Chapter Text
The blaring horns, the clop of hooves on the cobblestones, confetti drifting in the air. Crowds gathered, cheering to the passing Hellriders on their mounts as they rounded the square near the stately Grand Cathedral in Elturel. The Companion, Elturel’s second sun, shone over the city like a divine beacon, bathing the streets in a sanctified glow.
Commander Zevlor sat high in his saddle, watching the parade around him impassively, as he’d done hundreds of times before. Young Lieutenant Tilses grinned at his left, waving at a group of nearby children who blew noisemakers at the passing procession. Zevlor’s gaze rested on the High Commander’s armored back, riding on point. Commander Eddy on his mount trotted at Zevlor’s right side, a proud smile on his lips. The rest of the Hellrider unit followed behind.
The sunlight dimmed, and Zevlor’s horse grew anxious. He patted the brown gelding, named Venture, on his muscular neck to soothe him and then he glanced up at the sky. Rain hadn’t been forecast today, and no roiling storm clouds covered the heavens, yet the sky darkened with every step they took. He waited for a raindrop to hit his face, or to hear the distant clap of thunder.
A great, booming crash shook the city, as though a huge bomb went off, and the streets erupted into screaming chaos. The horses reared and whinnied as the ground heaved, and Zevlor desperately clung to Venture’s reins to keep control. Eddy toppled off his horse, and Tilses clung onto her bucking mount for dear life.
Zevlor whipped his head around, trying to spot the source of this attack. He shouted over the din at the Hellriders to stay together, but several of the unit’s horses had already bolted, some with their riders and some without. Venture, ever disciplined, pranced to stay on his feet on the quaking ground, without throwing his master off his back. Zevlor saw Tilses’s panicked face, and she was trying to yell something to him, but he couldn’t hear her.
Zevlor’s stomach dropped, and a powerful gust of wind blew his hair upward. Somehow, he was falling. Everything was falling.
A churning ink eclipsed the light of the Companion, the now-black sphere encircled in an ominous, blood-red light that twisted around it like electricity. A sound like the grinding and dragging of rusty chains clanged over the city. Buildings cracked and fell apart as though they’d been made of sand, the debris crushing civilians as they tried desperately to run. The children Tilses had been waving to lie smashed and bloodied under fallen stone, their small hands and feet protruding from the rubble.
Ash and embers drifted through the air that choked all who breathed it in with a sulfurous miasma. The sky burned, exploding with firestorms, and an oppressive heat descended on the city, a heat unlike anything Zevlor had ever felt before. By some instinct deep within him, he knew that Elturel no longer existed on the material plane.
Then he heard a mighty pop, and turned to see spiderweb cracks racing over the surface of the Grand Cathedral’s massive stained-glass windows. Then, these windows, that had endured for centuries, shattered into thousands of pieces that rained down, glittering in the hellish red light, all over the street, onto the wailing and terrified masses, and every hope in Zevlor’s heart shattered with them, leaving a faithless emptiness aching within him.
He stirred out of his half-asleep state, his head pounding and sweat coating his brow. Zevlor wasn’t back in Elturel as it fell into Avernus, but in the Emerald Grove, a place almost as damnable. Tilses’s voice called to him, and her words drifted into focus over the echoes of screams fading in his mind.
“Sir! Are you all right?” She frowned. “You’ve not been sleeping well these days.”
He groaned at her, waving her concerns away with a hand as he rubbed his sore neck. He’d been dozing off during the day lately, his duties in this refugee camp never ending. He rose from the stone desk he’d been slumped over, shuffling over to where his bedroll and pack lay. He retrieved a pipe, stuffed it with dry leaves and lit it on a nearby candle on the desk. He rested his backside on the stone edge, his tail languidly draping to one side, as he puffed away.
“Sir,” Tilses said, exasperated, “you really shouldn’t be smoking that. It’s not good for you.”
Zevlor had quit the pipe years ago, but after the Descent, he’d picked it back up, on occasion. He exhaled a cloud of smoke, savoring the burning in his lungs and how it calmed his jangled nerves. It reminded him that he was still alive.
“It’s a bad habit, Tilly,” he conceded, “but I could do without the damn nursemaid routine.”
He’d said this with a wry smile and no annoyance, and Tilses gave a resigned smile in return. She leaned beside him on the desk, folding her arms and sighing. She’d been doing a lot of sighing these days.
“I worry about your health,” she said.
“Well, no need for that. I’ve been through a lot worse, I promise you. Though I appreciate your concern for me.” He’d been tempted to drink himself silly some days, but he needed to keep his wits about him.
“You’re not sleeping well,” she reiterated.
He made a dismissive noise. “I doubt any of us are sleeping soundly these days. I suggest you focus on your own rest, and be at the ready.”
She pursed her lips. “I suppose you have a point there, sir.”
He glanced at Tilses out of the corner of his eye. The girl never let him be, but he couldn’t fault her. He had mentored her back in Elturel, having honed her into an exemplary soldier, serving as her commanding officer, her fiercest advocate, and something like a father figure. She certainly worried over him like a daughter.
