goblins to war? Against who, the Adventurer’s Guild? You couldn’t possible take the Hold with just them. Even with all the border-people in Cerne it would be difficult.”

“The war has already been going on for a while, don’t you think?”, the witch said.

The bee frowned. “And then what? The Earl quashes your righteous, yet futile, uprising, with his lancers and magical knights. Or you retreat back to the peninsula to fight a guerrilla war, only now they have a whole army's worth of resources!”

Estrild looked at her with a sparkle in her witch’s eyes, and grinned. “And what makes you think I’ll stop at the Hold? Or, now that you’ve mentioned it, Falfor? Heaven is close; the season of magic has arrived. I will take the whole Kingdom, and restore justice to the land and magic to its people.”

Mel didn’t know if the witch was mad, or was so powerful that earthly concepts like ‘mortal fear’ were irrelevant, but, truth be told, the lady’s words did stir emotions long dormant in her heart. One feeling she placed as hope, and another… well, it was something less familiar. What she found less ambiguous was the witch's smell: that of a flower she had once come across in a Cerneish glade - the red spider lily.