12 – A Martyr, No Matter What
"How is he?" Sa'themar stood over his comatose son, his eyes never leaving the youth's face as he prayed to see a flicker of consciousness pass over the handsome features.
"He is stable." Cyrus Deighton, a Priest renowned for his theistic faith offered the Guild Master. In a quiet and respectful tone, he added, "The poison itself was common enough."
Sa'themar's azure eyes flashed at the priest. "How then do you account for his catatonic state over the past four days? Common you say? We have a plethora of poisons both common and exotic on these very grounds and I have never seen them affect anyone as this did my son. We nearly lost him!"
Cyrus' intelligent eyes looked upon Sa'themar with empathy. "I believe it was tainted further, with dark magic..."
The Guild Master's brow furrowed, alarm tightening his jaw.
Cyrus gave a timeous response. "It has been ousted, be rest assured. But, that is why it took longer to extract the venom. Troll magic is extremely powerful, Sa'themar, complex to those of us who do not fully understand nor come across it often. Your son will make a good recovery though. I promise."
Sa'themar sighed heavily. He had no choice but to accept the explanation of the elderly priest; he was, after all, the most competent healer in the city.
He traced his fingers over his son's brow and cheeks. Cyrus acknowledged with a nod. "Yes, the fever has broken. Hopefully, he will regain consciousness soon."
A knock at the door made the priest look round. He glanced back at Sa'themar. The high elf was absorbed in his son, oblivious to the interruption.
In a soft rustle of robes, Cyrus crossed the room and opened the door. Brett stood outside. The priest smiled wanly. He had known the man for many years having worked alongside Mary, Brett's wife, in the infirmary.
"How's the boy?" Brett whispered, chancing a glance in the room.
"Recovering," Cyrus replied quietly. He looked round at Sa'themar then back at Brett. "Not sure about his father, though."
Brett's mouth twitched at the corners. He knew the near loss of his friend's son had taken its toll on the man himself. It had been many years since Brett had seen that kind of fear in the Guild Master's eyes, and both times involved Sauren; the first being at the boy's birth with the corresponding passing of Sa'themar's wife, Elmina. Now, he'd almost lost his son to the Twisting Nether as well.
Whether Sa'themar sensed his right-hand man's presence or heard the quiet chatter between him and the priest was uncertain, but the high elf turned and managed a brave smile. He nodded acknowledgement. With a final look at his son, he crossed the room and joined the human rogue at the door. Cyrus moved back to tend to Sauren.
"Is there news?" the Guild Master asked.
"Some, yes."
"Good, let us go to the missions room."
His constant concern over his son's survival had severely interrupted Sa'themar's business acumen since their return from the Blackened Woods. Now, however, his stride was once more strong and determined.
Staff were busy milling about tending to their duties. In the courtyard, they were setting up dummies and obstacles to aid with the students' training. Others were working in the stables, mucking out and tending to the horses while more still were seeing to supplies and equipment for the guild which was stored in a number of outbuildings throughout the grounds.
Voices rippled through the various rooms and corridors. The sounds of sweeping, scrubbing, trays rattling and housemaids being given instruction by their peers provided a constant thrum of activity throughout the complex. Even the sounds of pots, pans and cutlery being used and cleaned drifted up from the kitchens. All in all, a normal day's work.
Two young maids, left to their own devices, however, were giggling, flicking each other with their cloths in hand as Sa'themar and Brett rounded the corner towards the library. The high elf's eyes flared, his face stern, and immediately the girls quietened. They stood, heads bowed, hands by their sides as the Guild Master passed silently by.
Brett casually glanced at the girls but made no comment. He knew his leader was not averse to their laughter but these past few days had been void of such luxury for him as he'd worried about his son.
Sa'themar walked without pause until he arrived at the centre of the missions room.
Brett closed the doors behind him and then moved to stand in front of the high elf. He didn't wait for a prompt. "The magi forced the trolls back as far as Darrowmere Lake. The best news is that Zul'jin has been recaptured again."
There was no mistaking the look of relief on Sa'themar's face. "Hopefully this time, they will just kill him!"
Brett shifted from one foot to the other. "Well, they might - after some considerable torture I hear." The right-hand man was one who advocated a clean kill, he was no fan of prolonging an enemy's life for the sake of some misguided need to torture. His distaste was evident in his tone.
Sa'themar turned from him with a grunt. He paused at the side of the large desk on which maps and carved and moulded figurines represented allies, the Blades and enemy forces. He picked up one piece and studied it with something bordering on revulsion. Suddenly, with a roar, he cast it aside; the small figurine was sent tumbling over the surface and bounced off the raised lip of the table.
