The Silver General :;: Written Drabble of Cyanide

Prologue

The first thing she felt in ages were warm hands on her cooling skin. This confused and aggravated the semi-conscious woman, and a snarl worked its way past her dry and cracking lips.

"She's awake," a voice noted from her side. If her arms were not bound the voice would have ended swiftly on her blade.

Her first clue to her captor's identity was the voice, the language spoken was not her own. It was the crude language the humans used, barbaric and rough to her ears trained for delicacy. The second was the dark tint of his skin when she managed to open her eyes.

A mountain dweller, humans who reside in the mountains to the north, was the one who spoke on her left side. "Hey, the pointy eared one is awake," repeated the dark skinned human, his large fist rebounding from the wooden planks of the caravan.

During the distraction the woman took a moment to survey her location: closed caravan made of wood stripped from a living tree. Aside from the simple construction she noted the doors in the back had no visible locks, they must have locked her from the outside. There were others bound in the wagon, another elf with wicked scars down his aged face, and two human men with remarkable similarities. There was also a second mountain dweller guard sitting near the wagons exit, his murky face spread wide with a grin. "Maybe we's can have some fun with the pretty one," he continued to grin tongue dancing over dark lips.

"Hush Rulin, she may look weak but we saw what she can do, she'll cleave you in twine with bare hands,” replied the first guard.

"You know not whom you deal with," muttered the scarred elf. The female tilted her head to regard him; he was not one of hers. But her legend was spread wide across the lands, The Silver General, was her title and one she did not acquire for no reason.

"Watch y'er mouth, cur!" One of the guards hollered before backhanding the elf, who took it without complaint. The bound female merely nodded her head in mute thanks, though the simple motion reminded her of the open wound on her scalp.

Things suddenly came to a halt and noise erupted outside of the caravan, the two guards pursed their lips in confusion, "Why are we stopped?" asked the one near the exit.

"Dunno," muttered the first one, his hand connecting with the separation between the driver and the prisoners. "Hey! Gualt! What's going on?" He got no reply.

This caused panic to raze the caravan; the dark male nearest the door began to yell out for the others to open the door, and began throwing himself at it.

When the lock did break he fell out into the muddy road. It was nearing dusk and rain fell from a clouded sky. But alongside with the miserable weather came a miserable scene: all of the guards that had been moving along with the caravan were slain and lying in the mud, bandits stood over their bodies with blades slick in their blood.

The two human guards quickly rose to the occasion, grasping their blades in shaking hands. The sight disgusted the bound general and she snorted her displeasure as they rushed to their death. The first fell quickly as the human prisoners moved to escape, whereas the female elf used a blade propped on a body to cut her binds.

The fight ended quickly after that. The woman danced through her opponents, borrowed blade heavy in her hands. The last of the bandits fell once his head was removed from his body; the woman once decorated in silver armor threw down her blade and twisted her body to face the remaining guard, the one who had pounded on the separator for help.

Her face was a mask of distaste, delicate features now visible in the dim light of the evening. Scars marred a once beautiful face, long delicate ears were torn, and hair the color of a sunset cascaded loosely down her back, now that it escaped from its hold on the back of her neck. "Useless," she spat at the human cowering at her. "Little bandits and your people all die, how you think you have a chance is beyond me,” her voice was surprisingly soft, musical even. The words were broken, it wasn’t often an elf would lower themselves to speak in the human tongue.

Her eyes flicked away from the guard to the three other prisoners, all watching in wonder. Her lips stayed tightly drawn as she regarded them. They obviously had all held blades before, and they had to be slightly useful to be taken prisoner as she was.

"Find weapons and come along, or stay here and die with this filth.”

Part One

The sun pierced through the soft curtains hanging over the eastern window in my room, I groaned softly and rolled onto my stomach, covering my head with my arms. I wasn’t quite ready to be up, my body was sore from days of training new recruits and I had no real push to get myself onto my feet. The patter of bare feet along the stone floors below me finally roused me to fully awaken, rubbing sleep from my tired eyes.

I yawned loudly and widely as I trekked to the wash basin kept under a slightly dusty mirror. I scratched the side of my head with another yawn, before rubbing my hand across the scruff along my chin that came with a long night’s rest. Muttering under my breath I found my blade and began my daily routine.

Since coming to Riverton my life had been struck dull with routine and discipline, boring in comparison to the life I’d come from, living in the field and fighting on the front lines. I splashed the cool water along my clean-shaven face to keep me from thinking of the battles. They were bloody, and the Elves we fought were always a step or two ahead… I think it has to do with the hundreds of years they had to train; immortality sure had its advantages.

Sighing gently I dressed myself for the day’s events, more training, lunch, training, dinner, sleep. I had to keep the disappointment from my eyes as I passed through the barracks, nodding absently at the servants, cooks and other knights and soldiers.

“Good morning Sir Garret,” sang a voice behind me. I had to turn and peer down at the girl who’d greeted me, something she did every day.

“Morning Isabel,” I intoned, trying in vain to avoid her gaze. She was a pretty young thing, a frame I could easily toss about, short straw-colored hair, big green eyes. When she caught my eyes I gave her a gentle smile, I had no desire to have to break the young things heart as she passed me a half-loaf of fresh bread. I thanked her and dug into my hand delivered breakfast.

