No One's Chosen (5 page)

"It's nice," Rianaire remarked to Síocháin.

"It is. Would you live in it?"

Rianaire made a face. "Eh, perhaps? I doubt I'd
raise-"

"The Treorai?! Outside?! Fires take you, girl, why
would you leave- By the sisters!" Áras's mother had apparently
heard who she was to have for dinner guests. She flung upon the
door. "Treorai, a thousand, er, pardons… I don't… My daughter, you
see…"

Rianaire hugged the rotund elf, the woman's eyes went
wide. "Your daughter is splendid! As is your home. Ah!" She pulled
back to address her host. "Might I come in?"

"P-please… Oh… oh my." The farmer's plump face was
flushed. She made her way over to a wooden chair and sat for maybe
half a second before leaping back to her feet. "Goodness, I ought
to prepare something. Áras explained everything, we… we're happy
t-to…"

"Mother." Áras nodded her head at the kitchen.

"Ah, yes!" The old farmer woman made off for the
kitchen.

Rianaire entered and motioned for Síocháin to sit
down. She did. "It's a lovely home, Áras." Rianaire looked around
at the place with the curiosity of a child. She'd never been in
such a humble home. Potshops, sure, but never someone's home. One
side of the living quarters held a small-ish bed, the other a loom
dresser. Other than that, some family decorations on the wall, a
few materials for stitching, and a pair of chairs the room was
rather bare. There was a fireplace, at least, Rianaire thought.
Though she scarce had any idea how they might live through a winter
without one.

"I know it ain't much." Áras said quietly, pride in
her voice. "We make due by sweat and blood as is proper."

The door to the kitchen opened and Áras's mother
waved them in. The kitchen was cozy but had room enough for a
dining table and four chairs. The meal was delicious. A roast
suckling pig that wasn't like to make it to size, Áras explained.
There was always one or two in the litter that just wouldn't make
it. As well they had to keep tight control on the population. There
were roast parsnips and carrots besides. They sat around, plates
empty, talking as night fell around them.

As if she had just realized who the dinner had been
with, Áras's mother suddenly said, "Oh dear, we've just been
ramblin' on so. Beggin' yer pardon, Treorai."

"Oh, bah! I have my pardon begged often enough at the
Bastion. And my name is Rianaire. There is no Treorai outside of
that damnable castle. The Treorai is some far off thing capable
only of solemn waves and shits that smell of lavender and honey."
Rianaire looked to Síocháin. "Does honey have a smell?"

Síocháin shrugged. "I've never thought to smell it.
Still, I can attest you've often bested honey in pungency, if not
sweetness of smell."

Áras and her mother gasped. Rianaire laughed and
turned to her hosts. "I'll have to apologize for Síocháin. She just
has no sense of table manners. Not a refined lady such as
myself."

"Would that I had your upbringing, milady." Síocháin
spoke as flat as ever. Rianaire burst into laughter, the farmers
perplexed at the behavior.

Rianaire wiped a tear from her eye. "Ah, it must be a
great disappointment to see us carry on like children. Poor
upbringing, you know." Rianaire took a sip of the wine and grunted
her pleasure at the taste. She sat the clay goblet on the table
with no great care. "Speaking of upbringing, where is the
father?"

The mother spoke up right away. "Fever got him this
time two years back, Sisters be good."

"The Summer Plague?" Rianaire wiped her mouth and
grabbed at a piece of crispy pigskin on Síocháin's plate.

"Aye."

"My condolences. I lost friends in the plague as
well."

"The farm was his, truth be told. Well, his family's
anyway. He was an only child. Áras as well, not for lack of tryin',
mind." She laughed at herself. "He managed to put two others in me.
Stillborn, the both. Would suit me to have a man around as to pawn
the work off on, but ain't a thing a man can do a woman can't
manage. Not on a pig farm anyway. Cold bed's the worst of our
problems here. Still, I reckon that makes it Áras's farm, her being
his proper heir."

"A grave problem, by my measure." Rianaire
offered.

"Haha, aye, you've the right of that, milady."

"Still, the pigs are as healthy as I've ever seen and
the taste is unimpeachable. You've done well by your farm."
Rianaire reached back over towards Síocháin's plate but this time
Síocháin slapped the back of her hand. Rianaire drew her hand back
and rubbed it, looking pitiful.

