Chapter Twelve: Desperation

Tranith Argan: Book 5

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Things grow increasingly dire for the elves as the autarch gives in to his fury

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In the darkness of their cells, Aren and Alessa's minds traveled different paths. He saw imprisonment as temporary, negotiation inevitable—after all, what could the autarch gain from their deaths? His military experience told him that measured responses followed tactical defeats. But his experience was all border patrols and theoretical threats, Alessa thought bitterly. She had seen the autarch's desperation firsthand, had watched his careful facade crack under pressure. She knew: desperate men made desperate choices.

Aren, who loved her for her childlike wonder about the world, found this change confusing and unwelcome. Being in a dungeon, he could understand why she would not be cheerful, but he was convinced that their outcome would turn out well. Part of Aren’s inability to think about harsh outcomes was his lack of malice toward the autarch in the first place. He had been given a mission to destroy some ships, ships that he had expected to be empty at the time. It was a journey with physical destruction at the end but not primarily one that would lead to loss of life. They were not to attack the residents of High Point. They were not to advance upon Shakaart after they were done. He had no quarrel with the autarch. It was a simple task designed to prevent some military action by the autarch.

It wasn’t personal, so why would the autarch take it so personally? Imprisonment, yes, that was a logical outcome of failure, and certainly negotiations would follow. But death? What good would that accomplish for the autarch? No, Alessa was too inexperienced to understand, and she was too young to handle these conditions, he told himself. She was scared, and who wouldn’t be if they were not already hardened militarily as he was? They would come out of this experience alive and well, and Alessa would admire and love him all the more for his maturity and courage.

For Alessa the thought process was reversed. Aren, she thought, was too inexperienced. He might have military training but when did he ever use it in a meaningful way? The elves were reduced to defensive maneuvers nowadays. They did not attack others and mostly no one attacked them. Military experience in today’s world meant patrolling the borders and making sure no threats existed against Elaria. How often had Aren been in close combat as Alessa had? Had he ever dealt with a ruler as deceitful as Namoníkkar? Did he understand the pressure the autarch must be under after reporting to Vélakk that he had captured Felanar only to then lose him to the saarks? The autarch was thinking through strained and desperate emotions now. He was capable of anything. They would be killed.

The other elves kept rehearsing in their minds how they would attempt an escape when the time came for their doors to be opened. They had no weapons, but they had much greater strength and agility than the guards they would face. There would be a chance to escape from this place, of that they were sure, and nothing Alessa said could alter that determination.

The next day passed and the following morning dawned. This was a physical fact undetectable by sight in the dungeons, but within the elves was an internal calendar that kept them aware of where in the day’s cycle they were, whether in a dungeon devoid of light or in the deepest of caves. So when the elves heard guards approaching, they knew it was early morning and they knew something of significance was about to occur. In each cell the elves moved into position. They knew not what would happen, but should a cell door be opened and they perceived a military threat instead of a negotiating party, they would do what they could to escape despite the metal bonds holding their hands and feet. An elf can do quite a bit even bound.

When the first cell door was opened and the outside light flooded in, though the elves in that cell could withstand the sudden brightness in a way that a man could not, it was quite clear both that this was a military party and that it was hopeless to fight. As the door swung open, the elves could see armed guards lined all down the corridor, scimitars raised and ready. If they killed the first guard with their bare hands, another dozen would be upon them instantly. The first elf was pulled by the chains out of the cell and ordered to follow the line of guards. This line stretched up the stairs and eventually into the main level of the palace where they stretched toward a side entrance. At no point in the line was there a gap. At no point was there a scimitar not raised in readiness.

One by one the cells were opened and the elves within led out along the line of guards. Still uncertain as to the fate the autarch held for them, but clearly worried at this reception of a guard army, one elf did try to escape upon reaching the main level of the palace. Judging a gap in the line as best he could, he suddenly lunged to his left and broke through the line, the guard he hit being knocked backward by the blow. But the elf did not get far. Several guards halted the other elves from continuing to march, while a few ran after the escaping elf. Normally it would not be a fair race, but the elf was encumbered by the chains and was soon caught. Instantly the scimitars plunged into his body and he was dead. The guards returned to the line, their scimitars again raised, and the elves were forced to continue their march toward the palace door.

