Edlund had noticed the day grow ever so warmer than hours before. Surely the battle had not ended so quickly. They had planned a five-day excursion by the enemy in order to encircle them completely. But as the day slowly ended and the dusk settled itself upon the land, on the horizon, they could see a steady trickle of injured men and cavalry making their way back to Erusland proper. Elena had alerted him to it, as they were expecting reports of the station that General Gabbes was meant to build on the road. As he looked closer, he could see that perhaps a third of their forces were among them, either on horses or carrying half-dead comrades in their arms. Edlund immediately gave the order to secure their return as Elena took a small group on horseback to ensure they were not being followed. Fortunately, this did not seem to be the case as the skies seemed clear of any dragons. As the heavy doors reinforced by iron bracers were dragged open, it was a macabre scene of men sporting all sorts of injuries, their armor was torn and slashed through, entire limbs or sections of their bodies frostbitten, and evidence of something obviously going horribly wrong. And the one leading them all was Gray, holding his runic weapon in one hand and holding a half-dead Gabbes slumped over his shoulder. Edlund couldn't believe his eyes as men immediately took the burden from Gray and laid him on a stretcher. Edlund immediately ran to see what the damage was to him.
"What happened?" he whispered, too low for Gray to hear. So he said again, louder. "What happened?"
"He . . ." Gray tried his best to remain conscious. Unfortunately, he drained a lot of his ability on the battlefield and getting here. "He saved my life. Fought two dragons single-handedly and gave us the chance to escape. I'm sorry . . ."
"Is he . . . dead?" the words were the most demanding things he could ever utter. The entire left half of Gabbes' armor was torn to shreds, the plate had fallen off, and the underlying chainmail was in ruins leaving bare skin purple and black from the intense frostbite that had taken hold. But as one of the medics placed a hand on his wrist, they let out a small breath of relief.
"He is alive, my lord," the medic said. "Though in critical condition. If he weren't a knight, he'd be dead by now. We need to get him somewhere warm so we can operate."
"Take him to the medic bay in our camp," said the chief medic. Edlund attempted to follow, but the man immediately stopped him with a stern hand. "We shall take care of this, my lord. He is in bad shape, but we'll be able to save him. Just stand clear."
Edlund reluctantly did as told, watching as they covered him in thick furs before rushing him out of sight to the medic ward they had stationed and ready. Other medical staff rushed in as well, taking care of the worst cases, taking them to the medic ward while treating the least offensive wounds where they could. Despite the look, from what is described, it seemed to have been a victory, a victory in the loss of definitions. They have effectively warded off the Zethan's initial attempt to encircle them from the east. Reports had come in from Renard's own encounter. Apparently, his battle went much smoother, as it seemed the Zethans had used much of their reserves to punch through the east instead. Now, they stand half encircles, with only the south being safe from the coming Zethan invasion that will inevitably come. Any further west and they will encounter the Silondras mountain range. Any further West, and they will meet the mountains that marked the most northern boundary of the outlands. Though the situation seemed so dire now, this day scored a small victory for the denizens of Erusland.
The Boreans saw aside, watching as Thirian soldiers were taken in to be treated. They recognized the damage done being from a Zethan sorcerer. Thyra and Njal immediately looked for either Edlund or his knights to understand what had occurred in this skirmish and what all this meant. But Thyra stopped once she saw Edlund. He was still standing there, motionless, allowing others to move around him as he watched men come in, like a statue. Thyra came to his side and lightly touched his arm. He barely responded to the contact at all. But before she could ask him what was wrong, he spoke first.'
Edlund took a deep breath as if the words were hard to say. "They . . . they encountered some Hyperboreans out there. We have taken the position so . . . we'll secure it in a few days."
"Is everything alright?" Njal asked him. Thyra didn't recognize the emotion on Edlund's face, it was unlike anything he appeared to be capable of, and his lack of an answer to Njal's question only compounded her worries."
