Morwendi and the Hero

Morwendilae Rararen glared down at the fetters clasping her ankles, shining steel against inky-black skin. They were her fetters, by the Dark King, and to have them used against her...

She looked up across the fire, purple eyes meeting the glance of their intended victim. Her captor. He was big, with the muscular build that showed his half-human heritage. His fair skin was topped with close-cropped brown hair and a human-style beard, but his ears and eyes lacked the human roundness. His expression as he looked back at her was mildly appreciative. Not coldly calculating like another dark elf’s would have been. Nor filled with the fear and hatred she expected from a surface-dweller. Just...mild appreciation.

A dark elf couldn’t really blush, but Morwendi felt her face grow hot. He had named himself Ostar when her three closest comrades had bought him for her as her thirty-year Naming Day present. Normally a full-grown svant-maid like herself would buy her own slaves, which put the gift at the edge of embarrassing. On the other hand a handsome half-human made for an expensive present. Not as expensive as he might have been, though: When the slave dealer set him to demonstrate his strength, he had shown himself to be a weakling and a coward, cringing and crying under the slaver’s blows. Or at least it had seemed that way at the time. His escape had revealed his true strength, and his capture of her had revealed his boldness. And now that she was in his power she expected him to gloat over her. Not look at her with that mild appreciation.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Well enough.” It was a lie, of course. Three more days in the hated sun would kill her, but she would not show weakness in front of him.

“It’s been a hard march, since we left the tunnels. Things should be easier tomorrow, now that we’re in the Elfrealm Forest.”

She brushed a strand of pale hair from her face, and the slave bells on her wrists jingled. Her slave bells turned against her, just like her fetters. “My captor,” she addressed the half-human sitting across the small campfire from her. “You said that you’d tell me of your escape, when we reached the wood-elves’ forest.” She looked up at the huge oaks looming over the campsite.

“My name is Ostar Ironpelt,” he answered with a teasing tone. “Have you forgotten it already?” The grin faded from his face. “I did promise. Very well, then. I’ll start with that slave dealer. You saw how he set me to demonstrate my strength, and how he beat me when I failed. It was painful – he had dipped his lash in firefruit juice, and it hurt like... Well, like a dark elf’s whip.” He raised an ironic brow at her. “But I managed to hold back, to get you to underestimate me. You locked me in that cell, without bothering with fetters, and I got lucky: The mortar around the window-bars was old and crumbly enough that I could pull them out. After that, it was a sharp climb down the wall into that alley, and then disappearing into the shadows of that underground town of yours. Cavetown it’s called, isn’t it?” She nodded, and he went on: “It’s easier to climb and sneak around when you’re not wearing armor, and I managed to get to the West Passage without being seen or heard, and after that I got lucky again. A band of orcs came along, and while your guards were distracted by the orcs kowtowing and paying their tribute I slipped out. I’m a fair hand at this sneaky-stuff, but I didn’t get away completely clean. One of the orcs heard me, and you and your friends were hotfoot after me. I managed to stay ahead of you in the tunnel for two days, and on the third day I reached the surface and was able to set up my ambush. But you know about that.”

“Yes,” Morwendi said. Ostar had left a clear trail, straight to the edge of a swamp. Morwendi and her three companions, following that trail had had a sharp fight with the hydra lurking there. Afterwards, the three companions had concluded that Ostar was now hydra-food and had headed back for the tunnel, eager to get out of the hated sunlight. But Morwendi had lingered, following a hunch that unfortunately had turned out to be correct.

“Yes,” she repeated. “I suspected that you still were alive, and nearby. So I looked around a bit while my companions went back to the tunnel. And I found that I was right.” Ostar shrugged in insincere apology, and she fell silent, remembering. She’d had a sword, a shield, and armor, while he had only an improvised quarterstaff and the remains of a slave-tunic wrapped around his waist. And still he drubbed her. Her best thrust was swept aside with a move she had never seen before, and three precisely-placed blows had left her lying dazed on the ground.

