The battle was over. The was enemy in full retreat. As Paul came down off the adrenaline high he was swarmed by elves. He looked around desperately for Gibkin. He found him being set upon by the elves in much the same way. It was overwhelming and Paul found it hard to breath.

  They cried out, “Drink! We need a drink! This calls for a celebration!”

  Gibkin was waving his arms about. “Let us go and gather the others. Post a guard. Then, then we can drink you fools!”

  ***

  They made it to the shell of a tavern, the sign over the door half hanging off one hinge. Cassoway shouldered his way in. Inside, it was all low light and the damp stink of old ale. There were a dozen elves already inside, city guards by the look of them. Most had found bottles or jars of something, some holding two at once.

  Cassoway roared, “Now that’s what I like to see! Drink! If you’re still sober, you’re not celebrating hard enough!”

  A city guard with a bandaged ear raised a mug and tried to howl, but it mostly came out as a gurgle. Cassoway swept a bottle off the nearest table and sloshed it into a set of battered tin cups. The only thing in the place that was clean was the shine of sweat on everyone’s face. Elves crowded together, the old distinctions gone, war and fear and powder had mashed them all into one bristling mass.

  Cassoway shoved a cup into Paul’s hand. Neadora picked hers up, sniffed it, then shrugged and sipped. She did not immediately choke, so Paul guessed it probably wouldn’t kill him. He took a swallow.

  He nearly spat it out. It tasted like moldy honey mixed with the dregs of a barn. There was a sharp tang, almost chemical, that singed the back of his nose. The elves were tossing them back like water.

  Cassoway wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “You did it, Paul! Erowin’s journey, I thought I’d seen the last of my own guts more than once today. But here we are! You, brillent bastard!”

  Cassoway nearly fell off his bench he was so giddy. "Brilliant, see? I told everyone I knew, you give the kadrêni a month and he'll turn the city upside down! Hah! Look at their faces Nea, just look at them!"

  Neadora was gulping hers down a lot faster than Paul. She wiped her chin, eyes bleary but focused. "It's not even good, but it's good, you know? And you, Paul, don't make that face. You're a hero. Even the guards on the wall were talking about it."

  Paul tried to set the cup down but Cassoway refilled it for him. It sloshed over the rim, splashing the back of Paul's hand.

  "To Paul!" Cassoway bellowed, and the others echoed it, some with more slurring than others.

  "And to Neadora. And to all of us who didn't die today!"

  "Now that's worth a drink," someone called out from the far end of the battered bar. "To not dying!"

  Paul tried to hide behind his mug. He would have liked to crawl under the table, honestly, but Neadora caught his eye and grinned.

  "You ever get used to that?" she said, waving a hand at the tavern full of elves. “The noise, the crowd, the way everyone looked at you like you’d just grown a second head."

  Paul made a face and slugged back the rest of the drink. "No. And I hope I never do. If I get used to this, put me out of my misery."

  Cassoway howled and slammed his mug down, causing a splash to hit the next elf over, who didn’t seem to notice or care.

  "That’s the spirit! Don’t you let it get in your head, lad. You drink, you celebrate, because tomorrow the bastards might come with even more iron and guts than today."

  Paul eyed the cup and tried not to think about tomorrow. He didn’t trust himself to say anything, so he just nodded and let the noise wash over him. The tavern was packed now, every surface sticky, every inch of air full of voices. Someone started singing, loudly and off-key.

  Neadora leaned in, cheeks a little red, eyes glassy but sharp. "You know, Paul, you really are something. I didn’t think you’d last a week here, first time I saw you. Now look at you. You’re a… what’s the word? Force."

  He snorted, half laughing. "I think the word is ‘freak’. or “abomination,” or “kadrêni bastard,” depending which end of the bar you’re standing at.” The cup felt greasy in his hand.

  Neadora blinked at him, then burst out laughing. It was a full, unguarded sound, and a little of the tension bled out of the room. “You really are hopeless. Cass, can you believe this? He thinks he’s a freak. Saving the city makes you a freak now?”

  Cassoway’s face cracked wide with another grin. “In Barrus it bloody well does! But it’s our freak, thank you very much. Oi, someone get the engineer another round, before he starts inventing reasons to mope.”

  Paul tried to hide his smile but failed. He tipped back the cup again, not sure if it was a good idea but too tired to care.

  “So what now? We just… drink until we drop?”

