The Empty Robe, part 1

Without warning, Cansen DiBriod found herself stumbling over the root-covered ground: she pitched forwards, and was saved only by the large, rough hand that grabbed the hood of her cloak, hauling her upright.
'Still alive there, old timer?' asked Trochos Clanless, her travelling companion.
Cansen snorted. 'Is the war still on?'

The war, of course, was very much still on. Trochos' people, the Orcs, had been at war with Cansen's people, the Elves, for longer than either could remember. For Trochos Clanless, this was only about sixty years or so; for Cansen, this was approaching three hundred.

'See,' Trochos continued, as Cansen dusted herself off, 'if you bothered to use a staff like me, you'd never have fallen. Now's as good a time as any to take one, too.' She gestured at the trees all around them: thinner here than in most of the Territories, but dense all the same.
Cansen let out a sharp laugh, falling just short of an out-and-out cackle. 'You don't use a staff,' she said. 'You use a broom.'

It was true: she turned to see Trochos standing just behind her, one great green hand wrapped around the handle of a large, sturdy broom, the bristles coming up to the chins of the two women (both of whom were seven feet tall).
'Practicality,' Trochos said, with a shrug. 'Everything we do together is very, very illegal, old timer-- I mean, our people are at war, ergo we are at war, ergo we shouldn't be working together. We need to be able to leave our cave at a moments' notice, should some clan happen across us-- hence, everything that only serves one single purpose needs to be discarded in favour of multi-taskers.'
'Like your broom,' Cansen said. She started forwards again towards their destination, making no attempt to find a cane. She wasn't even three hundred yet-- what need had she of a walking stick?
'Like my broom,' Trochos nodded. 'A cane when I need it, and it can do this.' She halted abruptly and swung it around, tucking the bristles under her shoulder and pointing the other end upwards, towards the tree tops. A cone of air shot from it, bringing down a sudden cascade of leaves and scattering birds and small rodents alike.
'Showoff,' Cansen grunted.
'And it can sweep the floors back home, too,' Trochos continued. 'We may live in a cave, old timer, but Simriac take me if we live in a dusty one. Can't be having that, at your age.'
'Relatively speaking you're as old as I am, dear.'
'Ha,' Trochos said flatly. 'Sixty and three hundred aren't exactly four and five.'
'You're older'n sixty, and I've still plenty of years before my third century,' Cansen smiled.

The two women continued, bickering, in much the same way they had for the past several days. The cave they called home was a long way behind them now, in the foothills of the Wyrm's Spine: the past five or six years had seen them move several times into warmer and subtly warmer regions, much to Cansen's delight: she relished any opportunity to needle at her companion with smiling concerns such as 'cold, dear?' and 'you know, I think I saw a nice cosy cavern half a day further down when I was out hunting earlier'.

It was rare that anything drove them away from their rocky home, but the prospect of a third Witch-- or Wizard, or possibly Wix; the rumours they'd heard of a lone mage further along the border between the Dark Lands and the Elven Territories hadn't been specific on the subject of gender.

In fact, Cansen wasn't sure whether they were a fellow Witch (or Wizard, or Wix), or just a regular mage; the line was narrow, and the only real differences was that Mages learned their magic from family or one of the handful of colleges of Sorcery dotted around the world, whereas Witches, Wizards and Wix were self-taught. They were rare, too: self-taught practitioners like Cansen and Trochos tended to teach lone mages, orphans and illegitimate children and those too poor for (or too distant from) the Colleges in Penllaya and Antliss in the Human Kingdoms, and Crater City in the Dark Lands.

'So this kid,' Trochos said, stirring Cansen from her idle thought. 'You're sure they're a Sorcerer?'
'Certain,' Cansen said. 'There are boring ways of throwing rocks at soldiers, true, but all the rumours described it as being like a... horizontal landslide, more so than some little'un with a sling and a good throwing arm.'
Trochos nodded. 'How much further?'
'Tired?' Cansen asked, smiling.
'Concerned,' the Orc said, smiling a smile that managed to be both toothy and toothless all at once. 'You look like you could use a rest.'
Cansen could, she realised, but she wasn't about to let Trochos know this. 'Gororau's land is... four, five miles, at a guess,' she said. 'Shouldn't take us more'n a couple hours now.'

Lady Gororau was one of the few Elven nobles who steadfastly refused to send troops to the larger families in order to help the war effort, instead choosing to bargain with the neighbouring Orcs; as a result, her small but proud land was one of the few peaceful regions along the border, and the three or four villages there were flourishing, relative to those owned by neighbouring families-- this islet of peace was a relative safe haven for Sorcerers who would otherwise be hunted down by one side or another and either enslaved or conscripted, depending on the pointiness of their ears and the greenness of their skin, to aid the war effort.