She could have been a rising star in the ranks of the Hellriders for many decades to come, and due to her excellence in the field, she had attained the rank of lieutenant early. But Elturel had dashed her dreams, scornfully decommissioning and exiling any tiefling Hellrider from their lifelong devotion, all for the crime of the Infernal blood flowing in their veins. It wasn’t long before all tieflings within the city walls became the objects of contempt – convenient scapegoats in the wake of the Descent.
As painful as it had been to lose everything he’d worked for his whole life, Zevlor could at least take solace that he’d enjoyed decades of prestigious service. Tilses barely even had a chance to start, now rudderless and forced to rethink the course of her entire life. He could but grieve her loss with her, keep her company and humor her fussing, although he often wished she’d stop clinging to his side. He only offered her the pain of the past.
“I hardly need a bodyguard, Tilses,” said Zevlor. “This isn’t Avernus.” He tapped some ash out of his pipe. He hadn’t needed her to guard him in Avernus, either, but she could never be swayed from her tireless loyalty. He sometimes wondered if she thought he’d up and disappear into thin air, should she take her eyes off him for a second.
“No, sir,” she said. “At least the monsters there looked like monsters.”
“No word from the scouts, yet?”
“No, sir. But if there’s a clear path past those goblins, they’ll find it.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Zevlor delegated command of the scouts to Tilses, and she had sent a party out, led by Zorru, with two others, Yul and Chell, to get the lay of the land to the west. She had just sent two more, Damays and Nymessa, to investigate a mysterious, booming crash in the forest the other night, to the south. None had reported back.
A long moment of silence settled between them. She wrung her hands together. “Do you think the Archdruid will return?”
“Hm? We can only hope so.”
Zevlor had been staring at the glowing embers in his pipe. It took effort to tear his eyes from the fire. He rolled the wood between his fingers. Archdruid Halsin had given him one of his spare pipes, along with a special, relaxing blend of pipeweed, after Zevlor confessed to the druid a renewed craving for it. The two men had often enjoyed a smoke together in the evenings, as they spoke of the events of each day.
The Archdruid had been the one to welcome the tiefling refugees to the Emerald Grove after Elturel had exiled them. While Zevlor wouldn’t say they had become friends, he and Halsin had formed a comfortable camaraderie as the leaders of their respective groups.
And now, Halsin had gone off with nary a word on some fool’s errand with a human adventuring crew that had only recently shown up, led by a loudmouthed troublemaker named Aradin Beno. Another druid, Kagha, had swiftly used the opportunity to usurp Halsin’s position as Archdruid, and had started some kind of ritual, called the Rite of Thorns, to cast the tieflings out. It was Elturel all over again.
He would gather his people and strike out to Baldur’s Gate immediately, but leaving now would be suicide. Their caravan had already been attacked by bandits, goblins and, more recently, gnolls, on the road from Elturel, and they’d lost more people with each skirmish. Halsin had remarked that this influx of monsters and goblinoids was something he hadn’t seen before, and that tracing the source of this recent infestation was part of why he wanted to go with the adventurers.
That, and locating some important artifact. Zevlor hadn’t been interested in knowing much more about any of that, having had enough trouble to occupy him here. He had only felt dread at the prospect of Halsin leaving.
Zevlor heard the grinding sound of the stone door to the cave sliding open, jolting him out of his thoughts. He and Tilses saw Asharak sprinting up the dirt path from the door, harried.
Zevlor stopped leaning and stood at attention, putting his pipe down on the desk. “What is it now?” He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, but sheltering in this grove had been nothing but misfortunes, both petty and serious, since the first day. Despite Halsin’s generosity, the other druids had been unwelcoming to the tiefling refugees, to put it mildly.
“Sir,” said Asharak, catching his breath. “There’s a situation brewing that needs your immediate attention.”
Asharak had been a civilian, but he had been part of the citizen militia back in Elturel, and Zevlor had met him toward the end of the Descent, shortly before the city had been restored to the material plane. He had already been leading and protecting a group of tiefling citizens when they met – the very citizens Zevlor had stepped in to lead. Asharak was one of the few in this camp that was handy with a weapon, and he’d been an invaluable help to Zevlor, fast cementing himself as trustworthy second in command.
“One of the children, Arabella,” Asharak said, “has been detained by the druids in the inner grove. They claim she tried to steal their idol. There’s rumors the child will be put to death for this and our kin are fit to be tied. A group of them, including the girl’s parents, are trying to get into the inner grove and a fight’s going to break out at any moment, you must come.”
“Watching gods,” Zevlor growled. “We can’t afford any violence with the druids. I’ll be right there. You stay back and try to keep the situation under control in the rest of the grove. Stop any panic from spreading and anyone else from getting involved. Tilses, you’re with me.”
They all exited the cave, Zevlor and Tilses jogging deeper into the grove toward the sacred pool, which stood at the heart of the druids’ sanctum. As they crested a hill, they heard the throng of outraged tieflings hollering at the druids standing guard at the entrance archway leading into the inner grove. The druids formed an impenetrable line, defiant and arrogant in the face of the impassioned pleas of the tieflings, including the child’s parents, who begged them to return their little girl.
Zevlor closely observed the druids. Despite their veneer of calm confidence, they were tense and itching for any excuse to attack. Their grounded stances, the twitching of their hands, their hunched shoulders, the way they glared with hostility – all grave warnings. The tieflings seemed unaware of the rising danger, shouting and hurling insults, crowding their bodies closer to the guards. Zevlor needed to defuse this powder keg before any of his people lost their lives.