The human rogue was taken aback by the sudden outburst. His friend was uncharacteristically agitated. He was well aware of the constant battles which had ensued since the elven nation had arrived on the shores of Azeroth. The trolls fought to secure their northern lands and push back the encroaching elves. There had been much blood and life lost during the conflicts on both sides. It was never going to be anything other than an unassailable hatred between the two races.
Equally, Sa'themar was not blind to the dangers which could escalate from such a strong and deep-rooted loathing. He had lost many a friend in the battles over the years. Friends whose blinding rage against the enemy had more often than not been the very thing which had cost them their own lives.
He had made a conscious effort over the years not to let his anger against the barbaric tribes make him reckless or put anyone more at risk than war itself claimed. He had deployed his troops using carefully devised strategies and cunning tactics to try and always have the upper-hand. The majority of the time it had worked.
He had not bargained on his inexperienced, over-enthusiastic and, he recently discovered, idiotic son to put a spanner in the works, however. This in itself had re-ignited his fury against the trolls as a whole and in particular, Zul'jin. "That fiend you feel pity for is pure evil, Brett!"
Although he did not voice it, Brett did wonder at times, which of the two races were the true fiends. The elves also had a reputation for some barbaric practices and going by the word on the network, they were administering those said methods on Zul'jin - and enjoying doing it. "A young lieutenant of the Farstriders is in charge of the prisoner..." Brett pulled out a piece of parchment from the small satchel attached to his belt. He could never remember all the elven names and had to write them down. "He is called - Halduron Brightwing, and he has the troll chieftain held prisoner in his camp."
Sa'themar mulled over the name, it was familiar.
Brett continued. "His men have tortured the troll relentlessly. They seem to be waiting for something. Perhaps orders from the lieutenant on their next move?"
"Waiting?" Sa'themar gasped with incredulity. "He should order the beast killed!"
Brett rounded his shoulders; he was uncomfortable with his Guild Master's tone. "They appear to be doing that bit by bit! One of them gouged out an eye!"
Sa'themar spun to face his right-hand man. His features were hard, unforgiving. "Well, I hope they take the other one and his tongue so he cannot incite his followers should he escape. He is a wily one make no mistake. Keeping him alive only fuels his hatred for my people and his determination to annihilate us. The risk is too great, they should end him!"
"And make him a martyr?" Brett stated. "Then what Sa'themar? Another chieftain rises, one bathed in even more hatred with a misguided sense of loyalty to Zul'jin giving them yet another reason to slit your throats?"
Azure eyes flickered dangerously between wayward strands of long platinum hair. Sa'themar's face seemed distorted, twisted, making him appear as some heinous dark version of himself. At that moment, his right-hand man saw the full extent of loathing which his friend had suppressed for years, decades. "Reason?" The Guild Master hissed.
Brett was not intimidated by Sa'themar. Even faced with this unfamiliar demonic, almost exsanguinous portrayal of his friend, he remained the steadfast, loyal comrade and confidante. And he had also never been afraid to speak his mind. "It is inevitable that war will ensue when invaders swamp the home of an indigenous race then try to lay claim to their lands. You, of all people, surely understand, nay! - remember, this."
"Do not..."
"Do not what?" Brett straightened, though he still remained dwarfed by the six and a half foot elf. Nonetheless, his stature reiterated that the Guild Master did not disconcert him in any way. "Tell you that at this precise moment in time you are the embodiment of that which you hate?"
Sa'themar's head bowed, his hair falling forward over his shoulders and serving as a curtain to his features.
Brett knew his words had struck a chord with the normally punctilious leader of the Crimson Blade. Scrupulous to the point of being over-conscientious at times, the high elf had always feared he would turn rancid from the decades of extreme loathing he felt towards the troll nation.
Yet, even before the Crimson Blade was established, Sa'themar Nightflame had always taught those who followed his meticulous battle strategy that they should never let their hatred or fear devour them; they should always strive to rise up where the air and their vision of the world was clearer, untainted. Only that way would they gain proficiency, pride and honour.
The familiar near noble elocution answered. "You are right, Brett." The Guild Master looked at his friend. He smiled, the gesture somewhat tired but nonetheless sincere. "As always you keep my feet firmly planted. I'm afraid I let the fear of losing my son cloud my perspicuity."
Brett nodded and planted an understanding hand on Sa'themar's shoulder.