  “Better than waiting for death outside the walls,” Cassoway said, solemn for a split second before he shoved Neadora with his elbow. “Besides, I think this one’s got more in her than all of us put together. She’ll drink you under the table, you just watch.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Neadora made a face at Cassoway, then threw back her cup. It sounded like a dare. She coughed once, wiped her chin, and grinned at Paul.

  “Don’t listen to him. He’s just jealous because I can cast spells drunk and he can’t even spell his own name after two bottles.”

  Cassoway tried to stand up and nearly knocked over the bench. “Oi! You want to go right now, Nea? Fine, we’ll go drink for drink. Loser has to… has to…” he trailed off, clearly struggling to think.

  Neadora, not missing a beat, “Loser has to sing the Song of Erowin’s Lament, in front of everyone, with no pants.”

  This got a mighty roar from the table. A few guards nearly choked on their drink. Cassoway looked at Paul. “What about you, eh? You in? Or is all that human brain too weak for real spirits?”

  Paul tried to laugh, but it came out awkward. “No I think I'll just watch. Thank you.”

  The two set themselves up and Paul slipped out of the tavern. He needed to be alone for awhile. Maybe he would go and check on Wystan. Perhaps he would wake up.

  ***

  It took days. Many long days of work and nights of heavy inebriation until the pits were full, the bodies and debris cleared and the people of the city started to show up. A trickle at first, then a raging flood of people. People eager to pick back up where their lives had been halted.

  It was odd. The buildings were the same, the stones still streaked with old blood, but the people… the people didn’t look the same.

  The nobles never came back. Paul couldn’t decide if that was for the best or just proof of what he’d always suspected about them. Many people gathered. Many had no idea what to do or where to go as their homes had been burnt down, their business destroyed. He had to calm these people and get them to help get the city back in order.

  Everyone was milling about unsure what to do or where to go. The captain of the guard was talking on a stool trying to get everyone's attention.

  “Come now, come now, it will be fine. We can all pitch in and help. First thing is first. We need to rebuild the living areas. For now well just have to make due with whatever inns and houses still stand.”

  He droned on and on. Paul knew these people needed more than a plan. Sure the plan was important and the captain spoke sense.

  What the problem was, was the Hushites that could still be around. The constant threat of another attack.

  Someone had to put them at ease, and it didn't seem like the old captain was up to it.

  Erowin carry me, I was never good at public speaking.

  Paul approached the stool.

  “Captain, could I say a few words?”

  The captain gladly hoped down and motioned Paul to get up.

  He stood there, looking out over the crowd of elves. They were all looking at him, mostly expressionless.

  Paul started.

  "I know most of you know me, and that a lot of you have lost everything. Homes. Friends. Maybe even the whole reason you came here in the first place. But if you're standing here now, that means you survived. That means you're strong, even if it doesn't feel like it today."

  Someone in the crowd coughed. A little girl was holding her mother's hand, blinking up at Paul with a blank kind expression. He tried to smile, but it just sort of came out as a twitch.

  "We are not dead. This alone is something to be thankful for. To get this city in shape we're going to have to modernize some things. I think for now we should figure out who is the leader. I propose a vote.”

  No one spoke up. Neadora whispered behind him, “a what?”

  “A vote, everyone decides who is in charge. Everyone gets one and gives it to one person. Then the person with the most votes at the end of the day is the leader.”

  The crowd blinked at him, like he’d spoken a foreign language. A few elves glanced at each other, uncertain, but none argued. Paul pressed on.

  “It doesn’t matter if you’re detêmri or Wanihndrê, or even kadrêni like me. You want the city to work, you pick a leader who can actually do the work. Not just talk, but get things fixed. That’s how we did it where I’m from.”

  A few in the front row nodded, eyebrows drawn tight. Neadora, still looking like she’d been run over by a horse and then made to sing about it, coughed into her hand. “So, if we don’t want the council back, and we don’t want the nobles, we just… vote?”

  “Yes,” Paul said. “Whoever you want. You can even vote for yourself. I really don’t care.” He let his eyes flick out over the crowd. “Just remember, we have to work together after this, so don’t pick somebody who’s going to burn the city down. Please.”

  There was a ripple of laughter. More relief than humor, but it was something. The elves looked up at him now with a strange sort of eager hope. Or maybe it was hunger, the kind that came with desperation.

  Paul felt the eyes on him, a pressure that was almost physical. He did not think he would ever get used to the way they stared, expecting something, some miracle, as if he could conjure hope the way magi conjured flame.

  He waited, letting the crowd buzz and shuffle. No one wanted to be the first to speak. That was always the way of things, wasn’t it? Hesitation, uncertainty, then a sudden rush once someone else dared to move.

