As wolf is to sheep

Crowns and guns

Authors note

A sequel of the previous story 'Bait and Switch'

Part of the series: Direlves
Setting: Kitchensink Fantasy.
Time period: Alternate history

Trigger warnings: Description of bodily fluids (illness-related)

❖

I look around in the classroom. Every time I see new recruits, they seem to look younger. Am I getting old, and are they just looking younger in comparison, or is the human empire recruiting younger and younger people? I wouldn't blame the empire if that was the case, the longer the war went on, the harder it was for the empire to find able-bodied soldiers.

Then again, I thought to myself, some of these are literal children. The girl sitting in the front row, with large blue eyes and curly blond hair, doesn't look older than fifteen. These kids should not be burdened with the troubles and dangers of war.

The commander taps the blackboard twice with his ruler, breaking my train of thought. 

"Recruits, please focus. Your life might depend on this information."

The class goes silent, and the commander continues.

"Elves. They are big, they are fast, they are strong. If their claws make even the smallest scratch, you are done for. The wound will heal, sure, but it will infect after a couple of days. The scar of the wound will swell, and the skin turn black. It will burst open, and black ooze will spill from it. The black spots will spread, and blisters will appear all over your body, swelling, and bursting. Your tears and saliva will turn black. You will cough up black slime, and then you will slowly suffocate. It will hurt immensely the whole time. And then you die. Some unlucky few will survive but be in agonising pain the rest of their lives."

The young girl in the front row raises her hand. The commander looks at her, sighing in annoyance.

"You may speak, recruit Wheeler."

"Is there any way you can prevent this horrible death?" the girl asks.

The commander scoffs. "Yes. Don't get scratched." 

"Anyone else has a stupid question?" he asks with an elevated voice. The class looks at him silently, all of them with big eyes. They remind me of a bit of deer caught in the headlights of a truck.

A boy in the back, looking about 17 years old, with red hair and freckles, slowly raises his hand, shivering. The commander sighs again and raises an eyebrow. "You may speak, recruit McCoy."

"Wasn't there a six-year-old that got scratched in the face and didn't get sick?" he asks.

The commander looks uncomfortably at me, and then back to the class. "Yes, Lieutenant Riley here," he points at me, "got scratched in the face when she was six years old, and she was left unharmed except for the prominent scar on her cheek."

"How?" the girl in the front asks, without even raising her hand.

The commander laughs. "She happened to have a magic artefact handy, the royal elven crown. Now, you recruits won't have one of those in the field, so none of you would get this lucky."

The Boy in the back raises his hand again, evoking another sigh from the commander.

"You may speak, recruit McCoy."

"What happened to the crown?"

"General Herrera, our best military commander at the time, used a breaking iron to remove all the gems, the parts that actually contain the magic. The general has admitted to the crime, but never gave up the location of the gems. It really took the country by surprise, he had singlehandedly shattered the elven empire by convincing an elven ambassador to take a bomb back to their capital. Not to mention he saved a six-year-old girl." He nods at me again. "He was hailed like a hero. But he threw all that away by trying to steal some magic healing gems."