The two women continued for an hour or so, verbally jabbing at one another the whole time: Cansen grew tired, and felt blisters forming on her callused feet, although she refused to show any sign of weakness to Trochos; Trochos picked up on the subtly altered pace regardless and immediately began poking fun at Cansen; Cansen then began speaking at length about how she was over two hundred years older than Trochos and didn't need a cane (or a broom) to walk; Trochos shouldered her broom (but not before whacking her companion over the head with the bristles) and kept going without its support.

Eventually, they came to a small clearing: hearing voices from within, Cansen and Trochos halted at the edge. Cansen crept forwards, silently cursing her aching joints and her blistered feet the whole way, and peered carefully through the trees.

Three or four Elves sat around a fire; three appeared to be wounded, and the fourth was gazing forlorn at a broken sword at their feet.
'Yours?' Trochos murmured, 'or mine?'
'Mine,' Cansen said. 'Still have the shackles from last time?'
Sighing, Trochos nodded. She handed Cansen her broom and slipped her hands into a pair of lightweight leather restraints.
'Look on the bright side,' Cansen said. 'You at least get to have some fun here.'
'But you get a hot meal, if you play your cards right.'
Cansen smiled. 'I'll see if I can't get extra this time and save you some.'

Moments later, the two women stepped into the clearing, Cansen walking with the aid of the broom and dragging Trochos along beside her. Trochos played her part well, growling and snarling and lashing out at the Elven soldiers as they approached. Elves tended not to be good at recognising age in Orcs: they tended to see the bulk and the green skin and the teeth and forget to check whether they were sixteen or sixty.
'Bagged yourself an Orc, huh, old timer?' One Elf asked, glancing up from trying to splint their broken fingers. 'Not bad.' Cansen noted the circular markings on the shoulder of their armour: they were an officer, a rank or two below War Marshal. A quick glance around the clearing told her the others were all officers, too, and of similar rank. Enlisted were one thing, she'd always felt-- they didn't exactly have much of a choice about being on the front lines. But officers? They were something different. They were what they were because they'd chosen to make a career out of war.
'What,' another laughed, 'did they come at you while you were sweeping your little hut?'
Cansen resisted the urge to stab any of them; she could get a free meal out of these four, after all. Instead, she let the chain attached to Trochos' cuffs go limp in her hands and nudged the Orc with her toe.

Trochos lunged forwards, booting the uninjured Elf in the chest and lashing out at another before Cansen reeled her back in, pulling her off her feet: unseen by the guards, she cushioned herself with a gentle burst of air just before she struck the ground. Sliding a few inches across the grass, she glanced up, dazed, and Cansen planted a foot on her chest.
'We could always take 'em off your hands, old timer,' another Elf said, crawling backwards and struggling to keep their weight off what appeared to be a badly sprained ankle. 'A couple slices here, a couple slices there, and your herb garden will be safe once more.'
Cansen forced a polite chuckle. 'You four remind me of my grandkids. Killing the Orc isn't necessary, I assure you. They're a prisoner of war, I believe.'
One of the Elves nodded. Leaning forwards, they stoked the fire their party was seated around, but winced with pain. At a guess, they had a cracked rib or two. 'Looks like they'll make a fine slave. Where you headed?'
'I was hoping you could give me directions to the nearest city,' Cansen said. 'I must be growing forgetful in my old age-- I swear, I used to know the way.'
'It's a couple hours that way,' One Elf said, pointing to the right, deeper into the Territories. 'There's one closer, but it's in Gororau territory-- traitor scum. Don't worry, though, Lord Kien's seaward holdings aren't far from here. They'll put your prisoner to proper use.'
Cansen smiled politely. 'Thank you. Might I trouble you for some soup? It's set to be an awful cold night, is all-- I can feel it in my bones.'
'We'd rather not give up any of our supplies right now,' the Elf with the broken sword said. 'Sorry.'
'I have some skill with herbs,' Cansen said. 'I'd be happy to heal you, in exchange for a little soup.'

