Chapter I
‘Seventeen more gone, Your Grace. The sheriff confirms it. Early evening, he said, packs on their backs. I fear they’re not returning.’
‘Founder save me.’ Duke Mandeville reached for his empty goblet, as though it might steady his shaking hand. ‘They’re leaving in droves. This is an exodus, Darby. My forebears would turn in their graves to see their duchy abandoned like this.’
‘Your Grace, if I may.’ As his advisor of many years, Old Darby had great respect and a fondness for the Duke, but recognised a certain weakness in him that had not been in his father. ‘The elves are tired. They have had enough of life here in Mandeville, in the conditions they are forced to live in, in the lack of medical care and adequate housing provided for them. Times are changing, Your Grace. Tales are leaking in from other cities, of elves that earn their own land, who rise to positions of some power. And we must change in accordance. We must at least promise that change can come in future.’
The desertions had started months ago. It was only a trickle at first, one or two each week, but that trickle had soon become a shower, and now a downpour, whole families leaving daily, even those with small children and aging parents.
‘I cannot promise what I cannot deliver,’ Mandeville said, setting his goblet back on the oaken table with a slam that reverberated through the heavy wood. ‘For change, we need resources, and we cannot accrue those resources when the elves responsible for them have gone.’ He sat back against the soft woollen throw draped across the settle, tried to relax himself. ‘Who have we lost this time?’
Darby consulted the parchment provided him by the sheriff, and took a moment to run his eyes over the information. It was a moment longer than he needed, though; he had already checked, double-checked, triple-checked the names, but he feared being the bearer of such bad news.
‘Your Grace.’ There must have been something in his tone, because the Duke shuddered slightly at the words. ‘It appears that the bulk of the deserters were miners. With the few we have left now… I’m afraid coal is going to be difficult to come by.’
‘Miners, again? More of them flee than any other.’
‘Yes, Your Grace. I suspect it is due to their health. The coal dust affects their breathing, and it isn’t uncommon for accidents to occur in such conditions.’ Darby rolled the parchment back up as though he could hide the reality of the situation away. ‘I fear this will only continue if we make no changes.’
The Duke didn’t reply immediately. He sat perfectly still, brow furrowed in deep and sober thought, face ashen with worry and mounting sleepless nights. Darby thought of calling a servant to come and light the fire, in an effort to add some warmth and comfort to the room. But as was custom in Mandeville and beyond, the serving staff was entirely made up of elves, and Darby thought it may be unwise to have them close when such discussions were taking place.
Eventually the Duke sighed, and came from his reverie with a shake of his head. ‘I do understand, Darby, I really do,’ he said. ‘But I cannot make promises that can’t be kept. Even if I were to assure them that I will do my best to improve things, it would be an interim measure at best. There is nothing in place to ensure it. Eventually, the exodus would go on.’ He ran a hand across his brow, a visible sign of the weight of his troubles. ‘Leave me for a while. I need to think about this alone.’
‘Of course, Your Grace.’ Darby bowed and made to leave the room. But just before he reached the threshold, he turned again to address the Duke. ‘I nearly forgot,’ he said, with a strange wry smile. ‘Lord Ormand is here. He wishes to speak with you, if possible.’
‘Old Ulric?’ The Duke rose a little in his seat, questioning. ‘I thought he was ill. At death’s door, so I heard.’
‘His son, Your Grace. Alaric. I can… tell him the timing is inconvenient?’
‘Alaric?’ Something in the Duke’s look darkened as he recalled the name, and he suddenly understood the meaning of Darby’s strange smile. ‘I see. Yes, send him in.’
Ulric had been a fine earl in his time, took care of his city as he had taken care of his unruly children; firmly, but never cruelly, not one to shy away from just punishment, but with a love and pride that kept his kin loyal, and his people content. By now though, the ravages of age had taken their toll. Just like the edge of his blade and the glint in his eye, his mind had dulled, become clouded. He lived on yet, but the city was preparing itself for mourning. They knew he had little time left.