The elf attested. "Torture, even of one who has been accountable for much of that visited upon my people, is not justifiable. Our ways would be best; quicker and cleaner. He will be a martyr no matter which way he dies, though, mark my words."
His second-hand man, after a few moments digesting the ramifications, realised there was indeed truth in what Sa'themar said. He nodded.
A knock came to the door. "Enter," the Guild leader said.
Both men were surprised to see the Firefurys striding across the room. Lina was wearing her "maternal" face again. Sa'themar looked at her respectfully and nodded permission for her to speak. He was prepared to hear her voice concerns for her sons again, but he didn't expect to hear what he did.
"We have heard that Halduron has Zul'jin in captivity."
"That is correct. You know the lieutenant?"
"We do, yes." Lina seemed unsettled and a little hesitant.
"Well? Is there something we need to know?" Sa'themar pursued.
Yathas stepped forward. "Halduron is a very close friend of a young man we took in under our roof a number of years ago. He too is a Farstrider Lieutenant, his name is Lor'themar. Our eldest son Duthan is to join the rangers under his command."
Brett and Sa'themar glanced at each other, none the wiser. "What has this to do with the capture of Zul'jin?"
Yathas continued. "A few years ago Lor'themar along with three others were held prisoner by the trolls and tortured relentlessly. Zul'jin oversaw the whole incident. It lasted for days. They eventually escaped thanks to one of the prisoners, a young mage, creating a commotion. But, Lor'themar was haunted by nightmares for some considerable time afterwards. The chieftain is sadistic to say the least and revelled in torturing the elves."
The Guild Master was familiar with that much about Zul'jin's nature, he had heard other stories, and come across a few who had survived. They were damaged in more ways than just physical.
Lina spoke again. "Our concern is that Halduron will not wait for his Ranger-General to reach him to hand over the chieftain. We think he may try to take the troll to Silvermoon - to Lor'themar - so he can exact his revenge for past crimes."
Sa'themar took a few moments. He turned to the large table and his eyes scanned the maps. He pulled the one depicting the kingdom of Quel'thalas and the entire area stretching from Eversong down through the Blackened Woods to Darrowmere Lake, west of Lordaeron. He stood silently, his mind calculating what it would take the young Lieutenant to even find passage half-way to Silvermoon.
The Firefurys and Brett gathered at his side, all looking at the map. Although the trolls had been scattered and pushed back during the wars, there was still sizeable tribes present in various locations throughout the old forest areas, not forgetting the troll capital of Zul'aman. And furthermore, Zul'jin had been attempting to unite all the tribes to launch one almighty campaign of terror on the elven kingdom.
The high elf shook his head, his long hair waving back and forth in soft ripples. "He will never make it for one thing." He said candidly. "Even with his expert Rangers at his side, once the tribes know their chieftain is in their custody, the attack on the Farstriders would prove ... fatal. Too many lives could be lost on the way, not to mention it would exacerbate our mutual hatred and lead to there being more tactical attacks on Silvermoon."
Brett looked at his friend trying to work out what he was planning. The azure eyes gave nothing away. "You're not suggesting we help them get through, are you?" he asked.
Yathas and Lina exchanged a look. Whether it was hope or dread, Brett could not tell this either.
An emphatic smile settled on Sa'themar's lips. He glanced to either side of him, addressing his comrades. "No. I am going to relieve the lieutenants of exacting their rancour. I propose doing what should have been done in the first place – swiftly and without error. We kill Zul'jin."
Cyrus was a learned man, knowledgeable of everything known about the physical body, its intricate workings, pressure points, the effects certain substances had on it including more recreational substances as well as the diabolical poisons. He was well versed in the normal methods of administering medicines, potions and poultices but some things took that little bit extra. And that's where his expertise in healing through the celestial power of the Light came in.
Using this form of healing, the priest could cure almost anything. He made no promises and readily stated "almost anything" because there were times where he had been too late in attending, or the damage was beyond repair, or his prognosticative ability had been challenged by something entirely new and unprepared for. Regardless, he was still considered the finest healer in the city and one who was held in high regard by everyone from lowly street beggars to nobility.
He had just removed the old bandage covering Sauren's injury. He took time checking the wound itself. The spearhead had made a long cut over four of the boy's ribs and the tip had snapped in between the lower two. He had been very fortunate it had not punctured his lung.
As it was, the wound was still serious; not so much because of the physical substantiality of it nor even the poison used, but more to do with the magic involved. The trolls clung to some of their dark practices.