The Elves conversed briefly in what Cansen recognised as Tol DiGonith: the DiGoniths were near to her family's territory, and often sent soldiers further afield along the border. They were also perhaps the only Elven family to teach their Tol, the constructed tongue designed to ensure rival families couldn't learn of their business dealings, to high-ranking soldiers as well as diplomats and major bloodlines. These four didn't have the look of war marshals about them-- they couldn't be a day over a hundred, for a start-- but they seemed to be valued troops nonetheless. Cansen wasn't fluent in Tol DiGonith, but she'd picked up a few terms here and there, and could tell the conversation was going as she'd hoped. The uninjured Elf with the broken sword was trying to argue that they didn't need healing, but their injured companions were rapidly arguing them down.

'That would be acceptable,' the Elf with the broken fingers said, shooting a glanced at their unharmed companion. 'Here, love-- let me give you a hand tying up your prisoner.'
'No, no, thank you,' Cansen said, 'I'm perfectly capable of taking care of her myself.' She tied Trochos to a tree at the edge of the clearing, and then returned to the four soldiers.
'None of you speak a word of this,' one said. 'If folks back home find out some old biddy had to patch me up--'
Cansen cleared her throat. 'I'm sorry? You know, my hearing isn't quite what it used to be.' If anything it had grown better these past few years.
'Nothing,' they said.

Cansen set to work then, examining their injuries: the one she'd taken to be uninjured had a large, deep cut across their back, and the rest had an assortment of breaks and sprains. Throughout her brief examination, she noted how rude they continued to be towards her and Trochos. Joking about her age was one thing, but the kind of slurs they threw at Trochos made her skin crawl.
'Shouldn't be too difficult to heal you all,' she said, once she was done. 'Just give me a moment to... hm. Now where did I put...'

Cansen made a show of going through her robes, opening and closing several small cloth bags before finding the one she was looking for. Kneeling beside each soldier in turn, she applied a greenish paste to their wounds.
'Talerek,' the soldier hissed, 'that really stings.'
'Just wait a minute until I've patched up your friends here,' Cansen said. 'Then I can maybe give you all something for the pain.'
'You're soldiers,' the Elf with the cracked rib snapped. 'Handle it.'
'No, no, I assure you, I have something that'll do just the trick,' Cansen said, starting on the other Elves: they all had a few minor cuts and scrapes, which she carefully slathered in greenish salve. 'Now, I swear I had something for breaks and twists in here somewhere...'

She put the cloth bag she'd been using back in her robes and searched around for another minute or two, eventually drawing out another one that looked very similar indeed; some might say they looked like the same bag. 'Ah, she said. 'This should do just the trick.'
Working quickly now, she covered the skin around their various breaks and sprains in salve. None of them seemed to protest by this point.
'Keep an eye on that soup,' she said, nodding to the pot. 'I wouldn't want that to burn.'
Frowning at her, the soldier with the sprained ankle nodded. They shuffled closer to the fire and began carefully stirring it.
'Here,' Cansen said, stepping back from the last of them. 'All of you should be feeling right as rain before too long.'
'You sure?' the one with the broken fingers asked. 'I'm starting to feel kinda... funny.'
'Yeah,' another said, 'you sure you know what you're doing, old timer?'
'I've been healing injuries like these for-- for decades, now,' Cansen said. 'Don't worry-- I know my bloodleaf extract from my belladonna root.' She also knew which of these things she had just applied to their injuries.

Searching through her assorted herbs one final time, Cansen picked out four chunks of a yellowish wood-like substance.
'Now you four chew on this good and proper now,' she said, 'and don't forget to swallow it. It may not be easy on your taste buds, but it'll certainly help with stopping your aches and pains.' And many more things besides.
The soldiers nodded their agreement and grimaced as they began chewing the lumps of root; Cansen hobbled across the clearing to Trochos.
'Your wrists aren't bound too tight?'
The Orc shook her head. 'They're just fine. Keep an eye on things; I'll be okay. Better once I've got some nice hot food into me.'
Smiling, Cansen nodded; palming Trochos to key to their handcuffs, she returned to the fire and the four soldiers.

'Soup's on,' she called a short while later, once the bodies had all stopped twitching. Trochos joined her by the fire, and the two women began eagerly devouring their ill-gotten meal.
'That was a little cruel of you,' Trochos said.
'Well, they were rude young things,' Cansen shrugged. 'Had it coming, to my mind.'
'No, no, no,' Trochos said. 'I meant with giving them the root to chew at the end there. I always give them the berries at that point-- at least that way they get a taste of something nice before they go to meet Simriac.' Seeing her companion's expression, she added with a forced smile: 'Or Talerek, as I'm certain these four have.'
'See if any of them have canteens or anything,' Cansen said. 'We have water aplenty for the journey, and there's enough soup for four or five people here. No sense letting three fifths of it go to waste.'