Ostar had then stripped her of her arms and armor before carrying her off. She had wondered at his leaving the weapons behind, until he recovered his own gear, cached, he explained, just before his own capture. It was a hero’s gear, thrumming with magical power, and she found she couldn’t begrudge his pleasure as he put on his mail shirt, fastened his greatsword and quiver on his back, and picked up his longbow. He was dragon-dangerous, she had thought as she followed him on his leash, her arms tied to a branch pressed into service as an improvised yoke.

They had marched two days as the sun slowly sickened her. Each evening, he removed the yoke, along with her boots, and fettered and belled her with her own slave fetters and slave bells. She could have untied the bells, if she had dared, but she knew better than to try the fetters. A master thief might manage to pick their locks, and a master mage might manage to enspell them open, but she certainly couldn’t do either of those things.

Three more days, Morwendi thought, and the embarrassment would be over forever. She shivered in the cool night air, and Ostar rose from his side of the fire to tuck a blanket around her. “Sleep now,” he commanded, and she obeyed.

The next morning, sitting up against a tree-trunk, she obediently held out her arms for Ostar to remove the slave bells and attach the yoke once again. The sun peered through the oaks, and she frowned at the light. Then her eyes went wide with surprise. “It doesn’t hurt!” she said.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly. He glanced sharply at her, then turned and muttered something under his breath as she contemplated the marvelous lack of pain. It felt like she was back in Cavetown, safely under the surface, but she could see the sunlight. She could see the sun itself, and it didn’t hurt. It didn’t sicken her, wasn’t draining the life from her like some fiery vampire. In fact – she took an experimental breath – it felt as if she were recovering from the last two days of walking on the surface.

And if this kept up, she wouldn’t die. She’d still be alive three days from now. A week from now. For how ever long the marvel lasted.

“You should have told me!” Ostar shouted at her.

“What?”

“You should have told me that the sun was killing you. I knew the sunlight pained you, which is why I pushed our march so hard. I guessed that the Elfrealm Forest would protect you, once we reached it. But I didn’t realize that you were dying. You should have told me!”

“Why? The sun-death would be a beautiful vengeance for you, but I wasn’t going to beg. And,” she cocked her head. “Why did you think the forest would provide protection? It doesn’t stop the sun from shining down.”

“Because you’re an elf.” He waved his arm. “And this is the Elfrealm Forest. It has a dweomer on it. Not a spell, but a deeper magic that protects and blesses the elves within it.”

“I am not an elf!” She held up an arm and pointed to it. “Ebon skin.” Pulled out a lock of hair. “Pale hair.”

He reached to gently touch the side of her face. “Pointy ears,” he told her. “Elven facial features. The complexion is just a detail. And the forest-dweomer is protecting you.”

“I’m a svant-maid. My people are sundered from the woodsy-elves, and from all the races that the sun shines on. They hate and fear us, just like the sun itself does. That’s why we must be their masters, if we aren’t to be their slaves.” She tapped the fetters that still held her ankles.

“You’re my prisoner, not my slave.” He shook his head. “We can’t sit under a tree arguing philosophy all day, so I’ll just put it so: My honor requires that I keep you alive, and healthy, and unhurt. If you have any illness or injury, you tell me. Now hold out your arms for the yoke.”

Morwendi had her boots back for the march. Her legs were free, with the fetters tucked into Ostar’s pack, but she was still helpless. Her arms were tied to the improvised yoke, and she followed her captor on a rope-leash. It was just like the past two days of travel, except that now the sunlight didn’t pain and sicken her. The green things surrounding her felt alien and soothing, rather than alien and threatening. She no longer had to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, on hiding her weakness from Ostar, and that left her with spare energy to think.

