I’m not quite sure what I was expecting from Alveron’s forces. My expectations for Elves in general were extremely mixed.

  Which, I think, was understandable considering the first Elves I’d ever met had captured and sold me into slavery.

  They were such an odd, disparate people, with an understandably fractious history. From the tired mysteriousness of Alveron to the strangely upbeat nature of Kierla, they were hard to predict. The Elves of Sancthaven, in general, were even harder to understand, I felt. My understanding was that the bulk of them came from Elves who had been freed from the quite literally insane influence of Fynneas by Alveron. Once freed, the Paragon would take them back to his hidden village and re-educate them into at least a semblance of civility. But I had never met any of them besides young Kierla.

  And they didn’t seem interested in meeting me either.

  Alveron and his people came streaming towards us through the boughs of the forest, where they were parked several hours later, just as he’d said they would. They came both on foot and ensconced within the strangely constructed walls of their own wagons.

  Actually, I don’t think constructed was the right word. Grown might be, though.

  They were strangely spherical, rather than boxy like…nearly everyone else’s was. Each and every one of the strange carts seemed to have been shaped or grown from green roots of all things, all growing over and around each other to form a perfect sphere. There seemed to be an opening at the top of them from which the Elves could enter and exit. But it’s not like they were rolling around or anything. They were still on wheels, just…wheels that were attached to the side of a giant green ball.

  For a moment, I was reminded strongly of a particular fairy tale from my youth, about a young woman who was transported to a party in a carriage shaped like a pumpkin. The resemblance made me want to laugh…

  But it was hard to find them funny, considering just what was actually pulling these knotted wagons.

  Giant lizards.

  The first time I saw one of the lumbering, horse-sized reptiles pad out of the foliage, towing one of the Elven wagons behind it, I nearly mistook it for something else. They almost reminded me of…a couple of things, really. I almost thought they were either some of Rhazal’s or Tatsugan’s Revenants, at first, if only from their lizard-like appearance.

  But these were far less threatening than any of those monsters.

  The more benign thought was that they were dinosaurs. And sure, that was possible. They were nearly fifteen feet in length, with most of the length coming from the long, bulky tails that each of the quadrupeds possessed, trailing behind them. The creatures stood perhaps a few inches below three feet, from the forest floor to the top of their crimson frilled heads. I think they must have been herbivores as well, considering the beaked mouth that each of them bore, hanging open and displaying no visible teeth. Despite what I would have expected, they weren’t intensely scaled, per se. At first, I mistook their green hide for simple skin, but as I watched them lumber past my watching position with a gaping mouth, I could see that their scales were very small. I couldn’t resist reaching out one trailing hand and running the fingertips of my flesh hand over its hide. I don’t think the beast either noticed or cared about the contact, from how it kept. I was honestly delighted to feel just how soft they were.

  But I withdrew the hand sheepishly at the blank stare I was receiving from the driver of the wagon, sitting high up on a bench and handling the reins of the beast.

  Like I said, I’ve had some experiences with the Elves in the past. And something I had noticed as nearly universal were their masks. Kierla was actually the only Elf I knew who didn’t wear one, which was…odd.

  But to a one, every single Elf I could see among Alveron’s procession bore a mask and a similarly colored cloak that covered their entire body. The Elven slavers who had captured me bore masks that had been painted red, in the shape of a wolf. Alveron, meanwhile, wore one that was shaped to resemble the head of a stag, painted in greens and gold.

  All of these Elves had blue masks, and they were carved into…all kinds of animal forms, really. There didn’t seem to be a theme I could follow, other than the fact that they tended to group together. For example, over there I could see a number of owl-faced masks staring back at the expedition members who had chosen to watch their arrival with massive, carved eyes. I…couldn’t help but detect a note of fear in their gazes.

  But there were others too. Cats and birds and reptiles and insects…you named it, if an animal existed somehow, I swore I could see it carved and represented among the large group of Elves who passed us by. To my unease, I even saw a pack, for the lack of a better term, of Elves wearing wolf-faced masks. It didn’t help matters that all of them carried very similar spears to the raiding party that had enslaved me.

  By far, though, what unsettled me the most… was the presence of the children. Among the hundreds and hundreds of Elves who were streaming out of the forest join us, they were among them. Their smaller forms were sometimes visible through the small circular windows of the root wagons, and sometimes were outright hanging outside of them. Well, that or the roof hatches.

  That finally gave me the clue I needed to piece something vital together.

  “This isn’t just a war party…” I whispered to myself. “This is all of them. Their entire village…”

  I was jolted out of my astonishing realization by an agreeing hum coming from my right. I had forgotten, for a moment, who had chosen to join me in my observation of the Elves.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Olag, standing placidly in light leather armor bearing his heraldry, and sipping on a cup of steaming hot coffee. To my discomfort and his delight, I had discovered over the last few days that the Dwarf preferred coffee to tea, in much the same way I did.

  I think, in his own awkward, creepy, mildly sinister way…the Dwarven mercenary Captain was trying to befriend me.

  I repressed a shudder as Olag spoke up.

  “Rather than warriors, Marshal, it appears you might have invited refugees into our midst,” He said, in a bizarrely interested tone. Olag watched the passing of one family unit in particular, a male seeming Elf up on the bench of his apparent mobile home while his wife and two children looked out at the world from the window. There was a definite spark of interest in his gaze as he did so. Maybe it was my imagination, but I could swear the driver shuddered under the attention and increased his speed. “How very odd. I wasn’t even aware that Elves possessed a level of civility to be capable of such a family. It’s like watching a mutt stand on two legs and speak like a Dwarf. Or Human, in your case.”