The two Witches finished their bowls of soup and searched the bodies, turning up little aside from knives and a few Chips, the currency of the Elven Territories. Fortunately, two of them had bota bags; leather skins lined with tree sap and capped with nozzles of horn, which no doubt originally contained wine. Cansen opened one and took a swig, finding only water. She used this to extinguish their cooking fire, and then filled the bag with soup from the pot. Trochos did the same.
'Strange,' the Orc murmured. 'These things aren't Elven. I remember back when I was living near the High Coast, traders from Farside always had these with them.'
Cansen shrugged. 'That was then. I've seen plenty of these in the Territories since-- although I wouldn't be surprised if we got them from enslaved merchants originally.'

Having eaten their fill of soup and taken as much of what was left over as their newly repurposed bota bags could hold (being forced by necessity to leave a little still in the pot), Cansen and Trochos set out from the Elven camp, deciding it best to sleep once they'd reached Gororau territory.

Just as Cansen was beginning to tire (not that she'd ever let Trochos know this), they came to a small town, set in a clearing Cansen felt too large and regular to be natural. The town was built in the traditionally vertical Elven style, with a few dozen buildings scattered about at ground level and a layer or two of wooden walkways above, supported by the surrounding trees and joining onto about as many raised homes and businesses as there were on the ground. At the top, situated just above the low treeline, was a single large building that Cansen assumed to be Lady Gororau's personal estate. Her territory no doubt encompassed one or two other towns of this moderate size, and perhaps half a dozen smaller villages, but it appeared that she'd chosen Haven Green (to go by the sign staked into the ground at the edge of the lowest level) as her home. Cansen wondered if Haven Green truly was the largest settlement Gororau owned; if it was, then she perhaps wasn't as well off as Cansen and Trochos had first assumed.

But power in the Territories came down to more than wealth. It was quite possible that other families owed her favours; indeed, Cansen realised, this was likely. After all, it was traditional (and even expected) for families whose territory bordered the Dark Lands to request soldiers from allies further inland; given that Gororau was at peace with the Orcs, however, it was likely she made no request of this sort, instead requesting other favours of families she was allied with.

'How long d'you think this place will last?' Trochos asked, nodding to the town around them as they approached the ramp up to the higher levels.
'I can't honestly say,' Cansen said. 'But those soldiers mentioned Lord Kien's seaward holdings as being nearby-- when Farsial was still courting me, the Kiens were limited to the Emerald Border on one side and Leechfold territory on the other. At best guess, they've started claiming the peaceful territories around here as their own. With that in mind... perhaps a decade; maybe two at the most.'

She didn't speak of Farsial often; he'd been a war marshal from Clan DiBriod, in his second century. 'Courting' perhaps hadn't been the term, either; he'd been the last of a long line of clients who'd offered to whisk her away from her life as a seamstress (or so most people called her, at least when they were trying to appear polite) who catered primarily to soldiers-- and the first whose offer she had accepted.

So much for that, she thought with a grim smile. He been the first person she'd ever poisoned. Two and a half centuries on, he was far from the last.

They found an inn on the first level, willing to give them a room for the night. Cansen realised that Haven Green was perhaps the first place in which her walking alongside Trochos didn't raise any eyelids; in fact, the population seemed to be an even mix between Elves and Orcs, mostly scholars and herbalists and those who, because of creed or injury, had been deemed unfit for war by their clans (assuming they weren't Clanless, like Trochos) or local ruling family.

Cansen slept restlessly that night. Her mind kept going back to the group of soldiers she'd killed, their bodies lying in the clearing: she looked at each in turn, only to discover they'd become the faces of--

Of other soldiers she'd once known, dead hundreds of years now. Clients, from what felt like another life; a time when she'd known she was a Sorceress, but long before she'd felt any need to develop her abilities. Cansen had been one of a few young women at the Grove who catered to everyone, not just men (although more often than not she kept her bisexuality secret-- Elves as a whole had a well-deserved reputation for bigotry); one by one, they'd vanished as they were reassigned to the front lines. It wasn't until years later that she'd discovered who had been responsible for this-- who wanted her all to himself.

