Warlord by Robert J. Crane Page A

branch. All he could see outside was darkness, but for the brief moments he was climbing outside, he could hear the sway of branches, the shifting and rustling of leaves, and the sounds of a jungle at night.
    Once off the ladder, he was led forward again to another glowing pinprick of light in the distance. It grew before his eyes until he could see another hollowed tree ahead. Soon enough they emerged onto another carved spiral, leaving Cyrus to wonder how long it had taken to achieve this particular marvel of carpentry.
    “Welcome to Blayy’strodd,” Cora said quietly as she gestured for them to ascend the spiral ramp. The air was even wetter in here, and had a pungent yet somehow clean odor to it that wafted up from somewhere far below. He looked over the side of the spiral and caught the shine of a reflection down in the center of the cylindrical space.
    “The wellspring,” Vara said, causing Cyrus to frown again. “What?” she asked.
    “I, uh … didn’t quite translate that the same as you did.”
    “Of course not,” Vara said, scoffing as she followed Cora. “I’ve been speaking the human tongue my whole life. When did you start learning elvish?”
    “Around the time he realized his heart’s desire was to get you out of your armor,” Martaina muttered under her breath.
    Vara turned and, rather than the anger he expected to see, there was mischief instead in her eyes, and a smile that curved her lips most curiously. “I like to think I’m worth at least learning another language for. Why, I’m practically a cultural ambassador for my people.”
    “That’s a title I’ve never heard ascribed to you,” Mendicant said without irony. “Though I don’t think the others are quite as kind …”
    “This way,” Cora said, leading them up two loops of the spiral. Cyrus strained, his legs protesting against the hard climb after the long day’s journey. He suspected it would not be long until the morning sun made its first appearance, and his body was weary. “Not much farther now,” she said.
    They stopped outside a door that was carved into the wood, just like all the others. Cora did not bother to knock, instead pushing through; there was no handle. The door swung loosely, mounted to its frame by the most curious metal. It gleamed in the light in a very familiar way, but he was left with no time to study it further, as Curatio harrumphed and Cyrus was forced to move into the room to clear the way for the others.
    He found himself in what was plainly a council chamber of some sort. It was very much like Sanctuary’s to his eyes, though it was all wood instead of stone, and lacked any hearth. It did, however, have a few torches on wall sconces, already burning. At its center was a small table with only four seats. Three of them were already occupied.
    “Cyrus Davidon,” Cora said, stepping in to make introductions, “this is our council—”
    “Got that,” Cyrus said, looking at the elves in the chairs.
    They were very distinct individuals, and he took them in with a glance. Two of them were women, one short and hearty, looking at him through weathered eyes and skin, exhibiting what Cyrus knew the Elves called ‘The Turn,’ when the first hints of age began to show on their faces. Her hair was faint grey, and she wore pants and a tunic that looked like they’d been dirty more than they’d been clean. “Fredaula,” she said when she caught Cyrus looking at her, nodding her head even as she regarded him with skeptically indifferent eyes. “Of Fann’otte.”
    He turned to look at the next in line. She was certainly younger, with hair the color of dark hay, but far, far more wavy. She wore a smile that looked faint but not forced, and her clothing was also tunic and pants with muddied boots. “Mirasa,” she said with a nod of her own. “Of Tierreed.”
    Cyrus’s eyes fell to the man. He wore a cloak that was green and strangely familiar. His hair was dark and speckled with grey, though