The Winter War (storyline)/The Winter Peace (vignette)

The airship rose from where it had been hovering over the mountain. Figures in crimson and gold swarmed the decks, their armor glinting in the dawn’s early light. From such a distance, they could have been toy soldiers, and the airship but the trinket of a child.

All pawns on a chess board, but who is handling the pieces? Talliver Dabbings wondered aloud, his face darkening to match his thoughts.

The Mayor of Icemule Trace sat at his writing desk. A plate of egg tarts and spiced elk sat before him, long gone cold and unpleasant to look upon. Around the untouched meal, letters and papers marched in rows ordered with military precision. He had never been able to abide disorder. It was truly a joke of the gods that he had found himself in politics, a field where chaos was the only constant.

Muted thunder rolled through Dabbings Manor, and Talliver leapt up from his seat, sharply alert, and his eyes darted to one of the ornamental swords hanging on the near wall of his study. An instant later, he relaxed, sinking back into the chair with a hoarse chuckle. Two years of bloody war had honed his instincts to a bitter edge that almost two decades since could not dull. He looked to the study door.

“In here, Barrowfoot,” he said.

Ellerel stepped through the door, trailed by a few shreds of black smoke. He had all the look of a well-to-do halfling in his middle years. His greying hair had wings of white at the temples, and he was a bit overfed, but not more than a Paradis ought to be. He wore a dark wool doublet and a matching cravat, though he had eschewed the sugarloaf hat he frequently wore. Nothing in the least was extraordinary about Ellerel Barrowfoot, at least not on the outside, where one could see.

“So you are, my friend,” said the tidily dressed halfling. He bustled over to join Talliver. A stench of brimstone accompanied him, evidence of his recent travel.

Is that what we are now? Friends? Talliver wondered. Friends ought to be able to look one another in the eye, but he found he could not meet Ellerel’s gaze. Time and again, the other halfling had proven himself a stalwart advisor. He had sought to redeem his past wrongs. But Talliver could not forget who Ellerel really was. What he really was.

There could be only one reason for Barrowfoot’s good cheer. “You have news.”

Ellerel bounced on the balls of his feet, a self-satisfied smile growing on his face. “Am I so transparent? And here I was, hoping to light up that grim face of yours with a true surprise at last.”

“Barrowfoot,” warned Talliver.

The other halfling sighed and folded his hands behind his back, chastised. “It seems that our guests on the mountain are withdrawing.”

Talliver’s frown deepened. “I can see as much.”

Outside, the elven airship climbed into the sky. Up it rose, its resplendent hull gleaming crimson and gold. The figures on the deck were too small to see, but Talliver silently wished them a safe return home. A lasting return, at that.

“You know, if I live for another century or two, I feel I will never come to understand you.” Ellerel shook his head in exaggerated exasperation. He placed a hand on Talliver’s shoulder. “For weeks now, all you’ve talked about is wanting this matter resolved. That looks like a resolution to me. Our cruel oppressors have fled, frightened by the brave mayor of Icemule Trace and his incredible flying machine. And yet here you sit, with a face of stone and an uneaten breakfast.”

Talliver rubbed at his eyes. “They aren't villains, Ellerel. I served with them in the War.”

“Really? You never mention it,” said Ellerel mildly.

Ignoring the barb, Talliver continued. “Put yourself in their boots. They were just trying to enforce a treaty made because my predecessor got in over her head. I believe the Vaalor thought they were doing the right thing.”

“In all my many years, I’ve never met someone who wasn't convinced they were doing the right thing. That’s the problem with letting your conscience be your guide. It’ll often tell you exactly what you want to hear. Most people don’t set out to be do bad things, Talliver. Even my brethren on the Council didn’t start out with nefarious aims,” said Ellerel. “And yet.”

“And yet,” Talliver repeated.

Ellerel’s eyes tracked the airship as it streaked off into the distance. “The word on the streets of Ta’Vaalor is that their departure is unequivocal and complete. I must hand it to the elves. I had hoped to cultivate a few sources closer to King Qalinor, but my eyes and ears out east have a habit of going missing. Unfortunately, my 'intelligence' from the East is confined to street gossip.”

“No more spying,” said Talliver.

Ellerel opened his mouth as if to protest, but nodded. “If that’s what you wish.”

“There’s been enough mistrust,” Talliver said. “Even with diplomacy crashing down around my ears, I had hoped that the Vaalor might be made to listen. Someone is making moves from the shadows, playing us off against one another. Rammael paraded through this town for months. I don’t like our odds if we need to face off against him on our own.”

“Such doom and gloom. Perhaps this will cheer you,” said Ellerel.

He put a hand into his doublet pocket and produced an envelope. The wax on the parchment was violet and stamped with a moon that had a corona of thorns around it. Ellerel handed it to the mayor, an expectant smile on his face.

“Do I want to know what this says?” Talliver asked.

“How would I know? I’d never read your mail.”

Talliver just looked at him.

“It’s good news, but the handwriting is atrocious. They must not teach penmanship in Briarmoon Cove. But I’ll leave you to it. You make for a poor morning’s company when you’re in a mood like this, anyway,” scolded Ellerel. Softening his tone, he said, “If it gives you any comfort, we aren’t alone.”

“Cold River is a long way off.”

“They are,” Ellerel said. “But we have neighbors here. The giant tribes. The Krinti you’ve taken in. And there were Kindred in the mountains back in my day. Surely some of their clans survive.”

Talliver leaned back in his chair, mulling the warlock’s words. “It’s a start.”

“It is. Sometimes a start is all you need. And, failing that, you have a dangerous flying death machine,” said Ellerel.

“All right. Go,” Talliver growled, but he could not entirely stifle a chuckle.

Ellerel backpedaled a few steps, gave a nod, and then turned to leave the study. As he reached the door, he looked back at the mayor. “You have my support. Whatever that’s worth.”

Talliver looked up, expecting another jest, but there was no guile on Ellerel’s face. Nor in his eyes. They were dark and weary, but sincere. Whatever was wearing Ellerel Barrowfoot's skin, it was no monster. Not any more.

“Thank you,” said Talliver.

After the warlock had gone, he pried open the letter, breaking its wax seal. The parchment within was very fine, but the handwriting was as bad as Ellerel had promised.

Esteemed Mayor Dabbings, it began.

We have recently audited our trade agreements and discovered an unintentional lapse in deliveries to Icemule Trace. The partners of our esteemed trading company convey their sincerest apologies, and would like to extend to our valued customers in Icemule a significant discount from our agreed-upon rates for the following supplies...

He looked out the window. The skies were clear and the sunrise had bathed the Dragonspine in a gentle amber glow. Down in the streets, the bustle of merchants and hawkers had risen to a low din. The temple bells tolled, low and rich, announcing a new day. For an instant, a single blessed instant, the chaos retreated, and Mayor Talliver Dabbings smiled. Peace had come.