  Neadora cleared her throat “If you want your say, now is the time.”

  A few elves muttered, but none spoke. One of the city guards, a stocky, grizzled elf whose left arm was bandaged to the elbow and whose tunic was stained by blood. he stepped forward.

  “If it’s a vote, I say Paul is the one to lead.”

  A hiss of surprise ran through the crowd. Paul felt his face heat, and wished, not for the first time, that he could simply vanish. Instead he tried to stand straighter, even as his knees wanted to buckle.

  “Anyone else?” Neadora asked, her amber eyes flicking from face to face.

  There were a few moments where nothing happened. Then someone cleared their throat and said, “I vote for Paul. He’s the only one who didn’t run, and he’s the only one who knows how to beat the Hushites.”

  There was a little shuffle of boots in the dirt. Another guard, face bruised and nose clearly broken, spoke up, “Same. Paul. He got us through, and I don’t see any nobles here with a better idea.”

  Someone else piped up, a tiny old woman with more scars than teeth. “He’s kadrêni, but he’s got sense. My vote’s his.”

  That started it. Someone in the tangle behind her yelled, “Paul!” Then another, and another. Pretty soon, half the square was chanting it, some of them slapping their hands on each other’s backs.

  Paul tried to speak but his throat closed up. He’d never been much for crowds, and the feeling of all those eyes made his spine itch. He raised his hands, hoping no one would notice that they shook a little.

  “Okay, you’ve made your point. I’m… honored, I guess? But it’s not about me, really. It’s about what's best for the city.

  Paul paused, searching for the next words. He almost wished someone would interrupt, but the crowd was silent, every face turned up to him like he was the only rope dangling over a well.

  “That’s the whole point. You don’t do it for me, or anyone else, you do it for all of us. If you want me to lead, that’s what I’ll try to do. But if you want someone better, pick them. I’ll help however I can.” He didn’t know how to end it, so he just nodded and stepped off the crate.

  The crowd didn’t clap, but a sort of hush settled over the square. Paul figured that was good enough. He saw a few elves whispering, already starting to group themselves by old neighbors or trade. The city guard in the front looked satisfied.

  Neadora stayed at his elbow. She looked at him, and for a moment, he thought she might say something meaningful. Instead, she just coughed.

  “They’re going to expect you to come up with a plan, you know,” she said.

  Paul tried to make a joke, but his mouth was dry.

  “Yeah, well, at least they’re not trying to throw me in the river.”

  Something itched at the back of Paul's brain. Something he was missing. Surly everything was fine now, the danger had passed so what was it that had him on edge.He stood at the edge of the square, watching the crowd shuffle apart, and the feeling did not fade.

  If anything, it got worse. Like a hand on the back of his neck, prickling, just waiting for something to go terribly sideways.

  Maybe it was just nerves. Or maybe it was the fact that, for the first time since he’d arrived in this forsaken city, things seemed… almost normal.

  Stupid, Paul. You should know better by now. Normal was when the other shoe dropped.

  He tried to push it down. He spent the next few hours checking on the messengers, making sure the guards were rotating shifts, and making the rounds through the city. Neadora trailed after him for the first bit, but she peeled away to go talk to the returning Wanihndrê in the lower quarter.

  Cassoway was still nowhere to be seen, but that was probably for the best. If Paul had drunk as much as Cassoway, he’d be dead.

  He wandered the streets. They were still mostly empty except for the handful of elves patching up doors or picking through rubble. He stopped by the forges, still quiet. Soon that would change.

  He want off to talk to Wystan. He hoped that the boy could hear him. He hoped that he would wake up

  But no, no amount of pleading helped. He couldn't stay in the room with him. So he left and eventually found himself on the wall. He looked out at the ruins of the field.

  The battlefield had not changed, not really. The same churned mud, the same charred scraps of wood and armor, the same crows wheeling overhead and dancing on the corpses. The stink had gotten worse, if anything.

  Paul leaned out, arms folded on the battered stone, and tried to clear his mind.

  It was strangely peaceful. No Hushite banners, no distant war drums, not even the faint tinkle of arrowheads bouncing off the stone.

  He should have felt triumphant. Instead, he just felt the ache behind his eyes and a hollow pit in his chest.

  He watched the empty hills for a long while, letting the c

  old numb his hands. He realized that there was something missing.

  Something important that had been there yesterday.

  A spike of ice shot down his spine.

  The tank.

  It was gone.