"Áras does the most of the work these days. I've
grown old and lazy… and fat. Used to be, I was pretty as you."
Rianaire laughed at the jab.

"Mother!" Áras was red with embarrassment at her
mother's impropriety.

"Oh Áras, your mother has the right of it I'm sure.
Tell it true, when you were young, you had your pick of the men,
didn't you?"

"Men and women," the round old woman boasted.

Rianaire looked to Síocháin, raising her eyebrows in
delighted surprise. "I've decided!" she shouted.

"Again?" It was impossible to tell how Síocháin might
have meant the query to all present, save Rianaire it seemed.

"Again!" Rianaire stood and pointed at Áras's mother.
"I like you!" And then to Áras. "And you! Henceforth, unto…
Síocháin, how long?"

"Forever?"

"Perfect! Henceforth, unto forever, the Áras Farm of
the Outer Crescent shall be the one and only supplier of swine to
the Treorai of Spéirbaile!"

The old woman's eyes shot open wide. For the better
part of a minute the farmers simply stared between the two highborn
elves who occupied their kitchen. "Treorai… I…"

"Stop!" Rianaire snapped. "Now is not the time for
words! It is the time to drink to good fortune! For the health and
flavor of your pigs!" She grabbed the goblet up and held it
aloft.

Áras's mother did the same, timidly. Rianaire slammed
her goblet into the other, smashing them both. "To the
Sisters!"

The old woman found her words. "Aye! To the Sisters!"
Rianaire couldn't help herself, she embraced the old, fat woman.
The feel of cold sweat against her cheek told Rianaire all she
needed to know.

The night devolved into drinking and revelry. Before
the end of it, Áras's mother ended up topless, coaxing Rianaire
into comparing their breasts. Rianaire declared her the winner by
virtue of volume but insisted on a rematch in the future.

The moons were working their way to the horizon when
they finally left, Rianaire with Síocháin leaning against her
shoulder. Síocháin was never much for drink, she told the farmers.
As Rianaire was leaving, Áras pulled her aside. Her eyes were full
with tears. "Treorai," she said. Over and over, "Treorai." Rianaire
pulled her close and kissed her on the forehead.

"There is no Treorai here, Áras. She is a far off
thing."

And away she went.

Aile had been sitting in the rafters for the better
part of half a day. Waiting was often a part of the job for her,
but the smell was another thing entirely. Her mind rarely wandered
but she wondered what it must be like for the elf girls the
hippocamp horde took when they sacked a city. The rapes were one
thing, she figured, but by the Goddess, how could you ever get used
to the smell?

Night had fallen some hours ago, it wouldn't be long
now. And indeed it wasn't. She'd only just finished what was to be
her final check of her supplies when the thudding sound of a large
centaur approached the expansive burgundy marquee. She could just
make out the harsh tongue of the hippocamps followed by roaring
laughter that crescendoed as the flaps parted.

The other voices quickly fell away, retreating into
the distance, as he entered the marquee. He was easily the largest
centaur she'd ever seen. Warlord Ke'Laak it had said on the papers,
hirsute and muscular even by centaur standards. A large, limp cock,
wet with blood and semen, swung between his legs as he strode
toward the canopied bed in the center of the room, his laughter
turning to a yawn. With a lack of grace ill-fitting the grandeur of
the thing, he crashed down onto the mattress.

Aile froze, knowing the moment was crucial. His eyes
might swing upward and, while she was confident in her shadows,
escaping two-thousand enraged hippocamp brutes was not something
she was prepared to puzzle out. She was right to freeze, his eyes
passed directly over her as he gave the room the night's last look.
If he had seen her, his face did not betray surprise or alarm.

It couldn't have been more than ten minutes before
the cacophony of snorts and grunts came streaming up from the bed.
The warlord must have worn himself out during the festivities.

Aile was not so quick to move. It would be another
twenty minutes before she began to slowly make her way to the floor
of the marquee. Her feet on solid ground for the first time in
hours, she wanted nothing more than to stretch her body out and let
the aches in her muscles wind their way to some other place.
Hunched and silent as the dead, Aile moved toward the behemoth.

