Spoils of War

[Author's Note: Well, at long last here it is. The plot comes to fruition. When I started this story I'd only ever intended to write the first part and leave it at that. But your reviews, your praise, compelled me to write more. Never underestimate the power of your words. I may craft an epilog for this tale in a while. Please feel free to leave comments or email me your feedback. It truly means the world to me.]

*

The festival is over, though the night is still young. We men-folk are ordered back to our respective homes while the Elvaran convene to discuss what has happened. I sit alone by the fire in the home I share with Keira, tending the burning coals as time wears on. I can't get the image out of my head, the image of that poor girl lying sprawled on the dirt. I remember the time I held her to cheer her up after she'd fallen at play. I recall watching her and her friends play together; she was always so full of energy and spirit. And now she is dead, bled out on the soil. Such a cruel way to go.

I can't keep the thought of Magnus from my mind either. He was not seen at the murder site, but I don't recall seeing him at the festival either. He'd spoken with Luke of rebellion, of knives in the dark. Was this what he meant? Killing innocent children, how was that rebellion?! How was that anything other than pure evil? I can't honestly say I know Magnus well enough to know whether or not he's capable of such a thing.

"Sven?"

A voice at the door startles me and I wheel around. Keira is standing in the doorway, framed by darkness, her face unclear in the flickering light cast by our hearth fire. Beside her, standing slightly behind her, I can barely discern Alania and Alma. Keira steps inside and I get a clearer look at her face; she is distraught.

"What's going on?" I ask, rising to comfort Keira.

She pushes me away gently but with enough force to startle me.

"They think you had something to do with the murder." Keira says, her voice cracking with a sob.

My heart nearly stops. I stare at Alma and Alania in confusion and shock. How could they think this?

"Distracting everyone with your songs." Alma growls. "Very clever. While your accomplice slew my niece. She was the last memory I had of my family, you know? Her mother died in childbirth."

I try to stand straight, to look her in the eyes, but my confidence wavers at the rage I see in her.

"Alma, I consoled her when she was hurt," I insist, "I guarded her at play for the past several days. Why would I hurt her?!"

A flicker of doubt appears on her face for just a moment. A moment wherein she looks more human, not like the cold warrior facade she always wears. In that instant I see sadness, fear, and a burning desire for retribution. But the moment passes.

"That's why you did not hold the knife, but held our attention instead." she growls.

Alania, who'd hitherto remained silent at last speaks.

"Sven," she calmly addresses me, "there is some doubt as to your guilt. This is why you still live."

I nod approvingly. Their chieftain doubts my guilt, perhaps this will prove beneficial.

"But if you are guilty," Alania adds, "we must have your accomplice named. You will spend one night in the House of Penance, with Alma exacting your punishment. Come sunrise you will have the chance to name your accomplice."

My legs go weak at the mention of that awful house of torment. That house that drove Magnus to hate the Elvaran, that reduced him to pleas for mercy as he was dragged inside. I cannot speak, can barely draw breath.

"I have no accomplice, I've done nothing!" I shout at last, backing up in a panic. "I would never murder anyone, I didn't even fight the Elvaran raiders in my hometown."

"A liar and a coward." Alma sneers.

I move to Keira's side, holding tight to her hand, pleading with her to protect me. But the hierarchy of Elvaran authority trumps her love for me. Not meeting my longing gaze, she hands me over to Alma, who locks my wrist in her iron grasp and silently hauls me from the room. As I leave, I swear I can hear Keira weeping and Alania comforting her. But perhaps I am only imagining things, hoping for some show of emotion from these typically stoic women.

A bleak, all-consuming fear wells up within me. My heart feels like a pulsating void, throbbing with an emptiness that spreads throughout my body like ice. Only when we pass beyond the city walls and I see the shape of the House of Penance outlined against the starry sky do I begin to panic. I start to struggle with Alma, trying to pull away, to run into the night, but to little avail.

"Please," I beg, "I've done nothing, I swear by the Gods."

"There are no Gods here!" she roars with wrath. "Only Goddesses who will judge you for what you've done!"