The next thing Cansen knew, the sun was in her eyes, and there was a hand on her shoulder gently shaking her awake.
'Rise and shine,' Trochos said. 'The sun's up, so we should be, too.'
Cansen glared at her. 'Why do you insist on waking up so early? We need information on our mystery Mage before we can make our next move, and we can't exactly ask around while everyone else in town is asleep.'
Trochos chuckled. 'Maybe not, but we can find a nice, warm spot to wait for them.'
'I'm in a nice, warm spot right now,' Cansen insisted. 'Why do you insist on being up before the sun is anyway, Trochos? Is it an Orcish thing?'
'Actually, yes,' Trochos said. 'I've tried sleeping in-- Talerek knows, I've tried. But twenty years of early morning drills really takes its toll on one's sleep cycle.'
Wishing she didn't have to just yet, Cansen left her bed behind and stepped out into the chill morning, trying her best not to shiver with the cold (and taking some satisfaction in how chilly Trochos seemed to be).

The two women didn't go far, however. They spent the morning in the small market square outside the inn, Cansen selling off some of her stockpiled remedies to raise a few Chips while Trochos asked around about the Mage they were looking for.

Cansen had long ago found that people seemed more willing to buy ointments and salves and herbs from old women than from anyone else, and her side-business had only gotten better as she'd grown older. Most people expected Witches such as her to be skilled herbalists as well as practitioners of Magic of one kind or another, and for that matter Cansen was yet to meet a Witch who didn't know a little about plants.

That said, she also knew why. Most Witches lived alone; if she were to fall ill, she'd have little choice but to heal herself as best she could, and the same went for setting broken bones and curing animals (back when she'd kept goats). Like most Witches, she'd started out knowing almost nothing about plants, but over the years she'd picked up a few scraps of knowledge there and there-- advice on the best plants to use for certain purposes, tips about growing conditions, information on what parts of what plants were most potent (hence how she knew that root of the belladonna plant was far more potent than the berries)... sooner or later, it all began to add up, and she earned the kind of reputation most Witches gained, by the time they were as grey and wrinkled as she was.

The sight of a broomstick bobbing its way through the sparse crowd told Cansen that Trochos had found the information they were looking for; she handed over a small, ceramic vial of mudroot extract (a fairly potent numbing agent) to an Orc with several fresh, deep scars across their face, took their and then started across the square towards her companion.
'We're in luck,' the Orc said. 'They've been sighted a few times lately in the Dark Lands, just across the border from here. Although I was given a few conflicting sets of pronouns, so I'm not certain whether we're dealing with a lone Sorcerer here, as we first thought.'
Cansen considered this for a moment. 'Who told you this, the Elves or the Orcs?'
'Elves,' Trochos said.
'It's probable that they're non-binary,' Cansen decided. 'And being misgendered.'
Trochos nodded. 'Wouldn't surprise me.'

They left Haven Green behind, heading seawards towards the border with the Dark Lands, which was only an hour or two away. This gave Cansen plenty of time to complain about how her people (and everyone else, for that matter) still used the human terms for the four cardinal points: risewards and setwards made sense wherever you were, but mountwards (clockwise of risewards) and seawards (opposite mountwards, and therefore clockwise of setwards) were, to her mind, useless.

After all, when she'd lived on the outskirts of the DiBriod estate, the Wyrm's Spine had been seawards, and they sure looked like mountains to her-- and to further confuse things, the narrow strip of the Endless Sea that the Territories bordered was risewards. The cardinal points made more sense in the Dark Lands-- or at least in certain parts of them; as often as not the Wyrm's Spine was risewards more so than mountwards, and while the High Coast (and thus the sea) was always seawards, the Endless Sea was also risewards no matter where you were. In fact, the only place these directions made sense at all was in the Human Kingdoms; they had the Dwarven Mountains mountwards of them, and almost all of their coastline was seawards (except in Farside, on the riseward edge of the land, where it was-- of course-- risewards).

Shaking her head and trying (as she often did) not to think about the impracticalities of this, Cansen pressed onwards. A grim smile played across her cracked lips: maybe this was just another reason why her people shouldn't be claiming the vocabulary of those they'd enslaved as their own.

The border with the Dark Lands came as abruptly as stepping out of a forest and into a wide open plain: this was largely because Cansen and Trochos did exactly this.
'Reminds me of old times,' Trochos said, her broad face stoic. 'I can't wait to leave again, once we're done here.'
Cansen placed a hand on her shoulder supportively. 'Same plan as usual, if any Orcs happen across us?'
Trochos nodded. 'You play the captive; I play the old timer, set in her ways and freshly returned from a Blood Harvest.' Some Orcs believed drinking the blood of a Sorcerer would give them powers of Sorcery of their own, but most no longer placed any faith in this long since outdated belief. It was this that Cansen and Trochos relied on: Trochos routinely offered Orcish patrols the use of her knife to slit Cansen's throat, and each and every time they had declined, instead giving her a harsh lecture on her outmoded views and sending them off in the direction of a neighbouring clan who took in prisoners of war.

