Lark's Story
Her long journey brought her at last to the gates of Vergen. Her feet nearly ceded to their fatigue, but she forced herself on. Led by a Scoia'tael sentry into the stone-laid heart of the dwarven town, she couldn't help but mull on the irony. No one screamed or fled when those of green garb, pointed ears and mounted bows entered this town. Instead, a few citizens glanced her way, then returned to their daily dealings.
So the rumors she'd heard of Upper Aedirn were true: it was a melting pot, free of persecution and home to a diverse multitude of races and classes. As she was led through the city, she saw no signs of the human cruelty she'd grown to expect in civilized places. The Old Races, though weary, seemed content here, and not a single Wanted poster adorned the rocky walls to condemn the crimes committed by her kind.
This may be the only place in the realm for someone like her to call home. And yet, she couldn't bring herself to be at ease—knowing whom she must confront first.
"You wait here," her Scoia'tael guide ordered her flatly as they arrived in a derelict section of town and stopped in front of a nondescript door. "If he'll meet at all with a half-breed who dons our attire, it will be in his time—not yours."
Neither the statement nor the bluntness with which it was made surprised her. She gave one short nod. "I can stand to wait. Even in Vergen, there's nowhere else for me to be."
He disappeared behind the door, leaving her alone. She pressed her shoulder into the stone wall and slid down into a sitting position. She didn't care how long of a delay she faced; it was a relief to rest her aching feet, and to think about what she would say once she was granted entry to that door.
All her life, she'd made no apologies for her blood's human impurity. She was merely a reality of this age—a mix of dh'oine and Aen Seidhe heritage, like both her parents before her. She knew hatred born of racism as well as any of her elven peers…and she was as competent with dual swords and the bow, in spite of her heredity. Nonetheless, there were plenty of elves—especially Scoia'tael—who were unwilling to forgive her human lineage, as she'd learned all too well.
A flickering of shadows passed overhead, and she looked up into the sky to see a flock of geese flying south in an angular formation. She knew winter would ride in practically on their feathered tails, and she was grateful to have found her way to Vergen before the chill seized the land and the wild game left her arrows' reach. Yet, it depended on the will of the region's Scoia'tael commander whether she would be allowed to stay.
No one who called themselves Scoia'tael was unfamiliar with the name Iorveth. As one of only two to escape the bitter and deadly betrayal at the Ravine of the Hydra, as the slayer of nearly all Special Forces commanders in action, his name very nearly rivaled Aelirenn's as a symbol of the nonhuman plight. A lethal blight on human society, as dh'oine would say.
Iorveth had quite a reputation, and definitely not earned on the merits of mercy.
So, the lone half-elf Scoia'tael awaited her audience with him in trepidation. Would the squat human features of her hybrid face affront the living legend just beyond the door and seal her return to the road, with no other destination in sight?
She wouldn't have to wait much longer to find out. Soon, the doorknob turned, and she was beckoned inside by the elf who had led her this far.
The quarters within were dimly lit, but she made out numerous bedrolls strewn about the ground and crates of provisions lined against the back wall. It was modest, to be sure…but an improvement from the ditches and caves she'd slept in with her former unit.
"Your name, and your business," instructed a dry voice. Before her stood the icon himself in the flesh. Immortalized in the Wanted posters and the tales of Squirrel ambush survivors across the Northern Kingdoms, his stern demeanor and the scarf concealing half a disfigured face left no doubt. This was Iorveth.
"Lark," she supplied. Surely he knew her business, between the attire she wore and the sentry's news of her arrival, but she obliged him all the same. "The Scoia'tael unit I fought for has fallen to Special Forces, and I seek admittance to your defenders of Vergen."
He looked her up and down. "You appear to have come far, Lark," he noted. She looked down and dug the toes of her sandals into the ground, noticing how filthy they were from her travels. "Who was the commander you served before?" he asked.
"His name was Sverren," she replied. "His territory was in the Kestrel Mountain range, on the border of Redania and Kaedwen."
"I know the name. And I know his policies were the subject of intense dispute."
Lark had prepared for this. She heard the exact same statement several times before, so without drawing a breath she responded, "Yes, Sverren accepted half-breeds like me into his ranks. Some have said that's what weakened him, perhaps led to his commando's end. But Sverren knew that we endured human oppression, too. Just as elves look at us and first see human ancestry, so too human look at us and see elven ancestry, and for that they mistrust us. Sverren gave us the opportunity to fight for the dream we shared with our elven cousins: the dream of liberty. In return, we offered him our last breaths. I will offer the same to you, Commander, if you will permit me."
"Eloquent words, dh'oine kin. But only words, nonetheless," Iorveth said. "Sverren's commando has all been in chains or the grave for some time now. Yet now here you stand, promising your last breath, when in so doing you demonstrate that you were unable to keep that promise to your former comrades. How is that so? Did you abandon them when the royal hounds sniffed you out and set their teeth upon you?"
She bit her lip. "True, I wasn't with my unit at the hour of their destruction," she admitted. "But it was because I was a prisoner then. A vatt'ghern and his companions captured me scouting some time before the royal hounds uncovered Sverren's secret mountain trails."