Trolls were considered primitive by the human population; as were the elves to be honest, although elves seemed to adapt to change quicker and hence appeared conventional in today's society. Trolls, however, were still antediluvian, their ways of living timeworn and obsolete. Yet, they had survived as such for thousands of years.
Cyrus chuckled quietly to himself as he worked. Of course, there was the belief that the elves, in fact, evolved from the ancient troll nation. Oh, elves did so hate to hear that theory. But, it was only known by a group of studious individuals (mainly priests) and they quietly referred to the elves as modern day trolls. Naturally, as things had progressed through the years, and the elves were now an integral part of the population, such knowledge was not discussed in polite society.
Sadly, of course, there was still a degree of prejudice towards the elves from humans based on nothing other than "they were different" and yes, possibly fear of them too for past events. This bigoted opinion tended to raise its head particularly if elves dared to enter into marriage with a human. Both parties were more often than not ostracised by the human's family. Quite how the elves viewed it Cyrus was uncertain, but as with most peoples, he was relatively sure there would be similar feelings on their side too. Hopefully, one day, such issues would be eradicated and they could all live and work together in complete harmony.
Perhaps that was being a bit too optimistic though. Again the priest laughed a little to himself. Dark and Light presented itself in so many guises, it was unrealistic to assume one would extinguish the other – how else would the world evolve without its contrasts, its differences, its struggles. Night needed day and sun needed the storm after all.
He tended his patient with diligent care, mouthing a silent chant which evoked ethereal streams of holy light. They, in turn, entered the wound, searching out any lingering diabolism within the young boy's body. Sauren moaned and moved a little as the exploration took place. Cyrus carefully wove the magic through and once he seemed satisfied that all was well, the effervescent waves dissipated. Moving him just enough, he carefully wrapped a fresh bandage around the boy's chest and secured it in a neatly tied knot.
A soft breeze ruffled the drapes at the large windows. Cyrus inhaled as he stood straight and started to clean away the old bandage. "And how long have you been there, young man?" he asked still disposing of the linen.
Silence.
"I know you're there, Louvel."
An audible sigh followed and the well-dressed rogue stepped forward materialising at the side of Sauren's bed. "How is it you always know I'm around?" Louvel asked Cyrus.
The priest chuckled. "I have watched out for you since you were a street urchin running errands for me to earn your keep, Louvel."
Louvel shook his head and huffed. "That was years ago. I haven't been around for quite a while, old man."
"But you always leave an impression on those who you encounter."
"Hmm," Louvel grinned, toying with his monocle. "Not a very good one on Sauren's father, though."
Cyrus smiled. "Well, Sa'themar is a very devoted father, Louvel. He just reacted impulsively by forbidding you to enter the grounds because he is worried for his son." The priest gave a look of mock reprimand that the young rogue had already disobeyed that order.
"I'm not one of his trainees nor intend to be so he cannot order me to do anything. And I protected Sauren, anyway!" Louvel said defensively.
"I know, that is your nature always looking out for the underdog." Then glancing towards the still-unconscious Sauren, he lowered his voice. "This is no weakling though Louvel. Sauren, I believe will achieve some notable, but not necessarily great things in life, if you get my meaning?"
Louvel shrugged and looked at Sauren. "He's a bit pompous yes, but surely..."
"I may be a priest lad, and I may be old..."
Louvel snickered.
"...ish!" Cyrus said with a dry smirk. "But, with my years of experience comes wisdom and I can recognise the often small but significant traits in an individual. All I will say to you is, exercise caution with this one."
"He's just a kid!"
"Hmm."
Movement from the bed drew both their attention. Fair lashes flickered open revealing dull brown eyes. Sauren's fingers flexed on the bed sheets then relaxed again.
Cyrus turned to Louvel. "You will have about fifteen minutes tops to say hello and goodbye. I must let his father know he has regained consciousness. Be gone by the time we return and remember what I have told you, Louvel."
The rogue watched as the priest left the chambers in a rustle of robes.
He looked back at Sauren. The half-elf's eyes were fixed on him. "Nottley," he said, his voice but a husky whisper.
Louvel grinned. He liked Sauren even though he was prone to arrogance. Nevertheless, the old priest's words did not go unheard, for Cyrus had indeed been a kind and wise friend over the years. He would afford Sauren comradeship if he was so inclined but he would be wary of this half-elf at the same time.
"Been up to anything dangerous recently?" he asked the wounded boy.
"Cut myself shaving," Sauren replied trying to keep a straight face.
Louvel pointed to the new bandage. "Just what were you shaving?" He asked with exaggerated surprise.
At that the two young men laughed.