As they pressed on into the Dark Lands in search of their mystery Mage, Cansen realised how strange it was that no group of Orcish soldiers they'd yet encountered offered to take them back to their own clan. That said, Trochos had once pointed out that a prisoner was another mouth to feed and another body to clothe, except they didn't contribute to the clan by fighting or cooking or hunting or farming (it was a point of pride among Orcs that they treated their prisoners better than their mountward neighbours-- although they all seemed to much prefer it when someone else was doing the actual treating).

'So,' Trochos murmured. 'Where would someone go on this side of the border?'
'You'd know better than me,' Cansen said.
Trochos nodded. 'We're a little way setwards of my old clan, but I still feel like I remember this area.'
'If you'd rather turn back--' Cansen started. For once, she was genuinely concerned, rather than subtly mocking: Trochos hadn't always been Clanless, although she never spoke of her life before becoming a Witch-- still, Cansen had seen a little of the war over the past few centuries.

Trochos didn't need to say anything.

'I'll manage,' the Orc grunted. 'Although if your feet hurt already, you're welcome to go back to the inn and sleep while I do all the work. That's what you usually do.'
Cansen allowed herself a smile. 'No, no-- I was only concerned for you, is all. I know how easily you tire these days, old as you are.'
'I've plenty enough life left in me to find our Orc,' she said.
'You're sure they're an Orc?'
'They've been sighted in the one part of the Territories where my kind aren't killed on sight, and on this side of the border, where your kind aren't looked on too kindly either.'
Cansen nodded. 'Just testing you. Where are they gonna be headed?'
'There's an old abandoned camp not too far from here,' Trochos recalled. 'I passed through it once-- there was an old Wix who lived there, but I didn't get on with them. Folks like us are more common in the Dark Lands-- kids are raised communally in clans, and there's a war on, so if someone's birth parents don't come back from a raid...'
'There'd be others in the Clan, though, right?' Cansen asked.
'There weren't,' Trochos said. 'Moot point anyway: nobody else came back, either.'

They continued in silence, neither woman feeling much like speaking. Trochos was right about the abandoned camp, although in the decades since she'd passed through it seemed to have fallen into even greater disrepair. The knee-high stone walls that had once been the foundations of buildings were crumbling, the firepit was long since abandoned, and the scattered tents were little more than wood. Everything that could be reused-- canvas, furniture, wood from the buildings-- had been harvested like apples from a tree, leaving behind nothing but bare branches-- the mere skeleton of what had once been a small camp. On top of this, everything in sight looked to be overgrown, and--

And a lone grave sat on the outskirts, a simple wooden stake driven into the ground, atop which was a wide-brimmed, pointed hat.
'Should've figured the old bat was gone by now,' Trochos said softly. 'They were old, even when I was here-- but you never really expect Wixes like them to die. You just... think they'll always be there, growing older and older.'
'They had quite an herb garden, once upon a time,' Cansen murmured. 'All this overgrowth-- it all had its uses. I feel like I should stock up, while we're here; good thing one of us knows about plants.'
'Go ahead,' Trochos nodded, ignoring her travelling companion's jab at her lack of skills as an herbalist. 'I'll see if I can find any signs of our lone Mage.'

Cansen found herself faced with a veritable treasure trove of herbs. She slowly and methodically picked her way through the overgrown gardens, cutting everything back, discarding the dead branches for the firepit and sorting everything else into neat sprigs, to be dealt with later. Her paring knife was one she'd owned for years-- and perhaps the last vestige of a life she once had. Ms. Ledrau had insisted her girls (as she'd always called them-- although several were boys, and one or two were neither) protect themselves, in case they made a bad call on a client. Truth be sold it wasn't the same knife any more-- she'd replaced the handle and the blade two or three times. Still, given the sheer age of the knife, she couldn't help but feel proud of this.

After all, it was the Imbuements she herself had placed on it that made it so durable. It had started in her room, a little experimenting here and there once her old clients had left: fireproofing the original wooden handle and waterproofing the blade, just to see if she could. From there, she had progressed to endurance: she'd never quite been able to tell whether this had taken until several years later, when she realised she'd never once had to sharpen it or otherwise repair it.

And once Farsial was dead, it was her interest in learning just how much Sorcery she was capable of that led to her becoming a witch.