They were walking deeper into the forest, and Morwendi’s spine tingled as she imagined a wood-elf ambush filling both her and Ostar with arrows. Well, maybe not Ostar: He was half a wood-elf himself, and a Hero and Ranger Lord besides. The leaf-heads would respect him, not shoot him. She, however, was a hated svant-maid, and the leaf-heads were likely to shoot her on sight. As would any human she encountered. But Ostar didn’t show any sign of hating her, despite having more reason to than the typical surface-dweller. Which was odd, Morwendi thought. Almost as odd as the trust she felt in him.

It shouldn’t be that way. He should fear and hate her, and she should have every reason to be wary of him. But he didn’t. And she wasn’t. Maybe he lacked fear because he was a Hero. And maybe she felt no wariness because of the care he took with her, the little things he did for her comfort – that he had done for her even back when she was concealing her slow death. He treated her with the same combination of authority and affection that a good svant-maid showed toward her husband. Except that she was the svant-maid here, and he – certainly wasn’t.

Ostar stopped and turned back to her. “We’re getting close to Shingletree,” he commented, then stepped back to her as she drooped. “Here, sit down now.” He eased her off her feet, and unstoppered his waterskin, holding it for her to drink.

“Thank you, my captor,” she said, retreating into formality.

He eyed her carefully, as if he suspected her of trying to hide her weakness from him. Which she was, she admitted. And the lack of sun-pain actually made it harder for her, even though she felt better than she had yesterday. “You’re not walking any further today,” he told her at last as he pulled of her boots and began to massage her feet.

Suddenly it was too much. She sobbed, and when he released her arms from the yoke she embraced him, weeping like a baby. He wrapped his own arms around her and rocked her. “There there,” he rumbled. “There there.” She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears. Her comrades would skin and salt her for showing such weakness. They weren’t here, however, and she found herself ashamed of what she had planned for Ostar, back when she had set out to hunt him after his escape. He should be punishing her, not offering her this comfort.

She eventually managed to draw back, took a shaky breath. “If you tell anyone about this,” she said. “I will cut your heart out.”

His lips twitched, and although he didn’t laugh out loud at her, he couldn’t keep the amusement from his voice. “As you wish. It’s not far to Shingletree, and I’m planning to carry you there. Can you hold on if I do?”

“If you don’t bind my legs, I’ll kick,” Morwendi threatened. “And if you don’t tie my wrists I’ll hit and scratch. My captor.”

Ostar’s lips twitched again. “And if I don’t gag you, you’ll bite?”

“Yes.” She grinned at him, showing her teeth.

Morwendi mewed through her gag. Threatening Ostar had either been a bad idea or a very good one. He was carrying her over his shoulder, making light of her weight, and each step he took sent a vibration through the rope binding her.

One end of the rope was tied thickly around her ankles, leaving her bare feet to twitch in the breeze – Ostar had thrown her boots away. No matter how she struggled, she could neither free her legs nor hurt herself. Nor could she reach the knots, with the other end of the rope tied with equal skill around her wrists, leaving her completely helpless and harmless. As for the rest of the rope, it was tied around her with cunning rudeness. If she pulled at her wrists, or kicked her legs, the rope would... stimulate her. As it would under the pulse of Ostar’s long strides if she held still.

Morwendi’s gag was a clean knotted bandage, tied in place with as much skill as the rope, and she chewed on it as the pleasure rose inside her for the third time.

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?” Ostar chuckled as Morwendi whimpered, squirmed, and went blissfully limp once again. She mewed confirmation as he continued his effortless pace.

By the time they reached Shingletree Morwendi was completely drained. Not sun-sick any more, and certainly not dying, but just happily drained. “That was good for what ailed you,” Ostar commented as he sat her on a wooden bench. Sitting beside her he removed her gag, and she leaned against him for support.

“This is Shingletree,” Ostar told her as she rested against him. “It might look like a random patch of forest if you’re not familiar with woodlands, but there are twenty-four or twenty-five tree-homes up there, and a half-dozen cottages here on the ground. I have a cottage here myself, if Barkcutter hasn’t burnt it down. And speaking of demons. Hello there Barkcutter. Have you burnt down my cottage yet? Hello Silvershaft,” he added to the female elf accompanying Barkcutter.

