The Father of Withering

Chapter Seventeen: Negotiations

Once again, Relma was in a cell. The good news was that it was nice, with plenty of straw. You had a nice window letting in the light, which was well-cleaned. The window went upwards and narrowed as it went up, so you couldn't climb out.

Relma had yet to try, of course. For one thing, she had nowhere to go if she ran. And even if she did escape, there might be missed opportunities here.

Overall, being in prison was a distressing habit that she hoped would not persist. There were only so many prisons to break out of. And even prisons serve a practical purpose now and then. So, discrediting them all would be unfortunate.

Now, how to discredit this one?

Relma paced back and forth, hands in her pockets. "Well, this is a fine mess you've put yourself in, Relma. Ronald's still sick, you're far from help, and now you're a prisoner of Lucius.

"What am I going to do?

"Let me think, what are my resources here. I've got none. Nothing tangible, anyway."

When Relma ruled Harlenor, she should put in some rules about how prisons should be run. She'd hate to think that people would end up somewhere worse than this.

Then she heard a horn call, loud and shrill. Then another and another after that. More and more followed until soon, there was an immense clamor. Coming to the window, Relma looked out of the window and saw satyrs. Thousands, no, tens of thousands of them. They were in all the courtyards of Del Gabor and outside the walls in great camps.

"All that fighting and we didn't do anything but delay them," said Relma sadly. "They don't seem even slightly upset." She thought about the men who had died in all those battles and wondered what good it had been.

"I've got to find a way out of all this, and I have to do it now." She sincerely hoped that her plan, whatever it was, was workable.

Then she heard voices on the other side of her cell. They were the harsh voices on the other side. "Good news! We caught a Dust Elven village and burned it to the ground! Even killed a dozen of them, and we only lost thirty for our trouble!"

"Lucius, be praised! We'll crush them yet!" said another voice.

Relma moved to the door. "Why are you so enthusiastic?" She whispered through.

"Hmm?" said the voice.

"You lost thirty of your comrades and only killed twelve Dust Elves," said Relma. "That doesn't seem a good trade to me." Death for death wasn't a good trade, even in normal circumstances. But she doubted that argument would fly here.

"A human would think that," scoffed the satyr on the other side. "We are all of us dying with every day we live. But if we can only do as much as scratch our enemy's faces, it will be a life well-lived. And we have done more than that.

"Dust Elves mature at sixty. We mature at ten.

"When those twelve have been replaced, there will be a hundred and sixty more of our kind. So we have won, in the end!"

"Actually, it would be a hundred and eighty," said Relma. "And you're not accounting for other forms of death. Disease, famine, accidents."

"We satyrs live to die," snapped the other one. "Your kind should thank us for clearing the way for the superior species."

"Well, I suppose the thought counts," said Relma ruefully. "What is your name?"

"I am Shren," said the satyr. "I do not have a last name or any of us."

"Nice to meet you," said Relma. This wasn't good. They'd already started skirmishing. She had to find something to stop all this. If Elranor would suddenly appear with words of wisdom, now was the time.