“It was back when the elves ruled us. Over the years, the elves had grown soft in their occupation of our land.” Hugh gazed at the smoke curling upward into the darkness. “Elves consider humans to be little better than animals, and so they underrate us. In many ways, of course, they’re right, and so you can hardly blame them for continuing to make what seems to be the same mistake over and over.
“The Uylandia Cluster, at the time they ruled it, was divided into bits and pieces, each small bit ruled nominally by a human lord and in actuality by an elven overlord. The elves never had to work to keep the clans from uniting—the clans did that quite well themselves,”
“I’ve often wondered why the elves didn’t demand that we destroy our weapons, as was done in centuries past?” interjected Alfred.
Hugh, puffing on the pipe, grinned. “Why bother? It was to their advantage to keep us armed. We used our weapons on each other, saving the elves a lot of trouble.
“The plan worked, so well, in fact, that the elves shut themselves up in their fine castles, never bothering to open a window and take a good look at what was really transpiring around them. I know, for I used to hear their talk.”
“You did!” Bane sat forward, blue eyes glittering. “How? How did you come to know so much about elves?”
The ash glowed red in the pipe, then dimmed and faded. Hugh ignored the question.
“When Stephen and Anne managed to unite the clans, the elves finally opened their windows. In flew arrows and spears, and humans with swords scaled their walls. The uprising was swift and well-planned. By the time word reached the Tribus Empire, most of the elven overlords had been killed or driven from their homes. The elves retaliated. They assembled their fleet—the greatest ever seen in this world—and sailed for Uylandia. Hundreds of thousands of trained elven warriors and their sorcerers faced a few thousand humans—without our most powerful wizards, for by then the mysteriarchs had fled. Our people never stood a chance. Hundreds were slaughtered. More taken prisoner. King Stephen was captured alive—”
“It was not his wish!” cried Alfred, stung by the sardonic tone in Hugh’s voice.
The pipe gleamed and dimmed. The Hand said nothing; Alfred was goaded by the silence into continuing talking, when he had never meant to speak. “The elven prince Reesh’ahn had marked Stephen out and ordered his men to take the king unharmed. Stephen’s lords fell at his side, defending him. And even when he stood alone, he fought on. They say there was a ring of dead around him, for the elves dared not disobey their ruler, and yet none could get close enough to take him without being killed. Finally they rushed him en masse, bore him to the ground, and disarmed him. Stephen fought bravely, as bravely as any of them.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” said the Hand. “All I know is that the army surrendered—”
Shocked, Bane turned to face him. “You must be mistaken, Sir Hugh! Our army won the Battle of Seven Fields!”
“Our army won?” Hugh raised an eyebrow. “No, it wasn’t the army who won. It was one woman who beat the elves—a minstrel called Ravenlark, for, they said, her skin was black as a raven’s feathers and her voice was like that of a lark singing to welcome the dawn. Her lord had brought her to sing his victory, I suppose, but she ended up chanting his death song. She was captured and taken prisoner like the rest of the humans. They were herded together on a road that ran through the Seven Fields, a road littered with the bodies of the dead, wet with their blood. They were a pitiful lot, for they knew the fate that awaited them—slavery. Envying those who had died, they stood with heads bowed and shoulders slumped.
“And then the minstrel began to sing. It was an old song, one everyone remembers from childhood.”
“I know it!” Bane cried eagerly. “I’ve heard this part.”
“Sing it, then,” said Alfred, smiling at the boy, pleased to see him happy again.
“It’s called ‘Hand of Flame.’” The boy’s voice rose shrill and slightly off-key but enthusiastic:
“My nurse taught it to me when I was little. But she couldn’t tell me what the words meant. Do you know, Sir Hugh?”
“I doubt if anyone does now. The tune stirs the heart. Ravenlark began to sing it, and soon the prisoners lifted their heads proudly, their backs stiffened. They lined up into formation, determined to walk to slavery or death with dignity.”
“I’ve heard it said the song is elvish in origin,” murmured Alfred. “And dates back to before the Sundering.”
Hugh shrugged, uninterested. “Who knows? All anyone cares about is that it has an effect on elves. From the sound of the first few notes, the elves stood transfixed, staring straight ahead. They looked like men in a dream, except that their eyes moved. Some claimed they were ‘seeing pictures.’” Bane flushed, his hand tightly grasping the feather.
“The prisoners, noticing this, kept on singing. The minstrel knew the words to all the verses. Most of the prisoners were lost after the first, but they kept up the tune and joined in strong on the chorus. The elves’ weapons fell from their hands. Prince Reesh’ahn sank to his knees and began to weep. And, at Stephen’s command, the prisoners marched away as fast as their feet could carry them.”
“It was to His Majesty’s credit that he didn’t order a helpless enemy slaughtered,” said Alfred.
The Hand snorted. “For all the king knew, a sword in the throat might have broken the spell. Our men were beaten. They wanted only to get out of there. The king had it in his mind, so I’ve been told, to fall back on one of the nearby castles and regroup and strike again. But it wasn’t necessary. When the elves came to their senses, the king’s spies reported that they were like men awakened from a beautiful dream who long to go back to sleep. They left their weapons and their dead where they lay and returned to their ships. Once there, they freed their human slaves and limped home.”
“The beginning of the elven revolution.”
“Supposedly so.” Hugh dragged slowly on the pipe. “The elf king proclaimed his son, Prince Reesh’ahn, a disgrace and an outlaw and drove him into exile. Reesh’ahn’s now stirring up trouble throughout Aristagon. There’ve been attempts made to capture him, but each time he’s slipped through their fingers.”
“And with him, they say, travels the minstrel woman, who—according to legend—was so moved by the prince’s sorrow that she chose to follow him,” added Alfred softly. “Together they sing the song, and wherever they go, they find more followers.” Leaning back, he misjudged the distance between himself and the tree trunk and whanged himself on the head.
Bane giggled, then clapped his hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry, Alfred,” he said contritely. “I didn’t mean to laugh. Are you hurt?”
“No, Your Highness,” Alfred said with a sigh. “Thank you for asking. Now, Your Highness, you should be going to sleep. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
“Yes, Alfred.” Bane ran to get his blanket from his pack. “If it’s all right, I’m going to sleep here tonight,” he said. Looking up at Hugh shyly, he spread his blanket out next to the assassin’s.
Hugh rose abruptly to his feet and walked over to the fire. Knocking the bowl of the pipe against his hand, he scattered the ashes. “Rebellion.” He stared into the flames, keeping his eyes averted from the child. “Ten years have passed and the Tribus Empire is as strong as ever. Their prince lives like a hunted wolf in the caves of the Kirikai Outlands.”