I let out a terrified yelp as I'm pulled sharply into the building, the door shut and locked behind us. A single torch illuminates the room, casting an unsteady glow on to the windowless walls. In that glow I behold the instruments of my torment. Many I cannot identify or even guess at their purpose. I see a chair and a long, narrow bench with shackles on its four legs. Another pair of shackles hangs from the ceiling, well above the ground. On the walls hang whips, brands, serrated metal tongues, a small hammer, gloves whose palms are lined with sharp iron studs, wickedly shaped knives, screws, cylindrical metal rods, and a wealth of other horrific tools.

"Strip." Alma snaps.

I strip down hesitantly, compelled to cooperate only by the feeble hope that my cooperation will spark some kindness in her. Soon I am wearing nothing but my leather collar. Much as I initially disliked it, I am now grateful for the simple leather band, which now serves as my only link to Keira, to the world outside this little Hell.

"Lay down!" Alma commands.

I tentatively lay down on my back upon the narrow bench. My ankles and wrists are shackled to the legs of the bench, leaving me vulnerable and petrified with fright. I do not want to cry, to weep like a broken man when no torture has yet been dealt. Yet the very ambiance of this place is maddening.

"At dawn, you will tell all." Alma informs me while she inspects the tools on the wall. "Or you will be returned here, to die."

She moves to the wall and selects a tool, then turns and displays the item to me. I truly cannot ascertain its purpose simply by looking at it. Alma holds it by two wooden handles, but its body is made of metal. The tool vaguely resembles a set of jaws with flat, blunted teeth. Alma squeezes the handles and the jaws shut with a metal clang. When she releases her grip, the jaws come open again.

"W-what is that for?" I ask, my voice shaking.

Alma steps closer to me, looming over me like the shadow of imminent death. But no, I will not die here, I cannot die here, not yet, Alania has forbidden it.

"There are fates worse than death." Alma growls, as if having read my mind. "Do tell me though, have you recovered from the last time I punished you?"

I recall her prior punishment, the vicious strikes to my most sensitive region. The smirk on her face shows me that she too is reflecting on that cruel act of retribution.

"Let us revisit that pain." she purrs, snapping the metal jaws together repeatedly as they move toward me.

I scream as I've never screamed before, and the night has only just begun...

At dawn the door comes open, letting light flow into the dismal room. Alma strides from the room, leaving me crumpled on the floor, unable to stand. I have, in so short a time as one night, become familiar with every wicked tool in this arsenal of agony. My mind is a haze of lingering pain, my throat is raw from screaming. My every breath brings the taste of blood into my mouth. My tongue slides across my lips and I taste more blood.

"Sven!" comes an exclamation from beyond the door.

My eyes are nearly swollen shut, but I can just discern Keira hurrying into the room to collect me. She looks around the room and a bitter cry escapes her lips, a cry like that of a mother bear whose young are suffering beyond her reach. Carefully she scoops me into her arms, but even this gentle gesture causes pain to shoot through me. I moan incoherently as I'm carried back in to town.

"You will be okay." she tries to soothe. "I will take care of you, little one."

But I am not taken home. Instead I am carried to the town square, which has been restored to its normal status, and I am made to sit in a high seat which has been placed before a crowd. I feel near death, beaten and tortured and naked, actually yearning for some sort of release.

"Sven," comes Alania's voice, "on pain of death, tell us who murdered that girl as you held our attention with song."

I try once to speak but nothing comes out. I try again but my throat is so dry I can barely talk above a whisper. Every word scratches like my throat is lined with nails. The crowd presses closer to listen.

"If you've decided I'm guilty," I rasp, "then kill me already. I will never admit to something I did not do, and I would never aid in the harm of anyone, particularly a child. I sang for you, songs from my homeland, that is all I've done, with no ulterior motive. If killing me for that will please you, appease your need for vengeance, then be done with it already."

There is a total silence amongst the Elvaran. Perhaps I've just doomed myself. But at this point I hardly care. Just one night and I'm willing to throw away my life to make the pain stop. At long last, Alania speaks up.

"He is guilty of no crimes," she calls to the crowd, "he played only an inadvertent role in this whole ordeal. Fear of death should have driven him to name an accomplice, even falsely. Yet in the face of demise or torture, he holds to his innocence."

"I am loathe to admit it," Alma mutters angrily, "but he would name no one even when I dealt him the harshest tortures. Even the Rod of Infiltration only brought forth pleas for mercy and claims of innocence, not so much as one admission of guilt, even to spare himself the misery."

