Thoughts of a Dying Elf

He lay on the ice, the wound in his gut slowly bleeding out. The freezing cold helped numb the place where the Redarian’s sword had tried to displace his bowels. The bastard got Jendra’s rapier in his eye for his trouble. Jendra had snarled in savage satisfaction when he saw the bearded giant’s expression of dumb surprise. But it wasn’t enough to heal the gash in Jendra’s middle. Now he lay here halfway across the frozen lake at the end of a bloody trail with a patrol of Redarians on his tail, slowly dying when the object of his mission lay so close.

Not even one-hundred yards away was a forest pass through a small canyon. On the other side, in a verdant field, lay a small Veletian settlement; Corbovi, it was called. There was a cache of firearms hidden there, the weapons known only to Jendra’s people, the Chambodhi, that the Veletians had hoped would bring a quick end to this conflict.

Alas.

The Redarians knew about the pass and the settlement. They knew about the weapons cache as well. Jendra’s small squadron had been trying to reach it first and warn the inhabitants of the approaching enemy when the Redarians fell upon them. Jendra was the only survivor. As the battle turned against them and death seemed imminent, his commander ordered him to flee, to abandon his dying comrades and warn the Veletians. So he ran, and in his flight came across the Redarian whose sword had opened Jendra’s gut.

The things he did for strangers.

The Veletians . . . a restless people, and the reason for this stupid war. A treaty made with Jendra’s people generations ago, a promise made to repay the Veletians for their aid against the Tegelian monster horde . . . if only his ancestors knew it would result the Chambodhi fighting and dying in the snow, all for the Veletians foolish expansionist ambitions and the bloodshed that comes whenever the colonized push back.

A slaughter of innocents at the settlement would be bad enough. But if the Redarians found that weapons cache . . .

Jendra had to warn them. He had to get across the ice. But all he had was his rapier, a firearm, his powder horn, a bag of ammunition, and his entrails threatening to spill out of his body and onto the bloody ice. Not to mention, a horde of Redarians in close pursuit.

“There’s the elf!” The cry came from the frozen shore behind him. So the Redarians were faster than Jendra had thought. Or he’d lost track of how long he’d been lying on the freezing ice.

Elf. The barbarians called the Chambodhi “elves,” like they were some pointy eared sprites who danced through the forest. They were different than the humans, yes, but they were hardly “elves,” creature from tales for children. Even Jendra’s people told their little ones stories about elves.

Jendra had time to contemplate this resemblance, though, when an object, hurled by some Redarian, landed with a wet thump next to him. It was Albai’s head. Frozen blood mixed with frost and snot covered his button nose and delicate mouth, and his eyes were closed. But yes, the eyes were elfin, both larger and longer than the beady little things humans saw through, as was the long, slender cast to the face. Albai had a mane of golden hair in death dirty and matted, frozen parts broken off in haphazard chunks.

And the ears, had they not been cut off, would have been longer than human ears, but only slightly pointed.

“Come back, little elf!”

Jendra turned back. He could make out a man, not particularly large by Redarian standards, but wearing the red cloak of command, opened enough to reveal a shining golden breastplate. His helmet was also gold; though Jendra could not see his face, he knew the Redarian leader wore a long mustache like the rest of his people.

Gold . . . the Redarians’ abundant prize and what the Veletians with their insatiable avarice were so keen to confiscate. Never stand between a merchant-prince and the possibility of profit . . .

“Come back and do some magic, elf! Your friends didn’t know any tricks!”

The Redarian spoke as though the Chambodhi were the Magikoi of Kyrione. Were these Redarians truly so ignorant?

Another head landed on the ice. This was Klutan’s. His face was mashed beyond recognition; Jendra recognized him only from the bright red hair. His ears had been cut off as well. The Redarians had adopted the habit of turning Chambodhi ears into necklaces as prizes of war. Such charming people.

“What’s the matter, elf? Did your lips freeze shut?” Laughter from the shore. There were dozens of Redarians arrayed behind their leader, hooting and waving their axes and swords.

Others had bows and arrows. One archer loosed an arrow. It fell just short of Jendra’s leg but still too close, skittering off the ice in a spin that ended somewhere in the trail of Jendra’s viscera. His second arrow did strike true, hitting Jendra in the upper thigh.

Jendra grit his teeth but did not scream. He was too tired, too cold, and would not give the Redarians such satisfaction. And anyway, what was that fresh pain in his leg but a scratch next to the opening in his gut? It mattered not. His chances of surviving this night were slim, but the indignity of it stung nevertheless.

If he was to die, let it be with teeth bared. That archer wore no helmet. Jendra pushed himself into a sitting position and raised his rifle. The delicately filigreed silver accents shone in the last rays of the sun. Through the scope and the sights he saw the man getting another arrow ready. Bent, he made an easy target.

The gunshot echoed across the ice. A great mass of black birds scattered up from the forest as the Redarian archer’s head exploded in a burst of pink. He fell, his companions jumping back. Jendra expected a hail of more arrows at any moment, but perhaps the Redarians were cowed. Perhaps they didn’t realize how close to death he was. Perhaps they’d leave him be.

And perhaps Albai and Klutan would begin offering him words of encouragement.

He began pulling himself across the ice, praying it would take him out of arrow range. Of course, the Redarians were known for their skill as archers, but a Chambodhi could hope. Only hope, that fire in his heart, would keep Jendra alive a few moments more. Perhaps that was all the time he needed.

He fumbled under his own cloak, a formerly rich purple now torn, stained brown and red. He clutched his powder horn.

“You’ll pay for that, elf!” the Redarian leader called. “You’ll find your firearm doesn’t feel so good stuck up your arse when I pull the trigger!”

