Eyes in the Dark

[Xarkly 12862]

AN EVENTLINE NARRATIVE

EYES IN THE DARK

Spoiler

 

 

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One: absolution through order.

 

As he sat cross-legged in meditation, Razvien - Legate of the Tidal Legion - released a slow breath. Two: order through obedience. In his meditative state, he had wrapped himself in a void of calm that smothered every emotion, every instinct, every stray thought. Three: obedience through wisdom. With his eyes softly shut, Razvien muted the sounds of the world around him, from the stir of tent-canvas in the wind, the distant grunts of his soldiers, and the thrum of his own heart. Four: wisdom through patience. 

 

He recited his Clan's Code in his head, over and over again. That was how Razvien had meditated for years, and it had always soothed his mind in the past. This meditative ritual had stilled his hand in his first battle against the Redwyrms at Sheiven; it had settled his stomach when he cut down fleeing peasants at the Drowning of Zafris; and it had led him to victory in his first command at the Siege of Yhend. 

 

But today, his meditation brought him no peace, and Razvien did not know why.

 

… Four: patience from strength, he began again, but he felt a gnawing, intrusive murmur in the back of his head. Five: strength from silence. His void of calm waned, like glass stretched to shatter. He could not understand why his meditation was failing him now. Was it this new land - this surface of Almaris - with its blinding sun and biting wind? Razvien had never felt those things in his decades far below the Surface, but he doubted that was the cause for his distraction. Five … strength from … 

 

He stopped with a weary sigh, and his eyes fluttered open. “Depths,” he cursed under his breath. 

 

Razvien sat in his tent atop his mat of fibre and bamboo, with his scabbarded sword laid across his lap. Though he was alone with the sloping canvas walls of the tent, his Elven ears twitched at the sound of many of his Clansmen beyond in the camp. The loudest noise was the distant drone of Legionnaires drilling formations, but Razvien had always had sharp ears; he could make out the crunch of snow beneath boots, someone grinding a whetstone on steel, and a low din of talking voices.

 

Razvien’s eyes flit glanced across the tent. Though night had fallen and not a single lamp was lit, Razvien could see with perfect clarity, like all Elves of his Clan could. He could see the minimal, modest furnishings throughout the tent - which, though spacious, held little more than a few chests of belongings, his sleeping pallet, a stool, table, and washstand - and the only source of any real light were the Akkesh mushrooms, burning in jars placed throughout the tent, giving off a warm heat, and only a faint trace of blue as they smouldered. 

 

As Razvien stood and fixed the scabbarded sword back to his waist - a customary gesture to signal that the time of meditation and reflection was over, and duty once again resumed - his ears twitched again. Someone was standing outside his door, waiting; he was sure of it. 

 

Perhaps they have found that depth-damned Beetle, Razvien thought wearily, and his lacquered black-ferrum breastplate creaked as he stood. It was not proper for an Elf of his Clan to curse - much less a Legate like him - but he allowed himself the indulgence as he trudged over to his washstand. He was tired, after all. But why am I tired? He asked as he dipped his hands into the washbowl, and splashed water onto his face. He did not understand this distracted weariness that plagued him since coming to the Surface, and that, in turn, annoyed him. Both those things were improper of his rank. 

 

For a moment, he stared at the copper polished mirror above the washstand, and his own warped reflection stared back. His face, with skin the colour of obsidian, framed by silvery-white hair tied into a topknot, wore a grim frown, and there was an unfamiliar tension in his red eyes. It was meant to be the face of a conqueror and commander, but he did not feel like it at that moment. He ran a finger over his concave cheeks; smooth and unblemished, without a single scar to show for his decades as a Legionnaire. Some considered it a sign of shame that a soldier did not carry scars, but Razvien had always taken it as a sign of his own skill. 

 

As he turned towards the door of his tent - and whoever lay beyond it - he spared one last glance down at the scabbarded blade. Slowly, his fingers flexed around the hilt, and eased the black-ferrum blade out of its sheath with a metallic hiss. In the darkness, he looked at the runes that ran along the sword’s length with the faintest blue sheen from the Akkesh mushrooms. His heart quickened as Razvien read those runes for the thousandth time. It was, of course, no normal blade -- it was a kesh’ikan, a command-blade, bestowed upon a commander by his overlord to complete a mission and as proof of his station as Legate of the Tidal Legion. 

 

WEAKEN THE NORTH FOR INVASION, it read. DO NOT FAIL ME, NEPHEW. 

 

“I will not, Consul,” he whispered as he slid the blade back into its sheath, and marched towards the door.  