His mind raced to figure out what he could say to these druids to persuade them. They’d never deigned to listen to him before. Tilses halted beside him, her hand hovering over the pommel of her longsword.
He put a staying hand on her arm. “Easy, Tilly. Draw no weapons yet. Let’s see if they’ll talk.”
“Not likely, sir,” she said bitterly, “but as you wish.”
Zevlor pushed his way to the front of the crowd, his voice booming over the din. “Let me through! Everyone, please calm yourselves!”
The tieflings hushed at seeing him arrive and the druids bristled. Zevlor showing up to the confrontation wasn’t a good sign and it put them on edge, and he knew this. He put his hands up as a show of peace. “Please,” he said to the guards, “let’s discuss this.”
A tiefling woman, Komira, rushed up to Zevlor, getting in his face. “There’s nothing to discuss!” She jabbed a finger toward the sanctum. “Those druids have my little girl! The gods only know what they’re doing to her right now!”
One of the druid guards, a woman named Jeorna, brandished her quarterstaff at them. “We have done no harm to her. She is being detained to determine her guilt.”
“Listen to what they’re saying!” Komira pleaded with Zevlor, shaking his arm. “They’ve already pronounced my Arabella guilty! You can’t let them talk us into rolling over for them, they’re never going to treat us fairly and you know it!”
Zevlor’s mouth pressed into a grim line. “I have no intention of rolling over for anyone. But we need to avoid any bloodshed.”
“And there won’t be any,” said a voice from behind the druids. They parted to let a woman step forward – Kagha, who’d taken the title of Archdruid from Halsin in his absence. She was unassuming on first glance, a wood elf with a slight build and copper-red hair, but Zevlor knew there was no more dangerous a viper on the Sword Coast than this woman. Kagha crossed her arms, regarding him with a smirk. “So long as you do not interfere with our law.”
Zevlor fumed inside. These druids made a mockery of law and everything natural and just in the world. If he had his way, he’d storm that damned inner grove and rescue the captive child himself, perhaps smashing that idol for good measure while he was at it. But the druids were too powerful. They held all the cards, and everyone knew it. So much for the compassion of Silvanus.
Zevlor kept his voice measured. “Surely, the law doesn’t need to be involved concerning the mischief of a small child. I hear she is to be put to death. What crime could a child commit to warrant such a fate?”
“You project your profane nature onto me,” Kagha spat. “I am not a monster. The thief will be judged fairly, according to the Oak Father’s will. Nothing more.”
“Bullshit!” Komira shrieked.
Zevlor held up a quieting hand, before the other tieflings could get riled up again. “Why not turn her over to me? I will ensure she is punished appropriately.”
Kagha sneered. “She has defiled our sacred idol. She has interfered in the Rite of Thorns. Why should I trust you to do anything? For all I know, you put her up to it.”
“That is absurd. I’ve never been interested in sowing dissent with your people. I seek only peaceful coexistence.”
“Absurd? I know that your people want nothing more than to take everything we have. You like to talk and talk, don’t you, Zevlor? But you seek only to deceive me. I will no longer listen to your treacherous words.” She flung her hands in the air, dismissively, saying to her guards, “Do not let any of these devils cross this threshold. Especially him.” She pointed to Zevlor.
“Please, listen to reason!” Zevlor cried at her back as she marched off. He beseeched the druid guards. “You must see that this is madness!”
The guards closed rank behind her, impervious to his pleas.
Komira was close to tears. “What about my daughter?”
Her husband, Locke, put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, love, we’ll figure something out. We’ll get her back.”
Jeorna, her eyes averted, said, “The Oak Father is fair and merciful. The child’s fate is in his hands now.”
Zevlor clenched his fists, but his face remained a mask of practiced stoicism, only his flaring nostrils betraying his emotions. Losing his temper wasn’t going to solve anything. The other tieflings began to loudly protest again, and the child’s parents clung to each other in hopelessness.
He reassured everyone that he’d come up with a plan, and to please not agitate the druids or incite violence, as they, and more importantly, Arabella, would no doubt be killed as a result. They reluctantly agreed to be patient, but Komira and Locke insisted they’d be staying put by the entrance to await word of their daughter.
Zevlor walked to a quiet, tucked-away part of the grove, staring up at the clear sky peeking between the tops of high rock formations. He had no bloody plan. He had nothing. His guts churned with a persistent anxiety that had become so familiar to him since the Descent, like a pair of well-worn boots.
It wasn’t enough that the druids were apathetic. They were cruel. They delighted in making the refugees miserable, begrudging the suffering tieflings every drop of water, every scrap of food, every compromise or kindness. Should the Rite of Thorns complete, its magic would cast every tiefling out instantly, onto the monster-infested forest roads.
The druids must despise their very existence, and thinking on it only bewildered Zevlor. Archdruid Halsin had been so welcoming to them, a shining example of reasonableness and empathy. How could his own druids go so quickly astray without him?
Zevlor lowered his head in prayer, as he’d done every day for most of his life, and multiple times per day since leaving Avernus. The gods had abandoned him, or at least, that’s what he’d suspected. He heard nothing, felt nothing, and received no answers, no matter how many times he prayed. Still, he persevered.
