Excerpt: Arean Heritage

Under the light of the full moon, Otreon could see the landscape, rolling and twisting toward the horizon, diving into low-lying swamplands, and rising into the hills as he turned toward the north. The salt had started to sting his eyes and nose, so he decided to watch the Vardian side of the border for now. He had keen hearing, so any Quatican raider who tried to come up on him from behind would have his own surprise waiting.

Elves moved more quickly than any human could imagine, and Otreon had been bred and trained to fight.

Half the men in his unit had probably guessed his unlikely heritage. The other half probably laughed at them when they talked in whispers at the soldier’s mess. Elves never wandered beyond the borders of their own homeland, despite the mistreatment of the conquering invaders. And anyway, they thought, there are no elven warriors.

There are no elven warriors, Otreon thought, turning his face to absorb the moon’s cold light, just me. There is no more proud tradition, just a deserter who has sold his heritage to which ever mercenary group he found on his travels over the continent. But there was no use sighing over the past. These human children who filled out the fighting ranks probably could not remember the history that drove him away from his people and his home land. But elves have long memories.

And sharp ears. A garotting wire sang in the dark behind him. Otreon whirled and caught the wire against his cuff, and twisted it away from the sneaking attacker. At the same time, he pulled his knife free of its sheath to press against the attacker’s throat.

“Are you a spy?” Otreon hissed. The man gurgled, but remained silent otherwise. His eyes, still wide with fear, twitched toward the Quatican side of the border. Otreon saw the dark-clad raiding party. He drew his knife arm sharply across the man’s throat in a single stroke, and rolled him away, then bounded toward the raiders.

His second knife found his free hand, as he evaluated the threat. There were probably a couple dozen men. They hadn’t planned on a battle, just a nighttime raid, to cripple the mercenary force and leave them confused and frightened.

Otreon bore down on them from the side, taking two of them out before the rest realized they had been discovered. The lone elf’s armor glittered in the moonlight as he closed the distance between himself and each man, one or two at a time. He focused his mind, calling on the training his heritage afforded him.

“Soldiers, awake!” Otreon roared.