In the High Pass

by Alcuin Fromm

Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

conclusion

Pavill had lost the desire to live by the time he saw the distant Ælliri encampment high up the valley. No longer a man, he felt instead like a desiccated, soulless husk blown about by the wind. He made no exterior recognition of the spot where Cenn had died as he slowly plodded past it, sensing only his despondency intensify at the memory.

When the two Fmoi trotted out to meet him and the seventy-four survivors of the once nearly eight-hundred-man army, he could not even muster the strength to be surprised. The creatures slowed and stopped in front of him, gazing between themselves and the ragged, demoralized soldiers. Pavill hoped the things would kill him, but instead, one of them only motioned with three arms for him to follow. He resigned himself and followed.

Pavill read clearly the destruction and mayhem that the camp and its few surviving inhabitants had suffered during his ill-fated absence. The infirmary tent bustled with activity, a black column of smoke rose from the southeast where the corpses of the fallen enemy burned, hammers pounded to repair the palisade gate, and anvils chimed the production of new weapons.

Atop one of the tents flapped a griffon banner of House Ælliri unique to the entourage of the duke. Not far from the duke’s tent stood a new pavilion adorned for the Three Days’ Vigil. His father had returned and Doustian had died, Pavill thought. He absorbed both these realizations into the black pit of his misery, showing no outward sign.

The Fmoi led him to Duke Rikkon’s tent. They bowed and left after ushering Pavill inside. Pavill, who did not know how to interact with a Fmos and cared less than ever for etiquette, made no response.

A man sat on a low couch at the far side of the tent, absorbed in a small, leather-bound volume. Pavill recognized Zennago, an Ælliri advisor and one of Duke Rikkon’s personal aides. Pavill stood silently for nearly a minute before the man noticed his arrival.

“Lord Pavill,” said Zennago, looking up with a bright smile. “What a relief!”

The man stood and darted over to Pavill, greeting him with a military salute. Pavill did not return the salute. Zennago frowned, seeing the desolation on the man’s face.

“Your father is taking a watch of the Three Days’ Vigil for... for your brother... Doustian has died.”

“How?” asked Pavill, his voice raw and grating.

Zennago looked troubled. “The surgeon would not give us details, but Duke Rikkon and I saw the body ourselves.” He swallowed hard, shuddered, and frowned in revulsion. All we know for certain is that it was the work of black magic. The Art, as the monsters call it. But Doustian fought valiantly until the very last. Everyone attests to it.”

Pavill slumped down onto a chair near a glowing brazier. He shivered despite the warmth of the burning coals.

“I would not expect anything less,” he said flatly.

“We arrived at the very end of the battle. Too late for Doustian, I’m afraid, but not too late to turn the tide of the fighting. These Fmoi are simply unbelievable.”

Zennago pulled a chair closer to Pavill, sat down, and launched into a breathless report.

“We had been stalked by brigands of Emter Noon, not far from the cave entrance that your father had sought. They surrounded our camp one night. Your father decided to split our group the next morning to evade them. Our half tried to draw off the attackers and lure them into the cave. It was a good plan and should have let Cenn and his men break free and ride back to camp. Apparently, something went wrong, I still don’t know what. We only found out about Cenn’s death yesterday, after the fighting ended here.

“Once we got safely into the caves, your father resolved to complete his mission as he had planned. We went through tunnels and passages, and the duke brought us to an underground city of the Fmoi. How he knew about it and how he found it, I will never know. You cannot imagine a city like this. Bottomless pits are lined up and down with the openings of tunnels and massive, ornate building facades carved right out of the rock. Stairs and bridges crisscross everything like spiderwebs. The Fmoi can climb sheer cliffs as easily as you and I would go for a stroll on the beach. They can see in near-total darkness. They are a strange and formidable race.

“Even now, we are still in the midst of negotiations, but your father convinced them sufficiently of the growing danger for both our races from Viscount Myronokor and the Guild. The battle yesterday ought to quell any final reservations they might have had. The Fmoi agreed to accompany us with a small expeditionary force, and they knew of an exit out of their mountain realm not far from our encampment. The first thing we saw when we came out was a huge enemy force besieging the camp. It only took a word for the Fmoi to attack. What grace of Providence!”

Pavill said nothing, allowing the excited man to tell his tale. After a long pause, Zennago said, “Do you have any idea why Viscount Myronokor attacked so suddenly? And without provocation? What does he have to gain from this?”

“Nothing,” said a deep voice from behind Pavill. “This is all Guild treachery to be sure.”

Zennago stood immediately, but Pavill did not move, knowing who had entered. Duke Rikkon stepped into the tent and walked over to his son. Rikkon’s face twisted with conflicting sorrow and joy. He struggled to maintain his composure.