“Please, hear me,” he said softly, to no one. “I need help. Give me wisdom, strength, something to light my way in the dark. Anything, I beg of you.”
He wasn’t sure what he should have expected other than cold silence. He’d lost his paladin’s oath the moment he saw the Grand Cathedral’s windows shatter. He had not renounced his oath, nor had he cursed the gods. His faith in everything – his oath, the gods, even his faith in himself – evaporated in an instant. The yawning absence gnawed at his soul. He now ran only on survival, his worry for his people, and his decades of strict training.
Zevlor wandered into the heart of the grove, the Hollow, where most of his people dwelt. A big cauldron of gruel stood at a communal cafeteria of sorts, tended to by an old tiefling woman, Okta. Her hulking son, Ikaron, grunted in exertion, piling crates in the nook against the stone wall behind his mother. When Ikaron wasn’t on guard duty in the Hollow, he’d be used as convenient muscle whenever something needed moving, much to his chagrin.
Okta noticed Zevlor, waving him over and calling out to him. “Hello, there, handsome! Come get a bowl, you tall drink of water,” she said, winking. “It’ll cure what ails you.”
Okta was always gushing about how tall and handsome he was. Zevlor wasn’t a short man, but he wasn’t notably tall either, and Okta’s son towered over him still. He supposed that to a tiny slip of a thing like Okta, every man looked tall.
He usually bore her flirting with good humor, but right now, he couldn’t bring himself to crack a smile. “How are the two of you doing today?” Zevlor asked the pair, in his most detached, professional voice.
Okta grinned. “Better, now that you’ve graced us with your dashing presence, your leadership.” She gave Zevlor a cheeky bow.
Okta looked old enough to be his mother, which was saying something at his age, though her son was much younger than himself, which made Zevlor curious about what might make a person wait so long to have children. He had long since thought himself much too old to have a family.
Ikaron heaved a sigh. “Mother, please. Don’t accost the man.”
“What? I can’t have a little fun?” Okta glanced behind her at what her son was doing. “Hey now, don’t stack those there! Those go in the other stack.”
Ikaron grumbled, yanking a crate into his arms. He regarded Zevlor with a pinched scowl, but jerked his head upward with a nod in a show of respect. The young man was tightly wound with an anxious disposition, and Zevlor knew that his sourness wasn’t personal.
Zevlor continued walking. He planned to do his rounds within the grove, and then head to the walls in the front, to check in with the lookouts there. It would give him time to think, at the very least.
Nearby, a young wizard stood with his brother and sister. These three were a peculiar lot. They had not been with Zevlor and the other refugees as they left Elturel, but instead, had joined them on the road, shortly before arriving at the grove. Zevlor did not remember ever seeing them in Avernus, and he surmised that they must have spent the Descent hiding out somewhere, away from the chaos of the city. He had to admit that it was probably the smart thing to do.
He wanted to ask the wizard, Rolan, if he’d be willing to cast some daily cleaning magic for his people, but the wizard was a prickly sort, and didn’t seem keen to help anyone except himself and his siblings. Normally, Zevlor might resent taking on the dead weight of uncooperative people, but having a talented caster with them might come in handy someday. His brother and sister were no slouches with a weapon, either.
There was no denying that more than a few of the refugees stank to the high heavens. The Hollow was crowded and got unbearably hot during highsun, and the pong was noticeable. There was a fresh stream for bathing nearby, but many tieflings did not avail themselves of it, wanting to avoid the judgmental stares of druids. Plus, they had been in survival mode for so long, that cleanliness was often the last on the list of priorities. Zevlor could not blame them.
But he didn’t care about druid stares. He visited the stream every day to wash up. He’d spent enough time wretched and filthy in Avernus, where the water was poisoned and the air hung thick with sulfur. A cool, clean stream surrounded by greenery grounded him in the world of the living. It was a simple pleasure he would not do without; druids be damned.
He was so lost in contemplation that he almost didn’t hear Elegis, one of the archer sentries, run up to him.
“Sir! You’re needed at the front gate right away!” she panted. “Those adventurers are back, and demanding to be let inside. I hear it’s urgent but I don’t know what’s happening.”
“Mrag,” Zevlor muttered. But then, a small tendril of hope bloomed. Could Halsin be back, at long last? Halsin could set everything right – Arabella’s captivity, the Rite of Thorns, Kagha’s autocracy. He nodded to Elegis. “Lead the way.”
Zevlor bolted after Elegis to the front gate, his legs heavy and tired. He could hear frantic shouts on the other side of the gate. A tiefling sentry, a young man named Kanon, was yelling down to someone that he wouldn’t be opening the gate under any circumstances, per Zevlor’s orders.
Zevlor sprinted up the dirt path on the side up to the rampart, leaning over the wall. “What’s going on?”
“Goblins are on our tail! Open the gate, Zevlor! Now!” It was Aradin, as expected.
“You led goblins here?” Zevlor’s eyes quickly scanned the grassy expanse. Aradin only had two people with him out of the dozen that had departed, and no Halsin. He tamped back his dismay. “Where is the druid?”
“Please! There's no time!” Aradin yelled.