'Cansen!' Trochos hissed, snapping her mind back to the present. 'We've got company.'
'Yours, or mine?'
'Mine, this time,' Trochos said. 'Try to look evil-- more so than your usual hag-like self, anyway.'
Cansen nodded. She pulled her silver-white coils of hair back to better show her pointed ears, tying it in place with a length of creepvine (good for burns; less good for everything else). 'How do I look?'
'Just fine,' Trochos said. 'Give me the knife-- just in case they search you.'
Cansen nodded, handing it over: Trochos stuffed it into her belt, and Cansen hurriedly slipped into the pair of cuffs she'd used on Trochos the previous day, slipping them over a wooden post as Trochos busied herself moving the dead cuttings she'd taken to the old firepit.
'Hey!' an unfamiliar voice called, a minute or two later. 'Someone's moved into the old witch camp!'
'Actually, I'm just passing through,' Trochos replied. 'Simriac, it's been years since I swung through the Territories. Nothing like a good old-fashioned blood harvest, is there?'
Cansen could practically hear the eye rolls this line usually elicited.
'Here,' Trochos said. 'I've got one over by the old herb garden-- figured I'd stock up, while I was here.'

She came into view once more now, leading three or four Orcs in battered leather armour. They looked to be okay-- or at the very least they seemed better off than the Elves from the day before. One (who looked to be their leader, at a guess-- at any rate their armour looked to be better made) had a deep cut over their eyebrows and a few scratches across their cheek, but the rest seemed okay.
'Blood harvests don't work,' the smallest of the Orcs stated. They weren't even six feet tall-- perhaps the smallest Orc Cansen had ever seen. That said, none of them looked to be more than six foot two (save for their presumed leader, who was a little under seven). These were recruits, she realised, being trained in a relatively peaceful region, using second-hand armour and equipment.
'Oh, nonsense,' Trochos said. 'I've always found them to be perfectly good.'
'I can't say I'm fond of them,' Cansen said flatly.
'Anyway,' Trochos said, offering the recruits Cansen's knife. 'Any of you care to join me-- do the honours, perhaps? I'm not as strong as I once was, after all.'
'Oh, please,' the recruit who had spoken earlier snapped. 'You're being--'
'Tikos, shut it,' their leader snapped. 'Allow me to deal with...'
'Trochos,' Trochos said. 'Trochos Clanless. Witch.'
'Trochos, I advise you take your prisoner over to clan Nyst. They're not too far from here-- actually, their land borders Scholas territory. We're headed back that way, so we'd be happy to escort you.'
'Oh, really, there's no need,' Trochos said. 'I can deal with the Mage and head back home.'
'You're sure...?'
'Oh, of course,' she shrugged. 'Hardly my first time, after all.'

'Galos, Sir?' Tikos asked. 'We're being played.'
'Hold your tongue-- wait,' the largest Orc said. 'Evidence, recruit.'
'The Elf's hair has been tied back with the same kind of vine that's lying on the ground here. Hard to do that, with your hands tied to a post.'
'Explain this, Witch.'
You honestly think this is the only place around where this vine is found?' Trochos said, keeping her calm. 'No, not at all-- the Mage was like this when I found her.'
'See?' Galos said, turning to Tikos. 'Perfectly reasonable explanation. I'd advise you to work on your paranoia, recruit. There's a place for caution, of course, but--'
'What kind of vine is it?' Tikos snapped. 'Answer me, Witch: what kind of vine?'

'Creepvine,' Cansen murmured, hoping Trochos was near enough to hear. 'Creepvine, creepvine--'
'Observant little bugger,' Trochos said. 'That one's bound to go far, you mark my--'

In an instant, all four Orcs had drawn their weapons: Cansen and Trochos had a broadsword, an axe and two bows pointed at their heads.
'This is why I make a point never to trust a Witch,' Galos explained. 'We're taking you both prisoner, I think-- see what Scholas-Kefal-Thun makes of this mess.'
Cansen swore under her breath. Trochos took a step back and struck the pole she was cuffed to with a ball of flame, severing it in half and neatly freeing Cansen, pressing a knife into her hand as she slipped easily from the cuffs. She raised her broom and swung it around, pointing the blunt end at their foes.
'Either of you move an inch, you get an arrow through the throat,' Tikos growled.
'Chalkos,' Galos said, 'tie their wrists.'
One of the Orcs nodded: they were taller than Tikos, and their pale green scalp had been inexpertly shaved, resulting in a patchwork of scratches and stubble. They stepped forward and began hurriedly weaving several strands of creepvine together.