There is a collective murmur of ascent from the crowd. Keira steps forward to help me out of my chair. But Alania steps up to me before I can be carried away.

"Little Sven," she whispers, "I am sorry for your suffering. The tribe sought vengeance, this was all I could do. I am sorry it fell upon you."

With that she returns to her subjects to arrange a funeral for the fallen Elvaran child. Keira carries me back to our home and lays me on the bed. Her eyes are full of tears as she examines my various burns, bruises, welts, scars, and lacerations. She washes me gently, weeping silently all the while.

"My little treasure is broken." she cries quietly, her voice quivering. "My little angel."

"I'm n-not broken." I stutter. "I'm still alive."

Keira winces at the sound of my voice, raspy and weak as it is. Not my usual tone nor the resonance from last night's songs. I seem to have only affirmed her claims; I am broken.

"I let them take you." she moans piteously. "I let them do this to my love."

I try to reach a hand up to comfort her, but my arm doesn't want to move. My shoulders burn, throbbing from having been forced into an awkward angle for much of the past night. Keira gently presses my hand down, stilling my effort to raise it.

"Can you ever forgive me?" she asks, pain heavy in her words.

I cannot nod in agreement, as pain limits my movement. Yet it also hurts to speak, but I try nonetheless.

"Keira," I rasp, "this is the way of your people. I don't blame you, my mistress."

"It is wrong." she admits in a whisper. "This is wrong, reducing you to this agonized state. I cannot abide it."

Now I am perplexed. She is speaking against her culture, her very way of life, all for love of me.

"Do not turn against your folk." I urge her.

"I won't, dearest Sven," she assures me, "but I can't let this ever be done again."

"What will you do?" I ask.

She has no response for this, not yet. Instead she goes to get some food, to see if I can eat. My throat hurts, but I manage to eat a small meal and drink plenty of water. Keira feeds me, despite my efforts to try and feed myself. It feels nice to be cared for by her. It is reassuring. In the midst of my torture, I did begin to harbor a resentment for her letting them take me away, but I see now the sorrow it caused her, the emotional pain. I cannot hate Keira. Even Alma, in her own, distressing way, was only trying to seek justice for the murder of her sister's child. Her anger was ill placed, but the feeling is entirely justifiable.

My recovery, at least from the most grievous of injuries, will take time. But I'm soon able to stand up shakily, and can sit upright with negligible pain. Keira excuses me from all chores, and instead tends to me regularly. Meanwhile, the body of the murdered Elvaran is buried in a nice plot of land by the lake. A memorial service will be held, and in a show of good will, I've been asked to sing at this tribal gathering. I must say the irony is palpable, but I'm overjoyed to prove my good intentions and to be a part of this child's memorial.

Due to the nature of this death, that of a child, a special service will be held, consisting of two parts. In the first part, the village children will be kept back, watched over by Luke and Roland at a large hall I'd not yet visited. This would be a time for the adults to grieve and speak at length to the Goddesses and pray for the safety of the child's soul. Then the adults will draw back, save for a few to help guide the children as they mourn the loss of their friend and speak as they will to honor her memory. It is a beautiful concept, I think, and I'm happy to be a part of it.

In the time before the ceremony I try my best to think of a song that would suit the occasion. Nothing comes to mind, no matter how long I think on it. Keira tries to help while she tends to my still-recovering wounds, but most Elvaran songs are about fighting, drinking, love making, or unnerving combinations of those activities. Not appropriate for this solemn occasion, though Keira does manage to make me laugh with her beautiful voice singing those raucous tunes. Ultimately, I decide I will write a song before the ceremony and sing it for the funeral service.

The day of the service comes quickly. I can walk comfortably, though I'm still very weak and quite unsteady. My throat has recovered from the damaging effects of my tortured screams, and I'm ready to sing. As Keira walks with me to the lake side, I notice many Elvaran eyeing my visible scars and bruises with pity in their eyes. It warms my heart to know they don't distrust me, that they sympathize with me for the swift, irrational judgment that was so hastily heaped upon me. Every time I'm granted a new reason to despise this society, it's people manage to change my mind. Though a bit of bitterness does still remain in my heart over the horrific tortures I endured. I can't blame Alma for mourning her sister's child, but her actions toward me were unfounded and sadistic at best.