His son, Alaric Ormand, was cut from a different cloth. The eldest son, he lacked the warmth and humour of his father and siblings. In its stead was a black bitterness, a deep resentment for the love his father commanded that never would be his. The Duke had heard tales of his callousness, his blatant disregard for the lives of the elves who baked his bread and tempered his sword. It was an irrational, unexplainable hatred, and the Duke knew that such men should be feared. Especially when such hatred was twinned with a sharp intelligence, and a formidable court acumen.
‘Lord Ormand,’ he said, as the man was shown through to him, rising from his seat and offering a short bow in greeting. ‘It has been far too long.’
‘Your Grace.’ Ormand smiled in return, but it was a smile devoid of goodness, and the Duke felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. ‘Always a pleasure to return here. My father sends his regards, such as they are.’
‘My thoughts are with him.’ The Duke gestured for the younger man to take a seat, which he did with all the ease of one relaxing in his own stead, leaning his tall frame back against the settle and fixing his dark eyes on the Duke’s.
‘Thank you,’ he said, inclining his head a little. ‘I wish I could tell you that his condition had improved, but… It has got no worse, at the very least.’
‘That is as well as we can hope for.’
Ormand nodded and leant forwards, as though keen to push the conversation on. The Duke sensed the pleasantries were done with.
‘Word has it,’ Ormand began, running a hand through his hair, black as a raven’s wing save for a single silver streak, ‘that there is trouble here in Mandeville. Elves deserting in legions, so I hear, off on some ridiculous quest for fresh fields and pastures new.’ He laughed, scathing and unpleasant, and the Duke didn’t return it. ‘So I come with a proposition. A helping hand, shall we say. If my father were able, I have no doubt that he would wish to assist you and so, in his absence, here am I.’ And there again was that wicked smile, empty of any warmth, of compassion, only predatory, and dangerous.
‘A proposition?’ the Duke replied. ‘Your concern is appreciated, Lord Ormand, make no mistake. But we have measures in place to tackle the issue.’
‘Of course. I don’t presume to tell you how to run your duchy, but do hear me out. My father would so wish it.’
As though your father had any hand in this at all, the Duke thought bitterly, but he knew it was wiser to concede. ‘And hear you out I shall. Do, go on.’
Ormand nodded in thanks, and cleared his throat. ‘Your elves are leaving because of their conditions, because they are not happy with the way they have to live. To combat that you would have to improve those conditions, but that of course requires labour. Labour that they, by fleeing, are removing from Mandeville. So where does that leave you?’
The Duke went to respond but the question was rhetorical, and before he could get a word in Ormand had gone on, simultaneously silencing the Duke with a look, a cold flash across his eyes that lingered just long enough to make its meaning clear. ‘It leaves you trapped, in a vicious circle, unable to remedy the situation. So you must use alternative means. Which is where my aid comes in.’
‘And what sort of aid would you be offering?’ The Duke knew it was better to be politic here, remain cautious, but he found it difficult to conceal his scepticism over the sincerity of this man’s offer. Ormand was no good neighbour, that much he knew, and notorious in his disdain for the elves. Stories were whispered down corridors in hushed tones when Ormand passed through them, his name echoed in dark, empty halls. He wore hatred upon him like a cloak, and fear went before him. Whatever aid he offered, the Duke did not want it.
‘You need to teach them a lesson,’ Ormand said, still smiling, eyes twinkling like a black pool in twilight. ‘They need to know that they cannot desert their masters and get away with it. They need to be reminded that they are serfs, nothing more, and that they must know their place.’
The Duke shifted in discomfort. ‘And how would you go about teaching them this lesson?’