A small cadre of whooping goblins, attended by worgs and a bugbear, ran over the grassy hill on the far side of the gate, dashing toward Aradin and his two companions with their weapons drawn.
“By the nine hells! Open the gate!” Zevlor shouted to Kanon.
Kanon did his best to crank the wheel and raise the portcullis so that Aradin and his crew could duck inside before the enemy reached them. But it was no use, the goblins were too fast, and they unleashed a volley of arrows at everyone on the wall.
Kanon screamed as an arrow struck his side, and then several more buried themselves into his body. Zevlor cried out his name, and when Kanon’s body collapsed onto the rampart, the gate came crashing down at the same time, shutting Aradin and his people outside.
Zevlor’s training kicked in and his vision narrowed into a tunnel of pure focus. Picking up a crossbow, he fired into the enemy as he ducked additional volleys of arrows.
Time had no meaning once the haze of battle descended. It was a fearless state where his instincts drove his every thought and action, honed by countless years of experience. Survival was all that mattered. Thoughts and feelings bred hesitation, which got soldiers killed.
He was barely aware of what he yelled out to the other archers on the wall. Warnings and commands issued from him as naturally as the air he breathed, and his people followed him without question, despite having no formal training as soldiers. Such was the power of a well-trained Commander.
The goblin forces weren’t numerous, but Zevlor’s fear was that one could escape, and report back to whatever foul warren in which they skulked. At this rate, there was no way he or his archers could fell all of them fast enough to prevent some from retreating. And once that happened, who knows what army would show up to lay siege to this place, eventually massacring every man, woman and child under his watch.
At that moment, as though through divine providence, group of strange people ran across the field, boxing in the goblins from behind. There were about a half dozen of these new fighters, and they set upon the enemy mercilessly. Zevlor squinted in the bright daylight, but he couldn’t make out any details on the newcomers. He did see goblins start to fall, unable to escape as he’d feared they would, and relief flooded into him in witnessing this small turn of fortune.
Once the threat had been neutralized, he ordered the gate open. “That was the last of them. Inside, all of you! More may follow!”
Aradin and his crew, along with the strangers, hurried inside the grove, and Zevlor descended the rampart to meet everyone. His hackles raised when Aradin came stomping up, out for blood and looking for him.
“Where is that bastard?” Aradin hollered. When he set his sights on Zevlor, his face twisted in fury.
But Zevlor was ready for him, and just as furious. “There are children here, you fool!”
“We was running for our lives!”
“You led them straight to us! And you let them take the druid, too? Unbelievable!”
“We lost him back at the ruins. Whole place is crawling with gobbos,” said Aradin flippantly.
In his periphery, Zevlor registered a woman watching the row from the sidelines with a bemused smile. She seemed to be the leader of the group of strangers that had so selflessly aided them in killing the goblins, and her companions loitered behind her to watch the events unfolding.
Zevlor felt her gaze pierce him. Slight shame coiled inside that he was making a bad first impression, but his blood had boiled over, and it wouldn’t be calmed. Aradin’s callousness toward other people’s lives – Halsin’s, the citizens’ that Zevlor was duty-bound to protect – enraged him.
“He trusted you!” A sliver of Zevlor’s anger redirected to Halsin, mixed with misery. How could the Archdruid have ever gone anywhere with this careless fool? How could he have left the tieflings to the mercy of a druid like Kagha? Zevlor knew what goblins did to their prisoners, and a shameful part of him hoped that Halsin had been killed outright, as it would have been a more merciful end for him.
“Nobody forced him to go with us. He insisted. And when things got tough, he couldn't keep up. Simple as that.”
“My gods, you're a coward!” Zevlor roared. Such a disgrace, that a leader should return unscathed, while most of his people had been lost.
Aradin sneered. “What's it gonna take to shut you up, horns?”
Both men began to square up to each other, jaws jutting and fists clenched. The woman jumped in with a worried grin on her face. “Hey now, we beat the goblins! We shouldn’t fight among ourselves, don’t you both think?”
Aradin wheeled on her, snarling, ““And who the hell are you again?”
“Show some respect!” Zevlor barked, jabbing a claw at him. “This woman saved your pathetic life.”
“Well, I didn't ask for any goddamn help,” said Aradin mockingly.
“Please. You were begging me to open the gate. Anything to save yourself, you coward!”
Aradin exhaled a contemptuous laugh. “Gods forbid you risk your precious tail. But I shouldn't be surprised.” He lowered his voice, leaning into Zevlor’s face to growl, “Foulbloods ain't known for courage.”
Zevlor had enough. He drew his left fist back, ready to deck the man, when a blur whizzed past his nose. The woman hauled off and coldcocked Aradin square in the jaw without warning, toppling him into the dirt. Zevlor blinked at Aradin’s unconscious form crumpled at his feet.
“You shut your mouth, you gobshite!” she hollered as Aradin fell. “Saying such awful things, how dare you!” She shook her fist, dancing around and wincing. “Ow! That hurts! Gods, his head must be full of rocks!”
“Are you all right?” Zevlor asked her, nearly at a loss for words.
“I tried to stop you two from fighting, yet I’m the one who ends up laying him out.” She flashed a painful smile at him. “Pretty funny, don’t you think? Ironic? Ah, damn, that’s probably broken, I think.” She sucked air through her teeth. “This is what I get for using fisticuffs instead of my big mouth.”