“Hello Ironpelt,” Barkcutter answered. “No, your cottage is still there. But what’s this?”

Ostar grinned. “This is Morwendilae Rararen. She’s an elf I found wandering around threatened by monsters when I was scouting out by the tunnel-lands. Morwendi, these are my friends Barkcutter and Silvershaft. Barkcutter doesn’t have his bow right now, so he’s mostly harmless. But watch out for Silvershaft: She’s studying to be a loremaster, and she’ll want to ask you a hundred thousand questions.”

“I’m not an elf!” Morwendi protested.

“She’s a svant!” Barkcutter said at the same time.

Silvershaft looked at Morwendi through her fingers, in the gesture that spellcasters used to observe magic auras. “There’s something uncanny about her. She has an enchantment on her, something whispering that we should hate and fear her. It isn’t working, though.”

“That shows that’s she’s an elf,” Ostar said. “The Forest Dweomer is protecting her.”

“Maybe,” Silvershaft allowed. “And maybe it’s because you’ve got her tied up so that she can’t do more than wiggle. Not that I blame you for that. I’ve heard that dark elves are like rabid animals when captured.”

“Assuming he would notice,” Barkcutter put in. “Heroes like Ironpelt have a hard time telling the difference between a rabid wolf and a sulking puppy. He wouldn’t hold a grudge if you tried to run him through,” he added in an aside to Morwendi. “ ‘Attack me? I though you were trying to surrender!’ “

Morwendi snorted softly, remembering how Ostar had drubbed her with nothing but an improvised staff. “It was almost like that.”

“I’ve also heard that dark elves sicken and die in the sunlight,” Silvershaft went on. “That obviously isn’t happening, so now I’ve got two hundred thousand questions.”

“She almost did sicken and die,” Ostar said grimly.

“I’m sorry, my captor,” Morwendi said. “I won’t try to hide it from you next time.”

The two wood-elves both looked a question, and Ostar answered: “It’s more proof that she’s an elf: She was dying from the sun, until the Forest Dweomer started protecting her. And she didn’t tell me.” He shook himself. “And speaking of which: Morwendi, I need to tell you what I plan for you. I’m going to keep you as my prisoner for the year that the Forest Law allows, and Silvershaft can ask you her two hundred thousand questions. Then I’ll send you back home to Cavetown.”

“But, but,” Morwendi gulped. “But I can’t go back to Cavetown! They won’t let me return unless I bring you back as my slave, or unless you’re dead! It’s the way of my people: A svant-elf must be a master, or else she has to be a slave. I thought you were going to collar me!”

“Keep you as a slave? I can’t do that. Thoth’s hells! It’s against everything the Forest Law stands for. If I did that, then I’d deserve to have you drag me back to Cavetown.”

“And for all the things I did to you – and was going to do to you, I deserve to be collared by you,” Morwendi answered. “It would be – justice.”

“You know, Ironpelt,” Barkcutter drawled, “I’m still not sure if Morwendi is an elf or not – but I think you found your lifemate.” He grinned. “You don’t have to make her your slave, but you could collar her. Just tell everyone that it’s a human marriage custom, from your father’s side. Wedding rings, wedding bracelets, wedding collars – who will know the difference?”

“That’s not funny,” Silvershaft said, but her lips twitched. “Ironpelt. Morwendi. If you want the advice of a friend, then don’t make any decisions at once. The Forest Law allows a year as a prisoner, and we can figure something out in that time.”

“All right,” Ostar said. “We have a year to come up with a cunning plan. But until then, Morwendi, you’re my prisoner, not my slave.”

“Yes, my captor,” Morwendi answered. “But if I’m only your prisoner, then you’ll have to keep me tied up.”

The End