‘I took the liberty of speaking with your sheriff on my way in.’ Ormand sat back again, twining a loose string of fabric from the throw around his finger. ‘He informed me that your last lot went yesterday, in the evening. On foot, no horses. They shan’t have got far.’ The smile never left. ‘I believe that a wise course of action would be to track them down. Myself and a few of my horsemen. Track them down, bring them back.’ With one swift movement of his hand, he plucked the string loose from the fabric. ‘And kill them. Kill them publicly, so that those still here know they would do well to stay. That will be their lesson.’
The Duke sat silent. When he found the voice to speak he struggled to keep it even, lest the other man know he had rattled him so. ‘Lord Ormand. I am not in the habit of slaughtering elves who have committed no crime. As much as their leaving troubles me, they are serfs, not slaves, and I cannot lawfully have them killed. Nor would I wish to.’
Ormand rolled the loose string between his fingers, before opening them and letting it float gently towards the ground. ‘Your Grace. I am thinking of the greater good. Only these few need die, and I assure you, it will be effective. Even if it’s only as a temporary measure before you… return the situation to its rightful course.’ There was an unmistakable note of sarcasm there, the Duke was sure. Sarcasm, and cynicism, and a careful, subtle mockery.
‘I appreciate your offer of aid,’ he said, wanting nothing more than to finish this wretched conversation and get the man out of Mandeville and back onto the road. ‘But I cannot accept. I will not descend into lawlessness. Founder knows where things would go if we started down that path.’ He stood to signal the end of the matter. ‘Please send my wishes to your father.’
Ormand watched him for a moment, from his place on the settle, deliberating whether or not it would be prudent to push the matter. Eventually, though, he decided against it. There was a time for force and a time for diplomacy, and here it called for the latter.
‘I understand, Your Grace.’ He stood, bowed his head towards the Duke. ‘I shan’t take up any more of your time. Do remember though, that my offer still stands, should you reconsider. My aid is always at your service.’
‘I am grateful.’
‘Good day, Your Grace.’
‘Lord Ormand.’
The Duke felt a certain relief as Ormand swept from the room, his light, even footsteps fading down the hallway until they passed out of earshot. But the relief was short-lived, replaced not moments later by an anxiety, nagging deep between his ribs. That the man would have the audacity to come here with such a suggestion! The elves might be serfs but they were protected by the laws of the duchy just as the humans were. Not that Ormand and his ilk would have it so if they could help it. But what was his purpose? Surely not just bloodlust, not just some blind hatred for the elves that led him here to seek their deaths? Duke Mandeville couldn’t help but feel there was something he was missing, some hidden agenda no doubt black as Ormand’s heart.
He sat down again, suddenly drained. Once Ulric was dead, there would be nothing to keep his son in check. And it wouldn’t be long now…
Out in the hall, Ormand took a moment to compose himself. He wasn’t surprised that Mandeville had rejected his offer, had anticipated it, in fact. The old fool was a soft touch, didn’t understand that these goblins had to be kept in line. He didn’t have the stomach for ruling his duchy anymore, that much was obvious. And that was just the way Ormand wanted it.
‘Dunstan,’ he called, waving over his sergeant, a hulking young man hand-picked by Ormand for his fighting strength and inherent aptitude for command.
‘My Lord? Do we ride?’
‘Change of plan. Mandeville isn’t keen on killing the goblins, but he’s got no idea anymore, no handle on any of this.’
‘We’re not to bring the elves back, my Lord?’
‘We’re not.’ He saw Dunstan’s shoulders fall a little in disappointment, and couldn’t help but smirk at the sergeant’s insatiable thirst for violence. ‘But worry not, Dunstan. This is for the better. Mandeville has proven himself to be incapable, an easy target who commands no loyalty or fear from his elves. It shan’t take much.’ He turned and with quick steps descended the stairway to the main door, hearing the sergeant at his heels. ‘We head towards Fennering. The deserter elves have likely gone the same way. If Mandeville doesn’t want them back, we’ll make sure they won’t trouble him again.’
Behind him, he heard Dunstan laugh.