There was a bit of commotion coming from the gates at that moment. It seemed that a large bulk of forces, most likely a portion of those unscathed and left to secure the checkpoint, had returned on horseback. Some men who took notice approached, and it seemed a rather heated debate was going on regarding a prisoner they had managed to capture during the battle. At first, Thyra thought it to be one of the hyperboreans or a noticeable lord of some kind. But then, as some of their own villagers came closer to witness him, they too became outraged as well, even some picking up stones to lob at the man while the Thirians held up shields to prevent anything too fatal. The first looked moderately injured, with not too many bad cuts, just some bruises from a good height that looked like a nasty fall. He wore robes and adornments that marked him as vice-chief on the battlefield. The other was the one who attracted the most scorn. He wore layered deep blue and black robes inscribed with silver filigree, symbolizing luxury and high birth. His skin was indeed quite dark blue or violet. And once Thyra got a good look at who it was, she too was frozen alongside Edlund. Njal stepped forward protectively before his sister as the men led the Hyperborean to them. They recognized him; he was Fell, the brother of the woman who killed their father. And more than likely, the one who led this brutal march that had caused all this.
Before anyone could stop him, Edlund marched past them all, grabbed the Hyperborean, and dragged him crashing into the muddy ground. It took several men to stop him from smashing his face inward, and Dagmyre himself had to restrain the prince in order to allow the soldiers to quickly escort the Zethan ambassador to a proper holding place.
"Let go of me!" Edlund managed to shrug off Dagmyre's grasp.
"With all due respect, sir," Dare said. "Can you stop acting like a bloody child for just a moment and think."
"I don't want to hear it," Edlund said, borderline furious and deadset. He attempted to move past Dagmyre, but he pushed back, able to at least halt Edlund in his tracks. Elena took notice of the situation and placed herself between the two before anything more could come from it.
"What are you planning to do exactly?" she asked Edlund.
Edlund let out a slow sigh as he tried to come off as wholly rational. "He's one of those ambassadors who killed their father. And now they . . . "
"Gabbes knew full well what may have occurred if he took this mission," Dagmyre told him sharply. "We all did. But we can't go around getting our vengeance however we feel it justified."
"So what?" he asked incredulously. "We are just gonna leave him be?"
"He's leverage," Elena advised. "He's one of the most influential and important leaders in their whole Volkf. Once they realize that he is in our custody, we can set the terms as we see fit. We may even be able to sway their siege at least until Lord Aurelius can come back and deal with them. I know you are angry, we all are, but you have to be the better man in this deal, Edlund."
"Sir Edlund," Thyra appeared once more, taking his arm. "I understand your anger. But Ms. Rosenwald is right. I, too, wish for him to be brought to our justice. But we must be patient."
Edlund's hardened expression slowly melted by their words, and he let his balled fists fall to his side as he submitted to an acceptable reason. But they could tell that his anger was not entirely quelled. "Withhold food and water from him till we meet with him. After that, you can fix up his major injuries, but no more, understood?"
Elena nodded. "Very well, my prince."
"Dagmyre can go with Gray to secure our foothold on those hills," Edlund said. "Hope that isn't a problem for you two?"
Dagmyre smirked, then nodded, moving to Gray to pick him up where he had been observing the entire scene. "Get off your arse. We got work to do."
Gray grimaced through the pain. "Oh, don't make me go back out there."
"Relax, you'll be patched up enough by the morning," Elena told him, then looked back to Edlund. "We must prepare our terms and send a messenger to them of the circumstances. This could be big for us; let us hope they will cooperate as well."
(X)
Fell awoke in a small dingy cell somewhere. It appeared to have been dug underground; the cell doors above him, about eight feet off the floor, informed him why his side was aching. The whole thing seemed haphazardly put together in fact. With a powerful enough spell, he could probably blow it open quite easily. But as he tried to stand, only then did, he see the issue. The pain that was dull before roared. He touched the bandages wrapped around his upper chest and shoulder. It was coming back to him now. Thorfin and he had set off on their steeds to make sure that the push to the east was going as intended. The western inspiration wasn't as important; there was little hope of any aid coming from the mountains unless the Thirians themselves learned to tame dragons. Their Thirians who could fly wouldn't be able to withstand the cold if they tried. But they were wary of leaving the east unattended because they lost track of the relatively large force that had laid siege to them. Who knew that those fools would actually fight so hard to stop them? He couldn't believe his eyes to see their armies so readily repelled by their gunpowder canons. He thought, at least, if they could kill those knights, the fight would have at least been worth it. Then one of them took down Thorfin's dragon. He didn't see where Thorfin went. And then . . .