The final cells were those of Aren and the captains and last of all Alessa. She had heard what was happening and she quickly pieced together what would await her outside the cell doors. She was not surprised at the line of waiting guards. The autarch must have called in reinforcements from the Hírikk Jakkír, she thought as she eyed the guards along the corridor; he is taking no chances this time. That is the problem with conflict against an adaptable enemy: if you do not succeed against him the first time, he will be better ready for you the next time. She thought how this would apply to Felanar when he attacked Shanaar the second time and her heart grew heavy at the thought.

The elves were led one at a time through the palace door and out into the sunshine, for it was a beautiful day, full of light and warmth, and then led to a wooden platform that had been built near the edge of the palace grounds. Surrounding this long low structure were crowds of people who had been corralled into the grounds by guards and forward into a semicircle around the platform. The elves were led onto the platform where they were told to kneel side by side on the rear of the platform. As each elf marched up onto the platform they could see what fate now awaited them. There was a chopping block in the front, and standing next to it was an executioner with a black hood and the largest scimitar they had ever seen. He stood there impassively staring though eye holes straight ahead and ignoring the elves. Around the platform the crowd roared. Whether they did so out of genuine love of spectacle or of fear of the guards watching the crowd was not clear, but whatever the cause they were loud and seemed to be in good spirits. As Alessa reached the platform, she thought this was the logical outcome of a people living in a militaristic society: they cheered and honored death.

For Aren and the captains, if not for Alessa, this was a shock. They could see there was no realistic way for them to escape. Not bound as they were and with so many armed guards surrounding the platform. Not with the palace walls beyond and then a city beyond that. If the city was told the elves were to be executed, everyone in the city would want to see this. Those who could not get into the palace grounds would be just as glad to see an escaping elf dragged down by the crowd and beaten to death. Further, they thought, how could they climb over the walls bound as they were. No, if they were to get out of this predicament, it would be words or nothing. Aren still didn’t fully believe he was going to die, but doubt was creeping into his heart.

The crowds cheered as the elves were marched onto the platform, and they cheered when the executioner stretched his muscles, and they cheered when the autarch appeared. A throne had been set on the edge of the platform on the side away from the executioner. Namoníkkar strode forward and took his seat with care and waved to the crowds. The people cheered and the autarch acknowledged their cheers and then waved for the crowds to grow silent. When a god gives a command, people instantly comply. The result was so sudden it startled the elves. Silence filled the air. The sun shone upon them. Namoníkkar began to speak.

“People of the Tri-Cities and of all the land of Shakaart,” he began in a strong voice, “today we celebrate a great victory for our people. Today we see the might of our land triumph over spies of an enemy. An enemy that proved itself no match for our troops, and today we see the result of those who try to attack us in an unprovoked manner. Today we witness the execution of spies!”

And with a gesture, the crowds rose to their feet and let out a mighty roar of approval for their autarch. None of them had a clear picture of what these captured elves had done. Word had spread through the city in the last couple of days that some military action in the shipyards far north had occurred, but what exactly it was depended on who you asked. Many different stories were made up and passed along as the absolute truth. So in fact most people were cheering for many different reasons. Some thought they were cheering the results of a great naval battle, others of a great land battle, others of a bunch of spies caught in the area around the city. Regardless of the cause, if the autarch said there was a great victory, they cheered with a full heart. Today was a great day for Shakaart.

As the crowd’s roar died down, Aren decided this was the time to try diplomacy.

“Autarch, do not make a mistake here,” he cried out from his kneeling position on the platform. He was not far from where the autarch was sitting, but he was situated in a place where the autarch had to face the other way and almost look behind him to see Aren. This irritated the autarch, who was enjoying the adulation of the crowd and did not want to have the ceremony spoiled by interruption.

“There is nothing for you to say, elf prisoner,” said the autarch quietly but gruffly. “The mistake was yours in attacking me in an unprovoked manner on the military field. That is punishable by death in all cultures, including yours. There is no mistake on my part to take military revenge for your aggression against my army. Now be silent and die with dignity.”

“Autarch, you will be making a big mistake if you kill us,” responded Aren. “You will bring upon yourself the wrath of the elves in a way you have never experienced. You have here the daughter of our leader. He will never rest until you are dead if you harm her in the least.”

“Silence!” cried the autarch as he leaped from his throne with a reddened face. He was losing the moment again and he would not let that happen. Not to a prisoner of war. He gestured to two of the guards and they walked over to Aren and picked him up and dragged him toward the chopping block. “Since you spoke up, you will go first,” said the autarch as he sat back down. “Watch, my people, watch and see how the autarch deals with those who resist his rule.”