"Are you hurting?" Keira asks, worry in her tone.

"I'm still sore." I admit. "The welts on my back are still very tender, but I am okay. Thank you, Keira."

We arrive at the gathering where Elvaran and men stand in relative quiet, some of them weeping quietly. To my astonishment, Alma kneels beside the grave, weeping openly. I can understand her sadness, but it is so jarring for me to see that cold-hearted woman reduced to sobbing uncontrollably. Though I may be repulsed by her wrathful temper, I feel compelled to embrace her, but I quell this compulsion and take my place before the gathered mourners. The group's eyes come to rest on me, even Alma looks up from the grave, her eyes brimming with tears. I take a deep breath, and I sing...

"In the harshest of lands, a flower may grow, and the sun will nurse it to life. Even when it stands alone, it shall be guarded from strife. Rain will quench its endless thirst, the winds will join it at slay. The flower will grow and spread its petals wide, to greet each coming day."

As I sing, the crowd falls entirely silent, even the weeping quieted. Pride surges through me; they like my song, my voice, my words of praise for the fallen child. Alma stares at me, and I see recognition in that stare. Her every thought about my guilt has been put to rest. She can hear the love in my voice, the compassion for this tragic loss.

"But a tempest may brow," I sing, "and it's winds may be too strong. The flower will hold fast to its roots, but it cannot hold for long. The land around may feel despair, at the beauty now gone away. But may they always remember how she spread her petals to greet each coming day."

I scan the faces of the mourners while my voice echoes across the small lake. I see many Elvaran I've seen before, and men as well. Luke and Roland are off guarding the young ones, keeping them company and explaining to them the upcoming service. It is then that a sudden realization hits me and my voice catches in my throat.

"Magnus!" I exclaim. "He is not here!"

Alma looks confused, then angry at my outburst.

"What are you talking about, male?" she demands.

"Magnus!" I cry, already making my way toward the crowd. "He wasn't at the festival with us all when this poor child was slain alone in the night, and he's not here now, while the young ones are separated from us."

The looks of horror and realization that sweep across the gathered folk coincide perfectly with the awful sound of children screaming in fear, a sound which rips through the air like a cold steel blade. The Elvaran come to life in an instant, charging toward the hall where the children are waiting. Many of the warrior women shout savage cries, others call out the names of their young. It is a frenzy of panic, a frenzy I've caused. I can only hope Magnus has been held back by Luke and Roland. But he is strong and fueled by blinding hatred. A man may be driven to far greater feats when blind passion burns in his heart. But perhaps it is not Magnus, perhaps something else has happened. Please Gods, let that be the case. Let my fears not be realized.

I am lagging behind the pack, slowed by my injuries and out-paced by the natural physical superiority of the Elvaran. Keira, seeing my struggling, sweeps me into her arms and continues in her swift stride. We come into the town square and all of us freeze. The hall, situated just left of the queen's abode, is still in tact. Inside, the children are now silent, stricken with fear. We can see them through the open door. And in that door stands Magnus, two torches in his hands and a wild gleam in his eyes.

"Come no closer," Luke bellows from deep inside the hall, "he's doused the outer walls in lamp oil!"

"He'll kill all of the young ones!" Roland frantically adds, also at the back of the hall.

The Elvaran mob stops short and Keira sets me on my feet. I must marvel at Magnus' clever plan. A wooden hall is already flammable, but with the added fuel of lamp oil it will burn hot and at length. How swiftly must he have moved to create a trail of oil around the hall? I'm impressed and horrified.

"You wretched dog!" screams an Elvaran, possibly Magnus' mistress. "How dare you act in such a way? How dare you endanger our young? I've been nothing but kind to you whilst you were in my keep!"

Magnus eyes this woman, who I'm now certain is his mistress, and there is a venomous glare in his eyes. He laughs harshly, a sound devoid of even the most remote shreds of mirth.

"I was a warrior!" he roars, eyes darting about the crowd, watching us all. "I fought with valor, pride, and for great glory. Then in an instant, all of this was stolen away from me! My men were slain and I was taken, abused like some toy in the hands of you savages. You think you were kind to me?"