"Curse their blood," he whispered. He didn't want to think about what happened to Vetralko after he fell off of him. He checked his person. They took the talisman he used to amplify his spells as he thought. Not that he was in shape to do anything at this point. It looks like they tended to the most egregious wounds. If they didn't, he's sure he would have bled out by now. The fact that he was alive worried him, however. Boreans never take prisoners; it was seen as an insult to the warriors to deny one's death on the battlefield. Perhaps that was why they did so, to humiliate himself further. And he is sure that the traitors of Marza will relish in his abuse here. The other option was that they needed him for something. Hopefully, they won't treat him too harshly if he plays his cards right. The same can't be said for the other prisoners they may have also captured. That being said, they will do anything to make his sister call off this siege. And he knows his sister far too well to know she'll never do such a thing, even if it meant his life.
He sighed. Indeed this will disgrace the name of his ancestors already. To not have died on the battlefield, to become a prisoner to the southern enemy. At the behest of the Marzan traitors. And they possibly have lost at least one of their dragons. How much more will they have to endure?
"Are you awake?" A whisper suddenly came from above.
He looked up. It was nighttime at this hour, and his cell was pointed straight up, so he couldn't see anything but the sky. But by the accent, he could tell it was one of his brethren. "Who calls to me?"
"It's . . . " the whispering voice hesitated as if considering. "Will you spare the people of Morenia if Erusland falls?"
Fell frowned. Typical traitors, the cursed bloodline of Marza. To lie and cheat and betray is in their blood after all, of course, there shall be cowards among them who would turn on their own kind. He disliked taking advantage of this dishonorable act, but he had little choice. He needs every weapon he can get his hands on.
"I can not make any promises," he spoke softly. "But if I am freed, and once we take these lands, we shall spare the children of Marza if they properly submit to Zethan rule."
Silence. And as it grew, he became worried that he might have perhaps misworded his response and scared him away. But then, he heard footsteps, a lot of them. Torchlight began to seep into his cell as they approached. He did his best to stand, but it was a chore his wounds protested to. Finally, he heard the rattling of keys, and the hatch door was thrown open. Several soldiers, a mix of Thirians and Borean warriors. The boreans stood far and clear of the torches, wary, but they were ready with axes and swords as well. This surprised him; he was sure that they would have disarmed and subdued the Morenia. A pair of Thirian soldiers lowered themselves into the prison. One held a spear leveled at his chest while the other took out a pair of metal cuffs. He didn't try to resist as they shackled his arms and feet together with extreme caution.
"Don't make any moves," the guards said. "We don't want to break anything."
They dragged him out of the pit, pulling through what he assumed was the army's main camp. Fell tried to make a note of all that he saw, but from the pain and their torches making it unbearably hot, he found it hard to fully concentrate on his surroundings. He saw what looked like a medical station, long and narrow buildings housing the many injured. Personal tents were set close to the two entrances, but he couldn't see anything noteworthy. They dragged him into the older portion of Erusland, the many inhabitants coming out to observe what was happening. At least they extinguished most of the torches by this point. Men, women, and children, there were so few. Many surviving Marzans fled in many directions, some even casting off their names to avoid persecution. But still, to see what used to be powerful volkf rendered to this squabble was a sad sight. But they didn't seem to allow their status to distract them from their hatred. By the time he made it to the central courtyard, he had amassed a swarm of hecklers, some lobbying various objects his way, forcing the southerners to raise their shields to defend him. They finally stopped in the mess hall, where the warriors and town folk would collect on various occasions. The tables had been cleared away, leaving ample room for men to crowd inside. He was rushed by many Borean warriors grimacing and tossing curses and insults his way. Finally, he was forced on his knees before the throne where the chief would have sat.
He looked up. The throne lay empty. Standing before it was a woman, the one he met outside the gate, and her brother. Their faces were full of so many emotions, but they tried their best to look stern and unbothered by him. The other man with them didn't hide anything. A look of absolute hatred and vitriol toiled in those dark green eyes. He was the earth mover and the one Fell assumes is the cause of his sore jaw. His massive hammer laid against the throne, like an executioner's blade waiting to be used. The other knights were nowhere to be seen.
"What do you want of me?" he asked. Quickly a trike from behind sent him on his stomach.
"You shall speak when addressed, Zethan," spat a man behind him. He managed to turn. By the tattoos and adornments, he was the former chief's champion. He was a young and mean fellow with thick arms and a square face made for being punched inward.
"Now, now Leik," said the woman, though her tone held a hint of satisfaction. "He is quite injured enough. We don't want him delirious now, do we?"
The brute known as Leik grunted but took a step back with the rest of the warriors.