  I gave Olag a strained smile as he saluted me with his mug. I tried to tell myself that his extremely casual racism was only to be expected, considering the history between the Elves and the Dwarves. But was it really needed?

  It wasn’t my place to police his tone, though, especially when our alliance was still so fresh. Instead, I thought to gain at least a little bit of understanding of where it came from. “I imagine you have quite a bit of experience dealing with Elves, Captain.”

  Olag laughed lightly. “Oh, you could say so,” He said modestly. “Not in this context, however. By far the most contracts my Raven’s Beak has taken involve these people’s more savage cousins. Seek and destroy, mostly. Every spring, there seems to be a new band of upstart knife-ears from the depths of the Barren Forest who think they can raid with impunity. It’s often our job to work closely with the Rangers and pluck them out, root and stem. Why, I’ve lost count of how many bands we’ve culled. I must have personally slaughtered hundreds of Elves in my day.”

  Not far from us, I saw some of the wolf-masked bands of Elves crane their necks over to stare at Olag as he boasted. Even through their masks, I could tell they were glaring at him, and by extension, me.

  I winced and tried to change the subject. “Then, perhaps you can tell me something? What, exactly…are those?”

  Olag followed my pointing finger into the mass of migrating Elves to where it stopped. Right on one of the delightful lizards I’d tried to pet earlier. “Oh, them? I suppose it’s understandable you’ve no knowledge of the creatures. They’re a long-since tamed staple of the Elves, native to the Barren Forest. You truly won’t find them anywhere else on Vereden. Those, my dear Marshal, are chamels.”

  I stared blankly at the Dwarf for a moment, uncertain I had heard that right. “…camels?”

  Those things…didn’t really have two humps, nor did they have a tendency to spit.

  Well, I suppose they did in one facet. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as one of the creatures craned its reptilian head up, opened its mouth, and spike out its long pink tongue at a particularly unwary bird as it drifted too low. The startled avian had only a moment to realize it had been caught in an apparently sticky trap, before the lizard retracted the bird…

  And swallowed it whole, without even chewing. The rider of the creature didn’t even blink as their mount snagged a snack.

  “No, no,” Olag shook his head. “Sha-mels, it’s pronounced. They’re both the primary beast of burden for them, as well as their chosen war mounts. They may look lethargic now, pulling their mobile homes, but let me assure you. In battle, they are anything but. I’ll admit, though, they appear to be a different breed than what I’m familiar with,” He said, casting out an appraising eye. “Less natural armor, longer tails, and a different color. I wonder where they might have found them?”

  Both Olag and I nearly had an outright heart attack, then, when a familiar-aged voice spoke up from behind us. “We bred them ourselves.”

  I craned my neck around as Olag spilled his coffee onto the grass below, cursing all the while. I didn’t blame him, either. Coffee didn’t come cheap. Sure enough, standing behind the two of us was Alveron, mask once again in place with his hood up. He leaned on his staff as the two of us blinked at him. This was the first time I’d seen him since our…near confrontation, out in the fields his people were now migrating across. He didn’t seem to be holding a grudge that I could sense, but then again, would I be able to tell if he was? The Elf was older than dirt.

  Literally, he was probably older than the topsoil all around us and the trees that grew from it.

  “I’ve met with your commanders, Nathaniel, and directed my people to fall in where they wish them to,” Alveron said to me, for the moment ignoring Olag. “We will just barely be able to fit beneath the boughs of your…curious ward scheme. Though my Spells protect my people from the ravages of Fynneas’s Divinity, we can still feel it pressing against our souls, questing for any crack it can slither into and destroy. They will be glad for the protection. Thank you.”

  “Of course,” I said automatically. “It’s my pleasure to help.”

  Cradling his mug with one hand, Olag stroked his short beard for a moment. “To think, all of this mess is because of Divinity, of all things,” He mused. “Truly, even now, long after their time has passed, the gods still curse us. My people were right to denounce our own ‘Lord of War’ when we did. Simply another way we of Velancia are superior to our distant brethren, huddling in their mountain holds.”

  I did my best to ignore the oblique insult to Azarus, as Alveron’s attention fell on Olag, as if he was taking note of the Dwarf for the first time. “Perhaps,” He said evenly. “As one of the few on this planet who still retains memory of Yorgun, I will give him this. He would never have brooked such defilement of his Mantle. Your Lord of War would have struck his own head from his shoulders before suffering such indignity. Would that Fynneas had the same strength of will.”

  For some reason, Olag shuddered to hear the name of the old Dwarven ‘god’, but he swiftly recovered. “Fascinating,” He breathed. “To think that there still exists a Paragon who lived in the Age of the Gods…I cannot help but wonder at your insight, Master Alveron.”

  Said ‘master’ studied the Dwarf for a moment, silently. “You and yours are those who were attempting to hunt us through these woods.”

  I tensed slightly, expecting either one of them to react negatively after the accusation, but Olag just smiled at the old Elf. “Yes, we were. I imagine we gave you quite the chase, though, eh?” He admitted with a brazen chuckle. “We were contracted to do so, but I now consider that contract null and void. I very much look forward to working with you, Master Alveron.”

  Alveron just hummed. “We shall see. Nathaniel, I will speak with you later. There are still matters to attend to settling our...refugees.”

  As the Elder walked away and Olag started chatting to me once again, I breathed deeply for two reasons. One, at the barely avoided conflict, and two, for the sideways confirmation that this really was all of his village. I couldn't help but wonder just why the Elf had chosen to bring everyone along for his own caravan, instead of just his warriors.

  Still, I hoped that such tense situations didn’t become commonplace. It was already hard enough to keep the expedition together, as it was.

  I didn’t need us at each other’s throats.

  Thankfully, though…we weren’t all that far away from Rhoscara.

  Soon, it would come time to save the Red City.