Published at 9th of September 2025 12:37 pm

Book 5: Chapter 26 Opening of the Game [Part 2]

This chapter is updated by JustRead.pl

Captain Tikirit—clad in his lavish bronze armor etched with strange, arcane patterns and woven through with an alien dark material—barked out orders for our contingent. A soldier approached and asked if I would accompany the Captain to parley with the elves. I agreed, remembering too well my first run-in with their kind outside the tent city of Ansan. My simmering annoyance at elves, barely contained, threatened to ignite into a deep, seething anger. It demanded an outlet, but I was able to maintain my control over it.

I would master it, not have it master me. When I unleashed it would only be by my choice and design.

Our group marched forward, ten of us in total, to match the elves’ number. Before we started out across to the neutral ground, I glanced back at the walls of Al-Lazar behind us. There, I spied the faint glint of Farzan’s long glasses trained on our meeting, evidence that we had watchers on the ramparts. At least this encounter would be witnessed.

As we approached, the elves greeted us with thinly veiled smirks playing upon their infuriatingly perfect features. And to my mild surprise, I saw several women among their warriors, each appearing just as haughty as the men. Their race was beautiful in a way that was almost unnatural, as though touched by something ancient and other. In them, I saw a purer echo of the half-elven child Larynda’s features—though these elves were far more refined and, at present, far more insufferable.

“We see you, Dayspawn,” one of them called out in Trade, voice smooth and musical. “Come sit. Refreshments have been prepared for your kind.”

It was a greeting and a slight wrapped neatly together. Every elf there smiled with the barest hint of contempt.

“May the eyes of the hallowed gods not fall upon you,” Captain Tikirit answered stiffly, offering a formal Quassian salutation. He did not smile, but took a seat at their table. Our entourage, seeing this as a signal, sat as bidden—except for me.

I deliberately remained standing. I chose to do so, thinking the fragile chairs would not support the weight of my armor and fearing the loss of face falling on my behind would bring.

“First, let us drink tea,” their leader announced with a patronizing lilt, the annoying manner of foreigners mocking the local speech. “That all might see we speak in the manner of peace. That one, why does he not sit with us?”

He was pale, with hair a moonlight platinum, tied high in a sleek ponytail. Neither age nor the harsh touch of the sun had left a single mark on his angular face. He wore a combination of fine chainmail and richly colored livery embroidered with gold and silver like the rest of his entourage, though his gear seemed of a finer, more impressive make. Nearby, I heard some of his companions titter in their own tongue, low remarks no doubt passing among them like a private joke.

Annoyed at this display of rudeness, I sent Identify to work and gleaned a translation. They were plotting something to poison us. I caught fragments of their sneering commentary: wagers on who among us might succumb first. Despite the identical pot from which they poured their own cups, I suspected a trick with the cups themselves or a separate additive. Their arrogance was staggering. I itched to respond immediately, but I knew timing was everything.

“You will forgive me if I do not sit,” I answered in my clumsy, broken Elvish, or whatever their savage speech might be called. This caused a flicker of annoyance to mar the sneers of their contempt. “I fear your chairs might not bear the weight of my armor.”

I took the momentary lull to lean in and whisper a warning to Tikirit, who stiffened in his seat as I spoke. The tension gathered thick in the air.

“It is the custom among our people to ensure safety,” Tikirit lied brazenly, loud enough for all to hear. “Perhaps one of your servants might taste the brew first?”

“Of course,” said the elven commander, that smug smile never faltering. He snapped his fingers. A human servant stumbled forward, dread written in every line of his body.

“Only,” their leader said slowly, “if one of yours also drinks from the same cup—simultaneously. Refusal would be a grave insult among our people. Drinking together is a sign of peaceful intent.”

“But of course,” Tikirit answered smoothly, taking up the gauntlet.

“I will do this, Captain,” I whispered in High Quassian, eager to turn their condescension back on itself.

I pulled off my helm, meeting their gazes, and lifted the delicate jade cup, raising it in a mock salute to the trembling servant. He quaked under my gaze but dutifully brought his own cup to his lips. We drank together. The tea burned its way down my throat like a living flame. I felt and saw my Health ebb momentarily, but my high Constitution and regenerative abilities seized the poison and arrested its spread. All without even the use of the Purify spell.

The servant’s fate was far more tragic. He collapsed, thrashing in violent spasms as foam frothed at his mouth. Shock lit his eyes for a moment, then the light in them died. Around me, the elves looked at the pitiful display with blithe detachment, as though a human life was less worthy than the tea spilled on the ground.

“This tea,” I murmured, lowering my cup, “has quite a bite. Though I think it best that the rest of us refrain from sampling any more of their hospitality.”

Tikirit’s eyes flicked toward me briefly. “Your forms have been observed,” he said, turning back to the elves. “We have shown we mean to talk in good faith, yet it seems that you tried to poison us. Perhaps we can dispense with pleasantries and get to the point.”

Their leader feigned a gracious nod, then regarded Tikirit much the same way a teacher might eye a slow-witted pupil. “So direct you are. So hurried. Very well then, I will grant you the great honor of my esteemed name. I am Lechilod Lugnarlinae, Tirawar Kaelanon of the Cutting Fleet and commander of this expedition.” He sounded as though he deigned to speak only for his own personal amusement.

Abdul Tikirit of Al-Lazar refused to meet the elf’s politeness with any of his own. “So just tell us, what do you want? Clearly it isn’t friendly trade.”