"As for your question," the one called Njal addressed him. His eyes were filled with contemplation and worry. "If we wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead by now, Zethan. Thank the mercy of opportunity you may live yet. You can guess what we want."
"You think they'll back off in exchange for my freedom?" he asked.
"This need not go further," Njal said. "If your kin continues this siege, neither of us will come out unscathed. I will warn you to garner reason, Zethan. You can ill afford anything else."
Fell let out a slow sigh. "I did not want this. If you had just surrendered, things would have gone so much more smoothly."
"Smoothly?" Thyra asked. "By your word, we would have become a mere slave volkf to you. And what of the southerners? Would they be vested with such mercy as well?"
"Have you strayed so far from your ancestor that you see the southerners as kin above your blood?" Fell shook his head. "They are thieves, friends of the highest order. They are why the northern winds are dying, why the great spirits have abandoned us. You are too young to know of a time when we Hyperboreans were more, far more. We were eternal. And now, those whose footsteps spanned millennia died off. And we carry their name and this war to redeem ourselves."
"Have you ever met with anyone from the ancient tribes?" Edlund then asked. "Khione, Zethes, or Kalais?"
How much did they tell this southerner, he thought to himself. The fact that he even knows their names is an offense.
"Why do you care, southerner?" he asked carefully.
"I wish to know my enemies," Edlund told him. "I want to know everything you know. And more importantly, I want to save this village from eh fate you wish to bestow upon it. Let me be clear that the only leverage you have is your life. You are a bargaining tool, and I intend to use you greatly. Your cooperation with us will at least ensure that your stay here isn't hell."
Fell can tell that Edlund meant every word that left his mouth with cruel intensity. Even the siblings looked a little troubled by his words.
Edlund took a deep sigh to calm himself. He can't let his emotions overtake him. Gabbes is in stable condition; he's going to be okay. "Look, I not the sort of resorting to this sort of threatening, but you've made your hostility towards our people clear."
"Do you believe your people innocent then, southerner?" Fell asked mockingly.
"I don't know, maybe," Edlund said. "At the very least, none from our empire has taken credit for such vandalism, and neither has any action against the frostlands ever been authorized, at least to my knowledge. If perhaps such things were brought up correctly, things would be solved that much quicker."
Fell chuckled painfully, an effort that obviously caused him pain. But still, he smiled at Edlund. "Foolish boy. You are but a dog for your empire. And the rest of you ignorant slaves to their will. We will have our revenge, and the great spirits will again bless us as they have before. And all of Thiria will be buried in snow."
(X)
"Negotiations are going well, I presumed," Fjord chuckled under his breath. By the look on Gray's face when he entered his forge, it was quite obvious how things were going with their new prisoner. Gray was glad he wasn't there in person to see it all go down. He spent practically the whole night in bed, healing. The worst is over; if he didn't have avra, no doubt he'd be bedridden for the next few days. Still, his body ached, and he audibly sighed as he slumped onto the single chair in the room by the fire. Fjord had been hard at work for the past few days making more weapons for the Boreans to wield, repairing Thirian armor and weapons, and generally outperforming the blacksmiths they had brought with them from Bastillon. In his spare time, Gray does what he can to help out in the forge, though Fjord is very reluctant to hand over anything vital to him.
"That man, Fell, is certainly trouble," Gray said. "As zealous and loud as we would expect. Then again, Edlund did pound his face, so few can blame him."
Fjord sighed, plunging a hot blade into the water to heat-treat it. "All the higher blood are like that. They carry this about them like armor, shielding them from reality."
"Reality?" Gray asked.
Fjord pulled it from the oil, the steaming blade hot to the touch, but he was unbothered. "They are just as insignificant as the rest of us. I've been around a long time. Unlike the children of chief Njal, I remember the halls of Morenia. The Hyperboreans used to be great beings, long-lived and nigh-immortal. Some have been around since the thirteen tribes were one. And now that the so-called immortals are all dead, that just leaves these younger folks craving the regain that power. And they will do anything to get it. It doesn't matter whether or not your thirians actually did something wrong, not to them. What matters is the small chance that they can be what they once were."
"So what is the endgame now?" Gray asked. "Just fight this war till every last one of them are dead?"
"Fortunately for you lot," Fjord began sharpening the blade. "The Frostlands aren't as united as they try and make it seem. There is doubt among the higher volkf that have made alliances outside of Re'Este. Doubts of this war, of the authority of the three elder siblings. Most of this war is actually being fought amongst our own kin. Good news for the empire, gives you time to figure this all out, whatever that would even mean."