Isabel wasn’t a bad girl, young, foolish, but not a bad choice for a man who was verging on his peak, still unmarried and without heirs. It was hard to think of marriage and heirs when I was training young men, Isabel’s age to go fight in a war we were losing.

Pushing back the thoughts I walked out into the field, men in gleaming armor were lined facing each other. Confusion was my first thought, but with realization I had to swear and stash away my bread and brush crumbs from my chest. I could see the other knights lined across the courtyard from myself, whispering among themselves. After waving me over I jogged to them, raising a brow in question.

“Good to see you’re awake,” intoned possibly the most boring knight I’d ever encountered: Sir Fredrick of Riverton. He had years of service under his belt, but had never truly fought in any battle. He was more of a historian than anything, his bushy greying beard moved just as slowly as the rest of him as he spoke. “You know what’s going on?”

“Not I, Sir,” it was hard knowing that Fredrick out-ranked me when I’d done more for our people than he could have ever hoped for, but I easily disguised my distaste for confusion, peering to my other side to one knight I did actually respect. Sir Gault of Helden was a burly man, easily dwarfing me. Now I’m not a small man myself, but Gault was of a different breed all together. The talk around the barracks said his family came from a line of giants, something of mere myth I’m sure.

His brows shot up as I looked at him, as if daring me to ask him what he knew, so I did. “How about you Gault,” last time I tacked on the sir he had smacked me so hard I’d nearly fallen over backwards—not something one wishes to do in full plate.

“Not a thing,” his voice was gruff, low, and very much menacing. He spoke with the accent of the people of Helden, a mountain town filled with large people who spoke little. It was rumored that even the women there could grow beards. “But me thinks we’ll know soon.”

My eyes followed his pointed finger, brows raising as I saw what it was… a single messenger, colored in the King’s bright colors of purple, green and gold. As the trumpets blared the messenger rode his horse through the lined knights, his face etched with worry and exhaustion. He came straight to our group, looking to Sir Fredrick before even noticing the rest of us. “I have an urgent message for the Earl,” he was panting and it seemed as if his horse was about to drop.

“Here,” I offered a hand to him, “Allow me to take your horse to the stables, they will bring you to the Earl.”

The man nearly collapsed off his horse, his knees trembling with either nerves or from riding so long. I nodded my head low to my other knights before pulling the horde with me to the stables. Many of the other knights here would never lower themselves to something as simple as bringing a horse to the stables, but unlike those men, I remembered what it was like to be a page. There was much too much for them to do, and I had the time now that this had happened.

What I had not expected was the summons to the Earl’s chambers shortly after the messenger arrived.

I hurried across the courtyard and into the large hall of our Earl. He was a good man, not all that intelligent, but that’s why he had advisors. As I entered I noticed how many knights lined the walls this morning, some in full armor, others like me still in common clothing. I was waved up to stand with Gault and Fredrick next to the messenger. Sitting just above us on a chair reminiscent of a throne was an older man, with fading brown hair, a massive mustache and bright clothing.The Earl, Lord Quienten, sat almost uncomfortably upon his chair. Behind him stood his wife, she was just slightly younger than he, with a long face and an even longer nose. Her hair was stringy and brown and clung to everything is touched, Lady Filma.

“Sir Garret, glad you could join us,” he said slowly, his thick neck working hard to get the words out. “Now, messenger of our king, what do you bring?”

I watched as the young man fidgeted. Now that I stood next to him I could see he could be not even be an adult yet. He stood eye-level with my chest, his hair was shortly cropped to his ears a dark color that reminded me of the magical trees that lined the Elves lands. His limbs were thin and shaking as he unrolled the scroll, dulled green eyes darting from side to side as he tried to find his voice. “We received a report three nights ago from the east,” his hands were trembling as he unrolled the scroll fully. “Sir Danick of Moria fought valiantly against the forces of the Silver General.” Everyone in the room stilled at the name, myself included.

The Silver General was one of the most renowned human-slayers of recent history. I’ve never fought against him or his troops, but it was said he was huge in comparison to his men and he fought with a bloodlust that left his enemies struck blind until they were dead. Not many survived against him, when the Silver General come to the field most of our troops had been taught to flee, because their lives were worth more than that. He was unstoppable.

Everyone in the room bowed their heads, ready to say prayer for our fallen brother—“Although Sir Danick’s condition is dire we received word that he made the General’s forces fall back… and that he took him prisoner.”

I couldn’t help the disbelief in my eyes as I gaped at the messenger.

“But…” Our heads all snapped back to regard the boy, trembling before the watchful eyes of the Earl, “he escaped, along with some of the other prisoners being brought back to Moria, the king has asked that you send your strongest knights in pursuit of the General. He cannot be allowed to live.”

The only noise in the room was the sound of parchment being rolled as the Earl watched the poor messenger. Lord Quienten huffed a sigh and shifted in his chair, bringing all eyes to him. Except mine, I watched the messenger as she tried to make himself smaller. “We shall not disappoint our king,” he said finally, peering out to the knights in the room. Eyes falling over Gault, Fredrick and me at last. “You three, gather your strongest men, knights or not. You leave at dawn to find and finish this General.”