He extended his hands out to her. “Please, allow me.”
He gently enveloped her bruised and shaking hand between his, casting healing magic on her. Her eyes bore into his face, but he kept his own eyes on their hands.
He had spent so much time with other tieflings recently that he’d nearly forgotten how disturbing humans found him. He’d heard enough insults about his appearance over the course of his long life, especially from the likes of Aradin. His Infernal features were more pronounced than a lot of his kin’s – huge horns curling back over his head, high ridges starting on his cheekbones and down every inch of his body, and irises wreathed in hellish flames.
He didn’t want to be rude to the one who’d helped save the grove, and she’d have to get used to his hellish appearance eventually. Experience taught him it was always best to confront those who found him unsettling with good sense and cordiality. Any judgements they would form after that would be out of his hands.
He flicked his eyes to hers, resigned and ready to face her look of discomfort.
Her smile widened. “My gods, you’re beautiful. Your eyes are absolutely hypnotic.”
That was the last thing he expected her to say. His jaw dropped slightly, and his voice caught in his throat. He had never been called beautiful in his life.
Her cheeks flushed. “Oh, sorry! Listen to me, offering my unsolicited opinion of you, how rude of me. I’m pretty certain I hit my head out there, so please excuse anything I say.” She laughed nervously. “I didn’t mean any offense.” She inhaled deeply. “Maybe I should start by introducing myself like a normal person. I’m Tav.”
Zevlor wasn’t sure if it was because he hadn’t felt the touch of a woman in years, but now that he got a good look at her, he was taken aback at how lovely she was. Lovely, and rather out of place. She was on the short side, curvaceous, with expressive green eyes, long hair the color of honey, and dimpled cheeks. A battered lute hung, strapped to her back, and she had a rapier sheathed in a scabbard on her waist. She wore a fancy-looking scoop-necked dress, covered in scorch marks and tears and cinched with a corset. She was clearly unsuited for the dangers of the wilderness, looking more like she’d been plucked right from a village tavern. Where did this woman come from?
His face burned, but he put on a neutral smile that he hoped was welcoming. “No offense taken at all. Well met, I’m Zevlor.”
“Hi, Zevlor.” She dropped her eyes playfully, and he felt a squeeze on his hand. He looked down, mortified to see that he was still holding her hand, long after he’d healed her bruises.
He gently retracted himself. “Forgive me, I forgot myself.”
She only laughed, a wonderful sound like the peal of bells.
Eager to change the subject, he nodded to the instrument she carried and asked, “Are you a bard, by chance?”
“Indeed, I am! One moment I’m walking back to my hostel after finishing up a performance – a good one, I might add – and the next, I found myself here.”
He knotted his brow. How could she have found herself here, in the middle of nowhere? They were leagues from any hostels. But now wasn’t the time to pry, so he settled on friendly chatter. “We have a bard among us, Alfira. She’s around here, somewhere. Although, she’s rather elusive these days.”
“Really? I should find her, maybe play a duet sometime.”
Alfira wasn’t likely to want to speak to anyone, let alone play. Her teacher, Lihala, had been killed in the gnoll attack just before the refugees had reached the Emerald Grove. Poor Alfira had been beside herself with grief ever since.
Zevlor figured it was more pressing to let Tav know about the situation in the grove. “Thank you, for your help out there. But I'm afraid that's all the welcome we can give you. I should warn you; visitors are no longer welcome in this grove.”
He gave her a quick briefing, about Kagha and the druids, about Halsin, about the Rite of Thorns, about his people from Elturel and their exile.
“We can’t stay,” he said, summing it up, “but we’ll be slaughtered if we leave. We’re no fighters.”
She craned her neck to look around behind him at several refugees going about their business, and then turning to see the sentries on the wall. “A druid’s grove, huh? And here I’d thought it was some sort of…tiefling military camp.”
“Ha! If only,” he grumbled. “These are civilians. Myself and a scant few others are the only ones capable of fighting. And even then, we’re not enough to stand against hordes of goblins.”
Tav tapped her finger on her chin pensively. “There are druids here, that’s good. We’re in need of a healer. The comment about hitting my head was not entirely a jest.”
“If it’s not too serious, you could try Halsin’s apprentice, Nettie. She’s with the other druids, in the inner grove.”
Tav’s face suddenly brightened, and she nodded at him, excited. “I’ll see this Nettie, but how about I try to talk to these druids for you while I’m there? About this Rite of Thorns, or whatnot?”
Zevlor had been toying with the idea of asking her for this favor, even as he felt dirty for thinking it. Normally, he’d have never trusted a stranger to do this for him. But desperate times called for desperate measures. He knew none of the druids would ever hear him, or any of his kin, due to their prejudice. But if there were even the ghost of a chance that the druids might hear Tav, he had to take advantage of the opportunity.
“You would do this for us?” Zevlor asked her, trying to keep the worry out of his voice, with little success.
“Of course I would,” she said. “You lot can’t be forced out there. We just came from out there, and it’s not good. It would be a death sentence.”
A few of her companions, who had been taking in the sights behind her, began to grouse at her for agreeing to help him, but Tav turned on them furiously.
