Anima et Forma

Episode 17: The Exchange

The Dwarves are no more friends to men than men are to other men. Long have they played favorites with this kingdom or that, sending money and arms to further their aims. Why should we trust their mistrust? Why should we fuel their hatred with our own?

Elves are a gentle breed. They revere culture and traditions. They pay homage to their friends and pay respect to their enemies. The dwarves laugh at our king, our nation, our God. They worship the old gods and the pagan past. They extort friend and foe alike. Why does the Meek King, Edward, kneel before those who are half his size? Why has he thrown our lot in with the dwarves, who harbor no love for us or any nation of men?

I know why. The dwarves possess a power capable of bending any man to their will–money. King Edward fears the count of his bankers more than he fears the judgment of our High God. And how will He judge such a man? How will he judge those who follow such a coward? The Pendragon lineage does not belong on the throne. The Deloriar Kings of old never lowered themselves to the stature of our dwarven extortionists. They were Gods amongst men, and the dwarves shrank before their wrath. The plight of our nation will not end until the rightful King is returned to His throne.

–An unknown Delorian sympathizer addressing the court of King Edward Pendragon II through an anonymous letter written in the year 1415 A.D.

"Abbot Herman is at odds with the Imperial Exemplar?" Ardwin inquired. They trodded a narrow alley, an arm's length apart. Ardwin eyed the hilt of Ninathril, a black gem bound within the folds of his magical robe. Dressed in a workman's trousers and vest, Murph cradled the bundle of blades in his arms. Ardwin fought the urge to take them back. If I show up armed to the teeth, they'll kill the others.

"I don't blame him," Murph spoke over his shoulder. "The Exemplar is too timid. You can't win a war if you're unwilling to fight. You know that."

"You intend to see Herman take his place, I presume?" Ardwin questioned.

"The entire Holy Order would like to see Herman replace Walter," Murph assured. "It will happen in due time. I hope we can keep pressing the western front until Herman takes his place, but morale is wavering. The Duke wants to consolidate his winnings and make peace with the pagans. Peace!" Murphy stopped, shooting a hateful glance at Ardwin. "After all these years, the Duke wants to give up the cause."

"He never fought for your cause," Ardwin said.

Murph snorted as he laughed. "Our cause. We started the war–you and I. And won more victories as children than any man since." He shook his head, then continued leading Ardwin through a series of alleys and side streets. They passed through a busy market, then joined a river of bodies on the main road, a straight shot to the city's center. Hammers sang their busy songs: smiths shaping metal, carpenters knocking nails, and artificers setting bolts in large wooden war engines. "I know why you left," Murph whispered as they floated along the traffic flow. "I get it."

"Then why are you standing in my way?" Ardwin asked. And where are you keeping the Mysterium? Do you even have them? This ordeal is too straightforward. I can't trust anything you say.

"I'm not a noble bastard or a rich man's son," Murph said. "This is the life I was given, and I have more than most–respect and authority. The life of a priest isn't much different from any other profession, really. You do as your betters tell you to and get rewarded for your results."

And Abbot Herman promised you the world, didn't he? Ardwin chuckled. "We both know that's not true. Poor Bulge is still shoveling shite in Alexandria."