 

Conversation cut off with startled grunts as Razvien threw the door-flap open, and found his camp spread out before him. Though it was the deep hours of the night, his eyes still stung from the moonlight reflecting against the snow. This insufferable white, he glowered as he squinted until his eyes began to adjust. At hundreds of Legionnaires and slave-labourers from the Below, the Tidal Legion was a modest one, and their camp was more modest still; no more than thirty tents were pitched on the snowy hilltop, half crested by a sunken, frozen cave. Were it possible, they would have set up their camp in the depths of the caves, but the ice within was both too cold and too inhospitable, so using its mouth for cover was the best Razcien could manage. The cave, and the site of their camp, lay between the lands that the Srow - the low-born dwellers of the Surface - called the ‘Rimeveld’ and ‘Fenn’. The Legion had not erected palisades - they were too easily seen, and unnecessary besides - and instead the slaves had shored up six-foot mounds of snow that Razvien’s sentries patrolled along, though so far they had seen nothing in these snowplains of arsenic white but for bears and birds. 

 

When the blurriness, afflicted by the bright moonlight, finally faded from his eyes, Razvien focused on the four Legionnaires standing outside his tent. All of them stood in full black-lacquered mail, in contrast with Razvien’s half-mail, and the gold finishings on their enamelled black helmets, breastplates, and greaves were resplendent in the moonlight. Three of the Legionnaires had been facing Razvien’s tent in anticipation, while the fourth stood by the door facing outwards, with blue tassels streaming from his lance and helmet in the night-wind. 

 

“The Signifier is returned, Legate,” Khazen reported in his usual, idle drone. His blue tassels denoted him as Razvien’s Optio - his most trusted lieutenant - and the grizzled Elf’s lance had come to Razvien’s aide more times than he could count. A harsh hint of his accent betrayed him as one born in the ghettos below, but he had earned his rank with loyalty.

 

“So I can see, Optio,” Razvien answered curtly as the three soldiers in front of the tent - the Signifier officer at the front - slapped their gauntleted fists to their hearts and, in unison, chanted, “Ussta Ollhyr, Legate!” 

 

Razvien acknowledged the traditional greeting with, “Talu Resch. Speak, Signifier - I do not suppose you have found the Hadd’ro?” Razvien had to resist clenching his jaw at the mention of the Hadd’ro - the damned Digging Beetle, and the reason his Legion had been slowed to a crawl through these accursed snowfields. With a grimace, Razvien looked westward to the camp, and quickly spotted a massive shape that resembled a boulder at the camp’s border, tethered with heavy chains to a solitary pine tree. Only, it wasn’t a boulder -- what resembled rock was actually chitin, and a closer look revealed claw-like limbs sticking out of the shell, alongside a round head with four insectoid eyes and a set of sharp mandibles. One of the slaves - a pale, cloth-clad Elf - was feeding the Hadd'ro some fermented skulkshroom on a pitchfork.

 

The Hadd’ro  were capable of digging tunnels wide enough for four Elves abreast at incredible speed, and they could carry heavy loads, too. They were the perfect beasts of war for the Tidal Legion… or, at least, they would have been, were the Hadd’ro not cowardly creatures. In any kind of battle, all but the best-trained Hadd’ro curled up inside its shell until the fighting had passed. Still, they made for incredible beasts of burden and mounts. 

 

Razvien and his Legion had travelled to the Surface with two of the Hadd’ro … but now there was only one in his camp. The memory of the second Hadd’ro - a child of the one that Razvien stared at now - fleeing beneath the earth when a slave startled by dropping a crate of cooking pots made Razvien wish he could slaughter the responsible slave a second time. That incident had been three days ago, and ever since Razvien had sent out search parties across the north to search for the runaway creature. 

 

“Briefly, Legate,” Signifier Trekas reported with misty breath. “We tracked it to a forest, some eleven leagues south. By the time we approached, the Srow from the city had already arrived.” 

 

Razvien grunted as he looked above the Signifier’s shoulder, to the distant outline of red-walls to the south. Karosgrad, he was told the city was named, though Razvien was not sure if his scouts had pronounced the name correctly. It mattered little, though - one Srow city was the same as the next, and all would fall in due time. “Did they kill it?” 

 

“The Hadd’ro, Legate?” Trekas’ helmet creaked as he shook his head. “No, though they seemed to consider it before we arrived.”

 

“So?” Razvien prompted. “If it is not dead, where is it?” Despite his curt tone, it was a relief to learn that the Digging Beetle was, at least, alive. It would have been a great debt of shame had he let it die so easily on his watch. 

 

“It … fled, Legate. We loosed arrows on the Srow to scatter them, and the Hadd’ro -”

 

“Got startled and ran off,” Razvien finished. 