Halfway through her sentence, Iorveth appeared more interested. "A vatt'ghern?" he repeated. "Describe the man."
The request seemed strange to Lark, but she abided. "Uh, he carried a snake medallion," she began, earning the commander's full attention, "and he was light. He had blonde hair and a beard, both trimmed to the scalp. His companions were a Redanian knight, and a dwarven herbalist."
With those words Iorveth seemed less intrigued, as if the description didn't match his expectations.
"They forced me to act as their guide through the mountains to their destination," Lark continued. "I was also their hostage—collateral, to assure them safe passage through Sverren's territory."
"How did you escape the unlikely trio?" he asked.
Lark's eyes drifted to the ceiling. She'd told the story so many times to so many others on her journey. Yet it still managed to sting, however duller, when she reached this part. "It was while my captors had me that I learned of my unit's destruction. We reached a tavern in full celebration at the foot of the mountains. There were soldiers there, bragging of the slaughter they wrought on my comrades, showing off the bows and elven armaments they'd kept as trophies. And the dh'oine there…they just cheered and praised their 'heroes.' The tavern harlots acted so impressed…as if they'd never seen a nonhuman's murderer in armor before." Lark scoffed. "I was disguised in human clothes, but my captors had to restrain me from throwing myself at the bastards in rage. They took me outside and told me that without Sverren to threaten them, they no longer needed me."
Iorveth cross his arms. He appeared unaffected by story…probably because he and all in his charge had similar ones to tell. "Why didn't they kill you then?" he asked simply. "I've known others like them who would have."
"They debated amongst themselves what to do with me. Had the Redanian been just a little more persuasive, I may now be hanging from a tree. The dwarf wanted to turn me in for a bounty. It was the witcher who ultimately won out and set me free. But first, he reminded me that if it wasn't for them I'd have died with the rest of my fellows. He said I owed my life to them, and I could return the favor by never seeking them out." Lark's teeth grinded. "I wanted to spit at their feet and walk away. But you know we elves—even we impure ones—aren't so without honor as they may have thought. I chose to stay with them. To repay my debt to them, I accompanied them and aided them in their efforts."
"You're in no place to speak of honor, Lark," Iorveth retorted. "Your captors used you against your fellow Scoia'tael, unwittingly sparing you their fate in the process. Had they known Sverren was soon to fall, do you think they would have helped you then? And after he did, before your comrades' blood had even run cold, you willingly betrayed our cause to join those who imprisoned you. I have no use for an inconstant traitor in my commando. I can see which bloodline runs thicker in you."
Lark's face fell. "Commander, please…I didn't betray our cause. I would never. While I travelled with my former captors, I sought other Scoia'tael units to enlist in. I found none to be as accommodating of my heritage as Sverren was. Most turned me away. Some, I was able to gain their trust by doing favors, such as smuggling food to them or finding weaknesses in human communities. And while they still wouldn't accept me, they at least promised me favors returned in kind."
"You might have been granted the same here," he said, "if you had arrived in Lammas, when the battle against Kaedwen's forces loomed. Surely you'd heard of what we fought for here?"
"I was in Kaedwen with my former captors when word of Henselt's defeat got out," she said. "I was amazed to hear of the one they call 'Saskia the Dragonslayer,' and the victory she achieved over Kaedwen here in Vergen. The Kaedwenis ridiculed her, and her motley crew of nonhuman supporters. But when I heard of her triumph (and that even you, the great Iorveth, stood alongside her) I knew this is where I needed to be. So, I left on my own and headed here." She looked at him earnestly. "If I'm made to leave, I will be at a loss of where to go next."
"I never said you had to leave Vergen," he clarified. "Saskia is generous. She has opened the gates of this town to all the downtrodden of the realm. She will gladly abide you. I said that I cannot use you in the ranks of the Scoia'tael. Why do you not simply take your place among the civilians?"
Lark looked to the floor momentarily, then back up again. "Forgive my candor…but it's for the same reason you don't: I am Scoia'tael, Commander. That will not change with a change of clothes. The people of Vergen have already seen me as a Squirrel when I first walked in. They will see me as a Squirrel as I walk among them. I don't take my place among the civilians, because my place isn't there. It's here."
His expression flared at her and her shoulders jumped at a tense angle, as if she expected to be struck. Instead, he turned his back on her in thought for a few moments. She blinked a couple of times, and at last he turned back.
"Do you have a bow?" he asked.
"Wh—yes. Mostly used for hunting as of late but—"
"The guard post overlooking the battlefield. Stand post there until you are relieved. We fear an attack by Nilfgaard. Should you see bearers of the White Sun emblem, alert us immediately."
"Does…does this mean I'm…?"
"Take your bow and go, else I reconsider."
Without venturing a word of thanks or gratitude, Lark departed. Gathering up her weapons, she strode off to the watch shift she was abruptly assigned.
It seemed she was an active Scoia'tael once more. But she wasn't sure how to feel.