“Oh, hush! So much complaining, by the gods!” Tav turned back to Zevlor. “Being a leader is trying, is it not? Not that I asked for this, I’m just a bloody bard. Anyway, this grove is a fortified dwelling, right? It’s in our best interest to make it a safe place for everyone. We don’t want to be stuck out there, either.”
“Please,” said Zevlor, “make them see sense. Before more lives are lost.”
“I’ll certainly try.” She paused, and then said, “Something’s not right about this whole thing. You say this Archdruid, this Halsin, invited you all to stay here, and issues only started after he left?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say the druids were ever a friendly lot, but yes, all the trouble started when he left.”
She raised her hands up in a baffled shrug. “And this Kagha person, why her? Does she have some sort of personal grudge against you? Why suddenly do this? The old Archdruid hasn’t even been gone that long.”
“I wish I could tell you. I’d never seen hide nor hair of the woman before Halsin left. Any grudge between us is her doing, I assure you.” He sighed, looking down. “I don’t have any explanations, only problems to solve, and quickly.”
Tav leaned in closer to him, so close he could smell a faint hint of spiced vanilla wafting off her soft skin. Her eyes sparkled as she said, “If this were a stage play, this would be an obvious evil plot. Kagha needs Halsin out of the way, drips poison into his chalice, perhaps, and he mysteriously dies. The villainess takes his place. Don’t you think it’s all a bit too convenient?” Before he could answer, she stood up straight, saying, “Then again, you say he left on his own accord, so there goes the theory of a foul plot. Still, though. I want to see what’s really going on here.”
He considered letting Tav know about Arabella’s imprisonment, but decided that he didn’t want to inadvertently put the girl’s life in danger. If the Rite of Thorns could be stopped somehow, he’d figure out a way to liberate the child. As much as it pained him to do so, he had to think about the entire group of refugees weighed against one child, and the Rite would doom them all.
Before Tav left to see the druids, he said to her, “Thank you. For everything. Come see me in the caves, later.” After a beat, he added, “If you wish.”
Tav smiled, her eyes lingering on him. “I do wish, most definitely.”
Zevlor watched Tav disappear into the Hollow. She threw him one last, encouraging grin over her shoulder.
As he’d listened to her smooth, melodic voice, his shoulders had relaxed, the previously unnoticed tension flowing out. Her liveliness had washed over his tired spirit like a refreshing, cool stream, and the scent of her intoxicating perfume lingered in his nose. He inhaled deeply. Ever focused on his duties, he wasn’t one to be easily swayed by a comely face, but there was something special about Tav. This woman stirred something deep within him.
Perhaps she offered a feeling of normalcy. For a moment, he wasn’t a Commander, or an exile, or a leader of desperate refugees – only a man chatting to a charming stranger. Or maybe it was the novelty of speaking to someone completely new, in these unforgiving wilds. He’d been looking at the same faces for tendays now, hearing the same voices entreating him with same concerns. Or perhaps it was simply that she had offered to help him, slim though her chances might be. At any rate, he was grateful.
But now, he had other, less pleasant, matters to attend to. On the wind, he could hear the cries of people mourning Kanon up on the wall. He climbed the dirt path once more to see the unfortunate man, bristling with arrows and lying in a pool of his blood on the ground. His sister Arka bent over him, wailing onto his chest, while his friend, Memnos, and the archers, Rikka and Kaldani, looked on silently. Elegis had resumed watch duty, but gazed over sadly at her fallen friend.
Zevlor shut his eyes, his chest aching. Kanon, Arka and Memnos had been inseparable, and now, Kanon was dead, slain in the prime of his life, all because some goblin archers got lucky. How many more young, innocent people would he have to watch die?
Zevlor went to fetch Ikaron, and together, with Memnos helping, they dug the grave for Kanon as the sun dipped lower into the sky. Zevlor moved earth with his kin until his arms and shoulders burned, and raw blisters formed on his hands. Rikka and Kaldani had cleaned the body as best they could and wrapped it in a sheet. Arka, devastated, could only sob throughout.
When Kanon’s body was lowered into the ground and everyone started to shovel soil into the grave, Arka clung to Memnos’s tunic, begging them all not to put Kanon down there alone in the cold and dark. Then, her anguish turned to rage, and she ran off, with Memnos following.
It had been a heartbreaking scene, but Zevlor couldn’t shed a tear. He mourned for others, his soul weighed down with countless sorrows, but his own tears would never flow. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. Perhaps when Mother died, but that was nearly twenty years ago now.
Later, he was back in the cave, with Tilses wrapping his tender hands in bandages. They sat facing each other on the stone desk.
“Really, sir. You should have gotten me to help dig instead,” she griped. “I thought Commanders were supposed to delegate.”
“I told you. We’re civilians, now.”
“Yes, you keep saying that.” Tilses rolled her eyes. “Can’t you just heal this up?”
Zevlor sighed. “I’m afraid I’m out of energy for today. I do appreciate the assistance.”
Tilses jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “There’s a bunch of people out there who could probably heal you. Or we could get a potion.”
“Tilly, it’s fine. Don’t bother anyone else about it, I’ll be right as rain come morning. I just want to rest now, and have a moment of peace.”
As if to mock him, the stone door to the cave scraped open, and he let out a long groan, rising to his feet to prepare for yet another disaster requiring his attention.