Trochos took a step away from the Orcs, but the creak of Tikos' bowstring being drawn back even further made her halt; Cansen decided against trying to raise her knife, and struggled to see a way out of this. They'd never needed a backup plan for their encounters with soldiers of either side of the war in the past, and as such didn't have one.
'What gave us away?' Trochos asked.
Tikos smiled. 'You're holding the knife wrong, for if you want to cut someone's throat.'
Cansen glanced down at her companion's hand. 'No, no,' she said, 'I assure you, it can be done like this. If you'd care to get these cuffs off, recruit, I'd be happy to demonstrate on you.'
'Kids these days,' Trochos tutted. 'Why can't they just learn to cut someone's throat the old-fashioned way? What are their parents teaching them?'
'I know half a dozen different ways of killing someone,' Tikos boasted, 'and none of them involve holding a knife like that.'
'You really know all six?' Cansen asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. 'Wow, I take it all back. Clearly, you know everything there is to know about combat. When are you being promoted to Thun?'
'I don't know,' Tikos said, 'but something tells me you'll never live to--'
Galos let out a low growl. 'Recruit, shut up. Can't you see they're trying to keep us talking as a distraction?'
Giving us too much credit there, perhaps, Cansen thought, but--

She heard a clicking sound, growing closer and closer to them, approaching from across the small, empty camp. She frowned in confusion, and realised the Orcs didn't seem to know what it was either: it would appear they weren't expecting backup.
'Elves, sir?' one offered.
'Elves don't click like that,' Galos frowned. 'Giving a clear sign that you're approaching is a great way of getting your throat cut.'
'So what is it?' Tikos asked, nervous.
A smile spread across Galos' broad, grey-white face. 'You've just volunteered yourself to find out, recruit. The rest of you keep your weapons on these two while Tikos flushes out their accomplice.'

The clicking grew closer and closer as Tikos lowered their bow and turned away, pacing uneasily around the camp, and after a moment or two the source came into view: a small figure on wooden crutches, perhaps five foot six with pointed ears. They swung they halted as they saw the group of soldiers and the pair of witches, raising their hands as Tikos trained a bow on them.
'Wow, sorry,' they murmured. 'Guess I really walked into something special here. I'll just be leaving, shall I?'
'You're staying right here,' Galos said, keeping his eyes on Cansen and Trochos. 'Recruit, escort them over to our other two captives.'

As they drew near, Cansen got a better look at them; they were as short as she'd first expected, and their broad, milky face was framed by pointed ears.
'Hands up,' Galos said. 'All of you-- at least 'til we have you cuffed.'
'What about my crutches?' the newcomer asked bluntly. 'You cuff me, I can't exactly walk.'
Galos faltered, and they raised their arms, still clutching their wooden crutches. They were shaky, but they could just about stand unaided.

Without warning they swung their crutches up into their armpits, and the next thing Cansen knew the Orcs had been blown half way across the clearing: strangely, the assorted herbs Cansen had been cutting up had also been blown away.
'Not bad, kid!' Trochos smiled. 'You're the mage we're looking for. I figured you'd be an Orc, same as--'
'I'm no Orc, they said. Cansen let out a sharp laugh. 'You really thought they were an Orc? Simriac, that's the best laugh I've had in years. Good to see another Elf who--'
'I'm not an Elf either,' they snapped, lowering their crutches and leaning heavily on them once more. 'I'm an Amhean-- half Elf and half Orc. You two old bats are Mages too, I take it?'
Cansen nodded. 'We're both Witches.'
'And you're looking for a Wix such as me to pass your ancient and secret knowledge onto?'
'We--' Trochos started. 'Actually, that's the long and short of it. Although if you're not interested--'
'I've lived out here for five years now without anythin' like that,' they said. 'Ever since old Ogria passed on.'
'You're the one who buried them, I guess?'
They nodded. 'Someone had to.'
'Sad reality of learning from a witch, sometimes,' Cansen said. 'I've buried my fare share of them, over the years.' She realised she was still holding her knife, and slipped it back into the pocket of her robe. 'Cansen DiBriod,' she said, offering the young Wix her hand.
'Runt,' they said, nodding at her. They glanced from Cansen's hand to their own, still clinging to their crutches; getting the message, Cansen decided against shaking hands.
'We're based back near the Wyrm's Spine,' Trochos said. 'I'm Trochos, by the way-- seeing as Cansen forgot to tell you. Her memory really isn't what it used to be, y'know.'
'Neither is yours, dear,' Cansen said wryly. 'And my joints are better than yours ever were.'