“Would you please give us a moment, Zennago?”

“Yes, of course, my lord.”

The aide bowed and raced out of the tent, leaving Rikkon and Pavill alone.

“I am glad you are alive, my son.” said Rikkon, his eyes blinking back tears. “My only son.”

“You should not be,” said Pavill quietly. He remained seated and stared at the ground to avoid his father’s eyes. “I am the only one who does not deserve to be alive.”

Rikkon sighed and walked over to his writing stand, surreptitiously wiping away his tears before sitting and leaning his muscular forearms onto the stand. Pavill briefly recounted the events of the past week, emphasizing the role of his own anger and desire for revenge.

When he had finished, Rikkon sat pensively for a long time. Pavill did not stir. Finally, Rikkon breathed deeply and exhaled with a certain finality, as if he had decided something.

“We cannot change the past, my son,” he said softly. “What has happened, has happened. I do not question your ends, but the means and motivations were wrong. Terribly wrong. All we can do is learn from our failures and get back up. That is what makes a true man.”

Pavill’s face deformed into an expression of disgust. “I have murdered my brother!” he shouted. “I have murdered hundreds of good men through my lust for revenge!”

Pavill stood, unbelted his soldier’s sword with fumbling, shaking hands and slammed it onto the writing stand. Rikkon leaned back to avoid being struck by the sheathed blade. He stared with wide eyes, but said nothing.

“I renounce my title as Margrave. I renounce my very sonship. I am fit for neither.” He spat the words with loathing and disgust.

“I would present you my Ælliri blade, but I have destroyed that in my rage.” He laughed at himself mockingly.

“Further proof of my lack of worth. I shall leave this day and... and go... go somewhere and die where I cannot plague House Ælliri nor the world with my villainy!”

Pavill’s face glowed red and he breathed hard. Rikkon stared at his son, heir apparent to the Duchy of Ælliri, fourth in succession to the title of King.

“Are you quite finished?” said Rikkon.

Pavill blinked and nodded.

“Good, then, now that you have had your childish tantrum, let us speak as men. There is only one response to the tragic events of this hellish week and the destruction of the Second Army.” He paused. “And that is to place you in command of the First Army.”

“What?”

Rikkon stood, his eyes blazing. “Do you think that you can run away from your responsibility like a spoiled whelp? Do you think that your selfishness can be cured by more selfishness? I have not raised pusillanimous, emasculated jackasses! That blood in your veins is not merely your own, but it also belongs to me, and to Cenn, and to Doustian!

“And I will not accept that my sons have spilled our blood in vain. Neither by your mistakes...” He collapsed back onto his seat, his forehead deeply furrowed and his mouth a trembling frown. “Nor by my own,” he said in a whisper.

Neither man looked at the other, and the air seemed to vanish from the tent.

“But I cannot force you,” said Rikkon in a quiet, sad voice, “because I love you, my son. My only son. Love does not force itself, for that would not be love at all. You are brilliant and cunning and fearless, but you do not know wisdom. Perhaps... perhaps neither do I. But let us search it out and find it, Pavill, you and I together.” He sighed. “I can only ask you to stand back up and continue to fight at my side.”

In that moment, Pavill recognized the greatness of his father, a greatness that Doustian had perfectly adopted and emulated. The duke’s strength did not consist in bending the wills of others, but in bending his own will to what was good, and just, and right. He was victorious not by achieving goals, but by rising from defeat and persevering. He led by the example of his honor and his sacrifice. Just like Doustian, thought Pavill. A vague, inchoate notion dawned on him that the world might belie many more unseen truths that he had never considered before.

Silence pounded in the men’s ears. Pavill took a step forward and picked up his sword, carefully belting it around his waist. He saluted his father, who returned the salute. Neither man made eye contact. Neither man needed to.

* * *

Pavill sat on a bench outside the empty refectory tent. The soft light from the setting sun had long ago faded and disappeared. Torches here and there offered small islands of light, but the tranquil camp was otherwise in darkness. The stars and the moons hid behind clouds, and he shivered in the biting mountain air.

After the meeting his father, Pavill had spent the rest of the day avoiding one thing. Despite his extreme fatigue, he could not sleep, and despite having eaten next to nothing in the last two days, he felt no hunger. He had tried in vain to busy himself, but the one thing had kept gnawing at him. The closest he could get was the bench outside the refectory tent where he sat and had been sitting for almost two hours.

Twenty paces away was Doustian’s funerary pavilion.

Pavill had observed the soldiers and officers come and go, paying their respects to the dead, praying for his soul, or doing Pavill knew not what. He kept track of the men’s movements. Some would stay only briefly, while others did not leave for five, ten, or even twenty minutes. They all seem so serious, so intent on something, Pavill thought.