Jendra summoned his voice, betting on the chill winter air to carry it the final leg across the ice. “You wanted magic and I gave you some!” With shaking hands he began to reload his rifle. Could he pick off enough Redarians to trivialize their raiding party? He would try his best.

The second arrow struck Jendra’s shoulder mere moments after he killed the second archer. So their archers could shoot this far. It was at this moment Jendra knew he was going to die.

Gold . . . damn the greedy Veletians. Damn their Ruling Counsel for waving the ancient treaty in Queen Neronika’s face, damn their promises of rich rewards. Now, instead of continuing his courtship of fair Kanetha and continuing to tend his family’s fields on the Chambodhi plateau, herding the cattle across the plains, he was scrambling to make his peace, praying to meet the Creators atop the Twelve Peaks of Heaven and stop these Redarians however he could.

“I hope you felt that, elf! Stop shooting and we will make your end quick.”

Jendra knew his words were nonsense. They would cut off his ears while he still lived and laugh as they slowly tortured him to death. That he was dying anyway was a blessing, but he still had to halt their advance.

The quickest way to Corbovi was across this frozen lake; otherwise, there was a hard two-days’ march through the forest and cliffs surrounding it. If Jendra exploded his powder, could he break this ice enough to halt the Redarian advance? It was thick, yes, but cracks were visible throughout. A sufficiently large blast might shatter along these fault lines.

But what if it didn’t? What if he did nothing more than blow himself up for no reason? A self-inflicted death had to mean something or else Jendra would lose face in the sight of the Creators, even the Great Mother whose tears nurtured all living things.

He had to get the Redarians to cross the ice instead of picking him off at a distance. “Come get me then!” Jendra screamed in his failing voice. “End my misery!” His words were no trick—every breath was pain. O Kanetha, if only you knew what I am going through for the sake of these strangers.

The Redarians did not answer, but they shot no more arrows. Not yet. When the leader did speak, his voice was drenched in derision. “You think we’re that stupid, to take the word of an elf?”

Yes I do, thought Jendra. They had asked, after all. In no condition to shoot, he held up his rifle and threw it as best he could across the ice. The effort made him dizzy. “I’ll be dead in moments! Before you reach me. Keep my gun as a prize.”

That got the fools’ attention. But of course, they had to fire one more arrow. Jendra watched, helpless, as it flew towards him in a graceful arc, catching the last of the fading sun, turning it into something beautiful, like the feather of some ancient dragon, before it fell and sunk deep into his wounded stomach.

He screamed. His pain echoed across the ice. Kanetha, I have failed you. Mother, father, my queen, my people . . .

Eyes dimming, he saw the Redarians begin to cross the ice. Now it was time for magic. Beneath his cloak, in his pouch, were his fire sticks, an ancient secret of his people. Even in this cold, they would produce flame. Slowly, he took out the box. Next, his powder horn. Finally, his canteen. It was a simple metal bottle, large enough to hold a quart of powder, tightly packed, once he’d emptied the water on the ice.

The violent shaking in his hands gave Jendra difficulty, but he got his canteen filled with powder with minimal spillage. Time was short: death had ceased its cooing entreaties and had resorted now to forcefully pulling Jendra towards the light, but the Redarians weren’t close enough yet. A few moments more . . .

A sudden sense of euphoria overcame Jendra, bliss so intense he wondered if this was the Creators’ direct touch. Among the humans, there was belief that the Chambodhi were not ensouled beings. This was taught even among those who followed the new faith they called The Good, though not all of them. The Kyrione, from where The Good had come from, had accepted Chambodhi into that faith, though so far they were the only ones. The Redarians, of course, worshipped the old gods of man, and believed all of their enemies had no souls, Chambodhi or otherwise.

The nagging thought that maybe the humans were right never bothered Jendra too much, but now, near the end of his twenty-five short years of life, it cast fresh doubts upon everything. The euphoria lessened, shot through with streaks of dark that shattered the perfect harmony of the colors dancing in his vision, like interlocking tunnels of shapes turning in time with the pulse of life.

What if, what if, what if, a powerful question with infinite answers. What if Jendra died before these Redarians reached him? What if he and his people had been wrong in their belief all this time? What if the Redarians slaughtered the Veletian settlers and reached the firearms and turned the tide of the war decisively in their favor? What if Jendra failed? What if his life had been meaningless?

This thought, dark and mean, gave Jendra new life. He had many questions, but they could wait. With trembling hand, he opened his box of fire sticks. Most scattered across the ice but one remained between thumb and forefinger. The Redarians were close now, close enough to hear them speaking in their fluid tongue. Chattering imbeciles. They laughed when they saw him on the ice, bloody, pale, death mere seconds from taking him in its loving embrace.

The Redarian leader had taken his helmet off and indeed had a long, drooping mustache. Jendra’s eyes worked long enough to see his smug grin turn to a frown of horror as Jendra struck the fire stick and dropped it into his canteen.

Jendra died in the explosion, his makeshift bomb ripping his body apart along with the ice, destroying all Redarians in a thirty foot radius. The ice cracked with the sound of one thousand breaking bones, casting men into the dark waters, pulled down by their heavy armor. Those who had not died from the blast lingered in painful life as they drowned, helpless as they sank to the bottom.

And that was where Jendra’s remains lay as well, another casualty of war, another act of heroism unknown to all. The Veletians of Corbovi sleeping in warm beds, woken by the explosion, which would also alert the small Veletian contingent assigned to protect the settlement, all of them unaware of the death that missed them thanks to the sacrifice of one dying elf.

- Alexander

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