The Cursed Blood, стр. 31
When I asked who I was to be meeting he merely grumbled something about annoying questions and patience that was honestly quite forgettable and stuffed his mouth full off cheesy scrambled eggs and refused to say anything more on the subject. Obligingly, I downed my bacon, toast, juice, and eggs (even managed to sneak Manx a strip of bacon) and was off to pack without another word.
I was surprised when I got outside to see the big Witchound in the truck bed. He seemed quite happy to be there, too. Gramps honked the horn and beckoned for me to hurry from the driver’s seat where he was already waiting, fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel and grumbling to himself as I climbed in and buckled up.
Manx loosed a chipper sounding bark when Gramps turned the key and after a moments the big old truck growled to life. The dog shook the whole truck as he playfully bounded about like a happy overgrown puppy.
Gramps grumbled a bit more as we passed through the gate which opened for us as soon as we neared it. He eyed the long, wind tossed, bright white strips of toilet paper in the branches irritably as we pulled out the gravel drive.
I spent most of the ride staring silently out the window at the cottages, old buildings, trees and such that we passed on the way. Manx happily let the wind blow in his face as he leaned his huge head over the side of the truck with his tongue hanging out while Gramps puffed on his pipe.
“He’s been found, you should know that. And against my better judgement your wishes for mercy have been conveyed to the Council as a surviving family member,” he stated out of the blue about an hour into the drive.
I didn’t need to ask who he was talking about; I just sat there and felt a cold weight in my belly and wetness in my eyes. I continued to stare out the window, suddenly feeling despondent and bitter as I found myself thinking about my parents and mulling agonizingly over everything I wished I had said to them while I had the chance, and some horrible things I wish I hadn’t, and would have given anything to take back.
“What will happen to his family?” I asked softly, as I wiped my face with my coat sleeve. Honestly, I was almost afraid to hear the answer knowing what I knew about the feud between our peoples.
“Don’t rightly know, as they weren’t with him when he surrendered to the Elvish patrol that caught up to him in Montana,” Gramps answered unhappily.
“Elves, in Montana?” I asked confusedly. I’d just read about them and knew for a fact that pure blooded Elves weren’t a common thing in the Americas. Especially in Troll country, as Trolls deeply adore the taste of Elf flesh and the Elves tended to wisely give the deceptively cunning brutes a wide berth.
According to the books the mountainous state was infested with the dim-witted things and an Elvish party getting anywhere close was like ringing the dinner bell for every Troll for miles around. The hulking, mottled, lumbering cave dwellers could sniff Elves out from miles away, like great white sharks smelling blood in the water.
Moreover, Elves weren’t known to get into things like this, or even interact in Feyish matters of any kind that didn’t directly affect them. Preferring instead their mysterious homeland that no one knew the location of to ever mingling with the other races, they had become very secluded since World War Two and had even left their ancient stronghold in Germany’s Black Forest all but abandoned.
“Odd, I know,” Gramps admitted, suspicion thick in his voice as he continued. “It’s been ages since the Elvish High King has seen fit to intercede in anything at all—never mind a fugitive hunt, which makes me uneasy.”
That was also as odd as it was unsettling news. As Efferieal Rain, also simply known as the Jade Wizard, was a very, very old and uniquely powerful Elf who reigned over the Brethren Court (the ruling body of the Elvish peoples comprised of seven noble kings over which the High King presides) with love, kindness, and compassion, at times protecting his people with a terribly single-minded savagery.
As one of the Five and believed to be the most powerful of all Wizards of the time (rumored only to be rivaled by the enigmatic Chin the Radiant of China, also known as the Crimson Wizard) he wasn’t one to be trifled with, trusted, predicted, or underestimated in any way.
He also hadn’t of late made a habit of interfering personally in matters of the races. Simply put, for all intent and purposes, the non-Elven were beneath his notice, regarded as little more than half bright savages.
In fact, since the end of the last World War he had only deemed it necessary to leave the Elvish secluded and mysterious homeland once—to personally help end Eric Von Clampett, Arch Wizard of the Black Robes’ murderous reign of unholy terror once and for all. And even then, it took the murder of his beloved sister and a dire threat to all life and magic on Earth to provoke the reclusive Wizard into action. (Though none are sure which reason was the final straw that compelled him to intervene).
Gramps had fought at the fearsome Elf Wizards’ side more than once. But he refused to talk about it, or his most terrible enemy Eric Von Clampett, in any way. Sourly insisting instead that I should read more and ask less questions.
From what I understand the last interaction he’d had hadn’t ended well at all. As the bereaved Elvish