Shortly after the beginning of the second watch, Duke Rikkon entered the tent to join one other man already inside. Pavill estimated that nearly a half-hour passed before the duke re-emerged, rubbing his face with both hands. Rikkon looked up into the night sky, then began walking towards his tent. Just before he passed by Pavill, the duke noticed his son seated in the gloomy shadows. Rikkon stopped and looked at Pavill, then walked over to him, squeezed his shoulder firmly and continued on his way without a word.

Pavill took a deep, shaking breath, stood, and walked to the pavilion. He paused, but finally lifted the flap and stepped in. Doustian’s coffin sat in the middle, raised off the ground to waist height by an unseen support. A black cloth, ornately embroidered in silver along its edges, draped over the coffin and pooled in elegant folds of fabric on the ground. Four tall tripods lit the tent and a fresh, herbal aroma scented the air. Slumped forward and snoring, a soldier sat on a stool.

Pavill walked to the soldier and roused the man, who glanced all around him in confusion before recalling where he was.

“You may go, soldier,” said Pavill.

“Yes, my lord.”

The soldier left and Pavill found himself alone with the body of Doustian.

He paced back and forth for a moment, then sat on the stool and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. Then he stood, paced again, and returned to the stool, agitated and nervous. Pavill stared intently at the coffin, not knowing what to do, not knowing what to expect. Out of the roiling sea of passions in his heart, frustration and a sense of powerlessness rose to the surface.

“All right. You win, Brother,” he said, throwing up his arms and letting them fall back down. “You win. I concede defeat.”

He stood and began circling the coffin, turning to it occasionally and gesturing.

“You were right about the error of pursing Emter. He was working together with the Guildsman to set a trap. We walked right... I walked right into it. Emter hid behind an army tainted by black magic, the pathetic coward. Klyte-Ara could have bested him with a kitchen knife. The devil warlock on the other hand...” Pavill shivered and suppressed the terrible memory, turning back to the coffin.

“You were right about Father. I feel I met him for the very first time today.” He laughed bitterly.

“You were even right about the damned, freak mythical Fmoi who are now wandering through the camp like some ancient legend come to life. You were right about everything.”

He paused, wobbling for a second. “You have always been right.”

He fell to his knees. “Damn you, Doustian! Everything I believed is as ashes now because of you. There’s only... doubt and uncertainty left for me. I don’t know what to believe anymore. Are you still alive somewhere, floating in a void without a body? But now you’re... you’re... You bastard! Why did you leave me now... now that I need your help? Need... your wisdom. What do I... what...”

Pavill wrapped his arms around his chest and fell forward, smacking his forehead viciously against the ground. All his pent-up emotions flowed out in a deluge of tears and pitiful sobs. He screamed into the dusty ground until his throat was raw. Only two discernible words emerged from the horrible wails of grief and guilt, repeated over and over again. “Forgive me... forgive me...”

When it had finished and Pavill had nothing left of his soul to purge, a calm gradually came over him. He felt no less sorrowful, but the stab of guilt had subsided and the vestigial ache of sadness seemed no longer to be colored by despair and hopelessness.

He slowly rose to his feet and collapsed onto the stool, barely able to keep himself erect. Then he closed his eyes and prayed. It was the first honest prayer in his life. He did not use words, but simply lifted his heart towards the Creator. And with newfound, unfamiliar humility, his heart asked for wisdom.

Time passed and Pavill remained in the pavilion until another soldier opened the flap and entered, standing stolidly with his arms folded and his eyes downturned. Pavill rose and motioned to the stool before staggering out of the tent.

Outside, dawn was breaking. The clouds had passed and the sky had cleared. Pavill walked to the edge of the camp to get a better look at the sunrise, feeling strangely drawn to it. He put his hands on his hips and stretched his back after the long, sleepless night. Something poked his left forearm. He looked down. The hilt of his sword was no longer the simple grip of a standard-issue soldier’s sword, but the ornate haft of his own ancestral Ælliri blade with its handguard of intricately intertwined griffon wings.

He nodded as if to greet the sword, and somehow, he was not surprised. It felt good and right. He thought of the voice in the forest and its threatening ultimatum, and he realized that he had, indeed, made his choice. He knew it was not the easy or the pleasant choice, but it was the wise choice.

Then the Margrave Pavill of Ælliri raised his weary head. He blinked back tears and thought to himself that the Realms of the Hallowed Dead might resemble the majestic vista sprawling before him as he looked out over the High Pass at the break of dawn.

Copyright © 2022 by Alcuin Fromm