Gray sighed. "I fear what this war will turn into, Fjord. This is not the first time I stared death in the face. I've put myself in the way of things you wouldn't believe. But to be at the receiving end of it, to have others throw themselves to save you. Hardly does one fully comprehend such a responsibility. Makes me want to stay in the forge."
"Well, you can't," Fjord told him. "Don't need ya in here no ways. You belong out there with them. That blade you hold, it's not meant to sit pretty on some shelf; it's meant to be out there protecting people."
Gray caressed the pommel of his saber. They told him that he was the most powerful out there. Surrounded by the element that is his weapon, even the Hyperboreans must fear his potential. Edlund was still shaken up due to Gabbes' condition, the boreans were afraid of what may come for them from their own people, and their own soldiers were unsure of the outcome of this siege. He is amazed that things haven't spun out of control just yet, and General Renard seems to be holding things together on his end. But how long before he, too, is exhausted? He hopes that the negotiations coming soon will be the end, but by the rate they are going, things will only get worst before they get better.
"Anyway," Gray sighed. "got any big plans once we get to Morenia, old man?"
Fjord scoffed. "Can't catch me to be the sentimental type. Any sort of gear I left there is most likely gone. A shame, but I can always start up a new collection."
"I'm sure they will reward you well for your efforts," Gray said. "You've done so much already."
"You . . . really think they would give me such honor?" Fjord asked him after a long pause.
"I mean, no one has tried breaking your windows or anything," Gray said. "I'd say that's a step in the right direction. I mean, if you think apathy is better than outright disdain."
Fjord sighed, looking at the single picture on one of his various shelves, the one covered in soot to the point the image beneath was completely lost beneath it. Gray didn't ask about it, as he doubts Fjord would even give a straight answer."I will simply do as I can, to serve the children of Morenia. It is not my concern whether or not I'm thanked."
"Well I, for one, am pretty thankful," Gray lifted himself back up onto his feet. "Well, nice chatting, but I gotta go get some rest before tomorrow. Hope to see you again, Fjord."
Fjord grunted a farewell as Gray left his workplace. He can't understand how a boy like that can be both innocent and thoughtless while simultaneously being weighed down. If all knights were like him, hell he might actually enjoy being a smither for Thiria. He sat down on the blade he was working on. It was commissioned by the young chief Njal, but he's made dozens of blades like it, and he wasn't in any sort of rush. He took off his thick leather gloves and hung them up next to his tools. He picked up the picture he had seen before. It was rare for lower bloods to own such luxury. It wasn't much, just a well-drawn portrait of a woman holding a small child, smiling kindly. Even as he began to wipe off the soot and grime from the foggy glass, the picture was so faded one could barely recognize any features. But for it was clear as day, and haunting. Eyes that judged him urged him. Then, dragged him back to that day.
It was not long before the envoy from Re'Este was due to arise. Not just any envoy, but a personal attendant to one of the three elder children of Boreas. Tensions among the citizenry were high. Some urged the Chief to prepare for war, as it was clear that they did not want to join this war against the Thirians, especially since the significant volkf has yet to provoke their interests, it seemed. And yet, a small sect of loyalists wanted this alliance even though the terms were not in their favor. He paid little mind to the situation at the time. It made no difference whether he was under the rule of the Marzans or any of the others. It just meant he took orders from someone else. That's not to say that the chief and his wife treated him poorly; he was still their royal blacksmith. But as lower blood, he expected little compensation for any loyalty he expressed. Thus he became relatively reserved with his opinions. That night his wife came home relatively late with a heavy sigh, slumping on their single bed. They didn't really have a home, most servants slept in a separate wing of the castle, but they secured a home in the forges. Sure they smelled like ash wherever they went, but it was better than the conditions other servants endured. And due to their lower blood status, the heat didn't bother them much at all.
"Long day, love," he asked her.
"The chief's wife had been anxious ever since this envoy drama has come about," she said as she undid her bundled-up hair. "We have to make everything look presentable. I'm sure she will call us to make sure even the ceilings are spotless. Can you imagine?"
"Has she said anything about the spirits?" he asked her.
"Aren't you a curious fox," she sighed. "Hasn't said a word, unfortunately. But, whether it is because they themselves are unaware or they don't want to cause a panic, this meeting with the Re'Este diplomat will bring out the truth in some manner."
"You'll be attending this meeting, won't you?" Fjord asked her.