But to his surprise, it was Tav, striding up the path in a huff. She wasn’t wearing the dress he’d met her in anymore, but a smart set of light armor. Without even greeting Zevlor or Tilses, she stopped in front of them, putting her hands on her hips. “We need to talk!”
Tilses shot up, standing between Tav and Zevlor. “I’m sorry, the Commander needs to rest. Visitors aren’t –”
Zevlor cut Tilses off, shaking his head. “It’s all right, Tilly. Tav is most welcome here.” He turned to Tav. “Any word on what we’d discussed?”
“Oh, I have a word, all right.” She was in high dudgeon. “And that word is arsehole. Those druids are absolutely horrible!”
“Yes, I know.” He couldn’t help the small smile on his lips; his amusement tinged with resignation. He reckoned, based on Tav’s mood, that she had been unsuccessful in persuading the druids to stop their ritual. He’d known it was a long shot. “Forgive me for subjecting you to their thorniness, but I greatly appreciate your efforts in trying, nonetheless.”
Tav closed the distance between them, wagging her pointer finger at him. “This is not over, not in the least, so don’t you worry. Those people are insane. At first, I didn’t understand all the fuss about this Rite of Thorns, but I wanted to help you, because the gods know I’m a damn fool for a dashing man with a sexy voice.”
Tilses cringed like she’d just sucked a lemon, her eyes bulging as she looked over at Zevlor, whose eyebrows nearly disappeared into his horns.
Tav barreled forward in her rant, not seeming to register what she’d said, nor their reactions. “So, I seek out this Kagha person to talk about it, and what do I find? She’s threatening a child with a venomous snake! She’s yelling at the poor thing, calling her a devil, blaming this terrified little girl for everything. I had to intervene.”
Zevlor’s stomach clenched. He almost dared not ask, but did anyway. “What happened? It didn’t bite her, did it?”
“No! I stopped the whole thing and convinced that awful woman to let her go.”
“What,” Zevlor breathed. “Kagha let her go? Truly?”
Tav smiled and nodded. “Yes. She’s with her parents now, although I think the little scamp is in some hot water with them. Better than what those druids had in store for her. Honestly!” Tav leaned into Zevlor and Tilses, dropping her voice, even though no one else was around except the three of them. “Kagha is fishy, I can tell you that much. I found some very interesting things poking around that inner grove. So don’t lose heart about the ritual, I’m working on it. But I had to take care of that little girl first.”
A wave of relief crashed over Zevlor. Arabella was safe, thank the gods. The Rite of Thorns still had to be dealt with, but he was glad for this victory. It was one less thing to keep him awake tonight.
“Thank you,” he said, “for protecting the child.”
“Of course,” said Tav. “I wouldn’t have done anything else. The nerve of those so-called druids. I’m no religious scholar but I’m pretty sure Silvanus would not approve. Ugh, I’m still upset about it.” She laughed. “I’m going back to my camp to drink a whole bottle of wine by myself tonight.”
He smiled and nodded favorably at her new gear. “I’m glad to see you’ve got some armor now. You’re going to need it around here.”
She smoothed the leather with her hands. “It’s nice, isn’t it? I bought it from that smith of yours, Dammon.”
Zevlor was a bit tickled that Tav thought of Dammon as his smith. “Ah, yes, he’s quite talented, especially for having very little to work with in this grove. We’re lucky to have him with us.”
She noticed his bandaged hands. “Oh, what’s this? Did you hurt yourself? Here.”
Without asking, she grabbed his wrapped hands, and he let her, slightly curling his fingers around hers. His red, clawed hands dwarfed her delicate ones. She muttered a healing word and the sting of his blisters receded. They held each other’s gaze for a moment.
“There,” said Tav softly. “Now we’re even from before.”
“Thank you, but you did me a favor first, knocking out that blowhard, Aradin. Healing you was the least I could do. You owed me nothing.”
“Well then! I suppose we’ll just have to keep doing favors for each other, won’t we?” She smiled again and gently released his hands. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yes?”
“I look forward to it.” Zevlor tried to keep the burgeoning affection out of his voice, but he was too exhausted and elated for that. “Rest well, Tav, and thank you again.”
Tilses watched Tav exit the cave. “What an odd woman she is. What do you make of her, sir?”
He also stared after Tav. “I’m not entirely sure. She seems…remarkably good-hearted. And very honest.”
“Very honest, clearly,” said Tilses. “Don’t tell me you’re smitten with her already?”
“Now, lieutenant,” he said, putting on a stern face.
“Lieutenant? I thought we were civilians, now.” She smirked. “I’ve never seen you act like that, Commander.”
He chuckled through closed lips. “What can I say, she’s quite charming. I’m not made of stone, Tilly. But you know me better than that. We have far more urgent matters to contend with.”
“If you say so,” said Tilses, in a sing-song voice.
“Well.” Zevlor cleared his throat, going back to the desk, and sitting on it pensively. “I do think Tav and her companions could be valuable allies. Perhaps even friends. Time will tell.”
“Gods, I hope so. We could use some real friends in these times, couldn’t we?” She stretched her arms over her head, her tail lashing side to side. “Well, I’m knackered. I’m going to turn in. Goodnight, sir.”
“Goodnight, Tilly.”