As she neared Ke'Laak, the dagger at her back found
its way to her hand. She'd have to be precise. She couldn't afford
him flailing around and drawing the guard. Far off as they might
be, the patrols were sure to hear the stamping of this massive oaf.
Besides, she was smart but not made of steel. The centaur could
crush her if she made a wrong move. Still, she knew the anatomy and
the poison. It shouldn't take more than a few seconds to paralyze
the great savage, even at his size. Or so she hoped. She had
to.

She drew back the blade. Just under the foreleg. It
was her best shot. Near the heart and a wound that was apt to be
overlooked by the dreck that passed for doctors among the
hippocamps.

Aile plunged the dagger into the warlord to the
quillon. She held her breath. Had it worked? Just as rush of
success began to flood over her, the great beast wrenched up from
the bed, growling low in pain. He rose violently and his arm caught
her under the chin, slamming her teeth together in a jolt of
white-hot pain, the edge of her lip caught in between. Aile landed
some feet away and scrambled to a defensive crouch as best she
could.

Ke'Laak growled at her and postured, flexing his
massive human torso. "RAAAH! You dare to—" All at once he seemed to
realize he'd been stabbed. Little wonder he didn't notice right
away, with the size of him. He plucked the dagger out. His face
told the story of his disdain for the size of the weapon and his
attacker. "A toothpick," his face seemed to say.

And then it struck him. He turned to his attacker,
genuinely noticing the deep, shifting grey of his attacker's skin
for the first time. He laughed dismissively. "Hah. A Drow."

Aile's eyes flitted ever so briefly to the flaps of
the marquee. Had the guards heard? "What of it?" She reached for a
second dagger at her thigh, smaller but just as deadly. She had
speed, to be sure. Would it matter?

To her great surprise, however, Ke'Laak sat his
massive equine body upon the earthen floor of what had been his
home for as long as he could remember. He folded his great arms and
in a gruff voice called to Aile. "Give me the truth of it, Drow… am
I undone?"

Aile raised an eyebrow, was it a trick? She stood
from her crouch, hesitant, dagger at the ready still. "You
are."

The great warlord sighed a weary
sigh and smiled a sad smile. Time seemed to inch by, Aile had no
clue what to do. Her life was in his hands as much as his had been
in hers just a moment before. "
Hah!
" he began after what seemed like
forever. "A Drow of all things. I feel your poisons doing their
work and I still scarcely believe it."

He groaned a little. Fighting back the poison must
have been sheer force of will. And what a will it was. Aile had
seen the elixir she'd used fell a bull ox in less than a minute.
For the briefest moment, she lost herself in awe at the centaur.
His words snapped her into the moment. "The kill is yours and I
would honor you."

"Not curse me for a coward?" Aile wasn't used to the
idea of honor.

"
Ha!
Darkling, what do you know of the
mighty centaur?" He let out another groan.

She found herself sheathing the dagger. "Very little.
You bleed and die just like any other creature. Beyond that, I
imagine I'd find the knowledge a waste."

"Then my revenge will be the burden of our custom."
The warlord, with great effort, turned his torso and pulled taut
one of the dozens of braids that made up his tail. He cut the braid
with the dagger and tossed the tool aside. He turned around and
laid the thick rope of hair almost gently in the dirt. "There is no
shame in the kill, darkling. Only glory. The Battle is everlasting.
It does not abate for meat and mead or dreams or even death. Our
paths crossed in Battle and I was found wanting."

Aile didn't move from the spot. The braid was in
range of the great centaur and she knew it. She looked down to it
and back up at him.

He stared into her for longer than she would have
liked. A dare to move. Finally he let out a tired laugh. "Haah hah
hah. Good, Drow. You… you are smarter—" A hacking cough took him,
blood spattered the dirt. "—than your fair-skinned cousins." His
torso began to slump, his breathing labored. "What I wouldn't have…
urk… have given to take you with me…" His head drooped. He rolled
his eyes up to look at Aile. "Tell me, Drow—" The coughing was
worse, phlegmy and wetter than before. "What trophy would have
coaxed you?"

Aile couldn't help but smile. "You misunderstand,
horselord. My trophy was half paid before I entered your disgusting
hovel and the other half wasn't hanging from your arse."