She paused before answering him. "You don't have to be so worried. Do you believe that this meeting will turn into an outright battle of love? It is merely a diplomat; he would just make a few declarations and be on his way. Not exactly an occasion that the Chief Wife's personal attendant must be absent."
"I'm sure any of the other attendants would take your place," Fjord urged her. "Something doesn't feel right. I don't know what it is, but Boreas whispers danger in my dreams about this. This could spark an outright civil war."
"Well," she laid back in bed. "If indeed Boreas whispers to you of the coming danger, perhaps you can accompany me to it to protect me from it, yeah?"
"Freia," Fjord sighed. She never really believed in the wisdom of Boreas. He doesn't know why, but he spoke to Fjord in dreams, giving him visions of war and strife, the city of Morenia crumbling before his very eyes. And the hardest, the one thing he refused to voice into existence, is that he saw the death of his wife at this meeting, along with the chief's wife. He was a prophet, a harbinger of a disaster he was ill-prepared to prevent and could only watch come to pass. All he could do was hope and pray to father Boreas that his wisdom was betraying him.
(X)
Elena watched as Gray and Dagmyre departed with over two hundred soldiers to secure the point they managed to wrestle from the Zethans. It had been a few days since the first battle, and so far, they hadn't attempted to retake the area. It would seem word of either Fell's death or capture has reached them, and they are waiting for a response to them. They had sent a messenger just hours ago requesting a meeting to settle terms. Whether that messenger comes back at all will determine how things are gonna go moving forward. She had not seen this Hyperborean woman named Mora. From what Edlund and the others spoke of, she was definitely the more volatile of the two. And seeing how defiant and pigheaded this Fell was in meeting Edlund and Njal, she fears that she will not be so eager to call off this siege even for the sake of her brother. Would she? She had spent a lot of time with the Boreans here in Erusland. Even though they were increasingly amicable with the empire at this point, their pride in their blood and traditions was great. If she was in the same position and had to sacrifice Gray's life in order to ensure the Empire's victory, she doesn't know if she is capable of the same.
"You look quite worried," Edlund appeared by her side, looking out as Gray and Dagmyre began to disappear over the horizon.
I don't want to hear that from you," she retorted. "Not after your little episode with Gabbes the other day."
Edlund cleared his throat. "Can we . . . forget about that?"
She chuckled. "What did you come up here for, Edlund."
Edlund was quiet for a while. "Before I say anything, I want you to know I do not say this out of my own feelings or any sort of anger that I have, Elena. I'm at least wise enough to know my own feelings from the objective reality of our situation. We are knights, but in times of war, we must sometimes leave ideas such as honor and chivalry in favor of opportunity."
Elena looked to Edlund. He was not a strategist like his brother, but he was adept at looking at situations from different angles. But the guilty look in his eyes was uncanny upon him. "Speak your mind, my lord. I will offer whatever consultation that is required of me."
"Should we not execute the Zethan Fell at this point?"
They both stayed silent for a long time. It was not their way, executing a prisoner of war, especially of one so significant. It was unheard of. But she can understand why he might feel this way. "Fell is our only leverage against them, Edlund. You said so yourself; him being alive gives us a chance of getting out of here alive."
"He doesn't necessarily have to be alive," Edlund said. "Maybe . . . we can act like he is, by us some time or even postpone the meeting. We-"
"Sir Edlund," Elena sighed. "What is this all about?"
"Everything is falling out of my hands, Elena," Edlund ran his anxious hands through his hair. "I don't want them to get any ground whatsoever. So many bodies are stacking up already, and the only thing I can do is stand by and keep hope in the hearts of all."
"Killing Fell will solve little of those issues, I'm afraid," she said. "Killing him, even if they find out much later, will only increase their resolve, not diminish it. They will do all they can to retaliate. They are a culture of zealots; we can not give them a martyr."
"Would the Marzans think the same?" he asked. "They seemed eager to be rid of him the moment he came to the hall."
"Well, they aren't commanding this war, are they?" she asked him, then she lamented. "We must see this meeting till the end before we can make any hasty actions, my lord, lest we may fall right into the path of our enemy's blade. We must be careful, for who knows what rogue elements lie within our wake."
"What do you mean?" Edlund asked curiously.
"These people are afraid," Elena gestured to Erusland. "Fear brings with it desperation. And who knows what people are capable of when they are desperate? Even if it means working with sworn enemies to ensure their own survival."