Lechilod quirked a pale brow. “Again, such bluntness. An affliction common to your race.” He gave a delicate shrug. “Consider it a test—an assessment of your perceptiveness and worthiness to join us. You have passed… but barely.” The elf’s golden gaze flicked dismissively to me before returning to Tikirit. “Now, to more important matters. Our king demands your fealty under a geas, of course. One in every five of your people will be taken across the ocean… as chattel, I believe you call it. Slaves or indentured servants, it matters not.”

My hands clenched into fists at his words.

“And in return,” Lechilod went on, “we shall allow one among you to serve as Satrap ruling in our king’s name. A generous arrangement, wouldn’t you say?”

“Al-Lazar is a free city. There are no slaves here,” Tikirit growled, white-knuckling the arms of his chair. “And what makes you think we’d ever submit to these ridiculous demands?”

Lechilod’s laugh was as musical as it was scornful. “Ah, but you are not the leader here, yes? We have no reason to justify ourselves to primitive, lesser races. You should be glad for what you are given.” He cast a pitying glance toward the dead servant sprawled in the dust. “Still, if it pleases us, we shall let you carry our message back to whoever cowers behind your walls. We are allied with the beings of the sea—enough power to starve you or take your city by force if it comes to that. Believe me, those walls of yours will not stop us from having what we want.”

His final words carried a chill that sank into the party’s bones. At least we had gleaned some information: they had made allies of the Mer. We had little choice but to return and deliver the news of this unholy alliance.

Lechilod, apparently bored now that he’d revealed his plans, straightened with a condescending smile. Perhaps he had realized his mistake in revealing too much, but he covered it well.

“And you,” the elf said, voice dripping with mock courtesy. “Run back to your masters. Tell them what our king demands. And do hurry. I feel my amusement waning with each passing moment.”

I stood there, seething, every fiber of my being howling for retribution. My gaze drifted toward the elven line, where their cavalry was slowly forming up, infantry parting like waves to clear a path for the riders. A sudden, feverish inspiration flashed through my mind. Leaning closer to Captain Tikirit, I whispered my plan—a dire warning calculated to suit my own ends.

“You can’t be serious,” he murmured in halting High Quassian, his eyes darting nervously toward the elves.

I simply nodded, offering a casual shrug.

“We request an exchange of hostages while I bring your words to our leader,” Captain Tikirit declared, voice tight with the tension of the moment. “To show your sincerity. We offer Gilgamesh, First Tamkar of the Salahaem, as a hostage for the honor of Al-Lazar.”

“Very well. Then we shall provide you with a hostage of equal worth,” the elf said with a cold laugh, one utterly devoid of humor. He jabbed a long, pale finger toward one of the trembling servants who had set up the meeting ground.

The servant practically bolted to join us, relief at leaving the elves evident in every hurried step. The Al-Lazarian group began to depart for their lines, moving slowly enough to maintain the pretense of delivering the message. This was now all about buying time—time enough for Tikirit to slip back to the city and warn Farzan.

“Your arms and armor, First Tamkar,” another elf demanded. This one, a woman with a shock of orange hair, sneered at me.

“Surely you do not fear a lowly Dayspawn such as I?” I asked, voice dripping with mock humility.

Outrage flared across her otherwise flawless features. “Of course we don’t fear a single...”

I cut her off smoothly, angling to exploit their smug, misplaced superiority. “I have an interesting animal for a mount,” I said, pointing to Longhorn a hundred yards away. “I would like to show him to you. Perhaps you have never seen one of his kind before?”

“I’m more interested in how you survived lesser Dragonroot tea,” one of the elves, interjected with a thin, false smile. “Perhaps it has something to do with that creature’s horn. I might even make it into an ornament someday. Still, I will allow this little demonstration.”

“You dare go over my head, Fanon?” hissed another elf, Lechilod Lugnarlinae, in their own musical tongue. “You think yourself the Tirawar Kaelanon now?”

Fanon’s expression remained infuriatingly composed. “You take yourself far too seriously since the king appointed you. A gift of twenty trained slaves upon our return, if you allow me to indulge my curiosity.”

The elf leader—their Tirawar Kaelanon—gave Fanon a long, considering look, then smiled. “Fine. I can deny those eyes nothing.” He turned toward me, his lip curling. “I will allow it, Dayspawn.”

“Then by your leave,” I replied, bowing low for effect. “Have Longhorn brought to me!” I shouted back to the Al-Lazarian line.

Captain Tikirit acknowledged with a sharp, precise gesture, barking orders. Moments later, a cavalryman on his lithe Huzayfaar led Longhorn forward, the Second Horn still mounted on the beast’s elaborate harness.

Reaching up, I gently patted the Lumashitu just above his brow—knowing, somehow, that was a soothing spot. Longhorn relaxed at once, loosing a low, resonant bellow that vibrated in my chest. Monster Taming skill or not, I could not believe how easily he responded.

Fanon approached, his fascination plain. “So, how exactly does one ride such a creature?”

“If you like,” I offered, mustering the most obsequious smile I could manage, “I will give you a demonstration.”

He laughed, a brittle, condescending sound. “Of course! I do say, you primitives are far more accommodating than I expected. If we had known it would be this simple to put you lot in your place, we wouldn’t have bothered sending Champion Alexandros along with us.”

I could not believe how easily this was going. Did my recent gains in Charisma have something to do with it? I noticed, too, Tirawar Kaelanon’s glare at the mention of Alexandros, a dark flash of warning passing between them. But Fanon continued to smile with smug indifference.

They have no idea, I thought, my heart hammering, my loins stirring in anticipation. Their arrogance would be their sweet undoing.

Share