A Secret Man of Blood

Chapter Twenty-Four

"The Night Elves have overrun eighty percent of our eastern defences," an advisor to Tal Riose's tells her.

Squad watches Tal Riose as she receives the news stonily, her fiery hair as tangled as her past. Now a general in the Tyrian group of the Samarian Army, she is also the political head of an Elvish nationalist faction, former commander of the terrorist Machi and co-founder of the city of Dunpool six-hundred years ago. She's ten feet tall, much larger than an average Elf, with hard and stony bones, and a torch trail of flame red hair. A huge broadsword hangs on her back.

The military advisor indicates a narrow area of a magical, shifting wall map. "They launched a lightning attack through this area and then split their forces into northern, central and southern army groups, each over a quarter million strong." Troop movements on the map show Night Elf forces simultaneously moving north, south and west into Tyria, pushing back the defending forces.

"What about Indulkar?" Squad asks and Tal Riose turns to him, annoyed.

"He's still unconscious, having the venom purged from his system. I don't know why he elected to have you present at these meetings until his recovery," her voice carries whiplash. "This is an Elven conflict and originates from a time when your people were primitive irrelevances." A smile curls her beautiful lips. "Some would say nothing much has changed."

They're in a large command tent at a camp close to the frontlines, Anya and Indigo sitting at Squad's side.

"Tyria is part of the Samarian Empire – which, incidentally, is mostly run by so-called primitives," Anya smiles.

"Don't remind me," Tal Riose glibly replies.

A gentle mist slowly rises from the ground and grows into what resembles a human man, waves of dart jutting hair above his forehead and falling to his shoulders. He has a short, stylised beard and gentle eyes.

"This is Pendragon," Tal Riose explains. "He's a Genie."

Pendragon smiles and nods his head in greeting.

"I didn't know you had a Genie," one of the other Elven commanders says, to a gust of laughter from the Higher Demon.

"I don't have a Genie," Tal Riose corrects him. "Pendragon is a friend."

"More like a distant associate," Pendragon jokes. He speaks in a very refined, traditional manner.

"Are you going to wish us victory?" the male Elven commander chides. "Or have you already used your three?"

"That's a misnomer," the Genie smiles. "Genies are exceptionally powerful and our wish can achieve almost anything, even that which is beyond us in life, but we only get one and it's activated by the explosion of power brought about by our death, directed by whoever destroys us." Pendragon looks around with mock smugness. "To my knowledge, only one Genie has ever been destroyed...and that was a long time ago."

Squad addresses Tal Riose. "How did you become friends with a Higher Demon? By reputation, you've killed many demons over the millennia –I doubt any of them were Higher Demons, but still."

"Demons are just people," Tal Riose explains. "They have their own opinions and differences, loves and ambitions. They're formed from the raw magical energy of spells that have been cast in this world and many others but, once they take shape as a person, they evolve their own intelligence and traits. Of course, some are created as whole creatures, usually for the purposes of war: deathclaws, for instance, have no personality beyond cruelty and a desire to kill – I destroyed an army of them a couple of centuries back."

Pendragon shakes his head morosely. "A sad day for demonkind..." and his eyes seem to bleed emotion for the lives lost, his voice switching to good cheer and optimism with comic swiftness. "...Still, we can always make more deathclaws!"