 

Trekas nodded sullenly, before he bowed again. The two Legionnaires with him - one male, one female - followed suit as Trekas said, “I have failed you on this day, Legate. Please; grant me leave to atone.” 

 

For a moment, Razvien just stared down at the soldiers. He considered denying their request, such was his irritation; an unresolved debt of shame was a far greater burden than atonement, after all. Calm yourself, Razvien, he told himself. Strength through patience. If I do not keep my own reins, I will be the one in need of atonement. That was a troubling thought. Finally, Razvien waved in acquiescence. “So be it. Each of you may ask Centurion Zarhan to be lashed.” 

 

The relief was evident on each of the Legionnaires’ faces as they sighed through their helmets. “My thanks, Legate. I swear to you; I will not fail again.”

 

“See to it that you do not, Signifier,” Razvien intoned, but with no frost or malice. “Kazha,” he dismissed him, and the Legionnaires immediately turned and took off at a jog, their plates clanking as they went. It was not until Trekas and his underlings disappeared into the tents that Razvien released a long, misty sigh. 

 

“We must find that wretched bug, Optio,” he growled under his breath. His gaze climbed up, to the array of stars studding the night sky. 

 

“We must,” Khazen agreed with a sagely nod as he too looked skywards. “If you will permit my saying so, Legate, I am surprised you did not discipline the Signifier for revealing our presence to the northern Srow.” 

 

“Hmph. It was only a matter of time.” Razvien had intended to mask his Legion’s movements in the north in secrecy for a while longer from the natives, but it mattered little now. “We will not skulk about like Heleda smugglers.” 

 

“That much I can agree with,” Khazen rumbled. “Well, I for one will be glad of battle against these Srow. Skulking around in all this light has not been well for my head, Legate … nor yours, I suspect.” 

 

Razvien cast the Optio a sidelong look. A stricter superior might have punished Khazen for such a personal comment, but Razvien allowed it. He trusted this Optio more than most. "And what makes you say that, Optio?"

 

Khazen returned his look, and there was concern in his red eyes. “I’ve served you for many years, Legate - since the Ur’Khenyal Campaign. You remember?” 

 

Razvien half-smiled wistfully. “I could not forget until I am withered, even if I wanted to. Because of you, I almost drowned in Wyrm entrails at Khenzar.”

 

“Heh. That Wyrmrider would have crushed you otherwise,” Khazen retorted as he looked back to the starry sky. “I do not merely reminisce, though, Legate. I can see when you are bothered, and a distracted Legate does not bode well for his Legion.”

 

“Careful, Optio,” Razvien warned the lieutenant, but his tone did not shift. “You speak too freely.” 

 

“Then I will seek atonement, Legate,” Khazen answered matter-of-factly. “And I will hope that traditional battle may bring you some peace of mind.” 

 

Razvien looked back to the distant walls of Karosgrad. “Atonement? Hmph. Very well. Your atonement shall be to find this depth-damned Hadd’ro, and return it safely. Clearly, it is a task beyond the Signifiers themselves.” 

 

Khazen nodded, unperturbed. “As you command, Legate. It will be done.” The Optio’s lacquered pauldron creaked as he rolled his shoulder, and hefted his tasselled lance. “I will take Signifier Trekas and Yedas’ units, if you do not object, Legate.”

 

“I do not.” 

 

“Then, by your leave …”

 

“Kazha,” Razvien said, a good deal gentler than he had to Trekas. He shared a look of solidarity with the Optio, before he turned, and marched off into camp. Before long, he was calling for the Signifiers to attend him, and Razvien was left standing alone the front of his tent.

 

The wind gusted, flapping the canvas around him and whipping his topknot in the wind. With one hand on his command-blade, Razvien remained watching the walls of Karosgrad, far to the south. He could just about make out the distant glow of torchlight on them. In truth, he held no disdain for Khazen: he simply needed a more experienced officer to retrieve the missing Digging Beetle before it caused any more trouble, and he had no doubt the Optio understood that.

 

Once more, he exhaled a brooding sigh as the wind sent loose snow fluttering through the air. Perhaps you are right, Khazen. Battle might set my mind aright again. He supposed he could not deny that something truly was bothering him, even if he could not place his finger on why. 

 

Without releasing what he was doing, he bared a few inches of his command-sword again, though he did not need to look at it for the runes to flash in his mind: WEAKEN THE NORTH FOR INVASION. DO NOT FAIL ME, NEPHEW. 

 

“Tsch,” Razvien scoffed as he slid the blade back down, and turned back inside the tent to meditate once more.

 

One, he began again. Absolution through order.