“Why are you so eager to climb this mountain? You are not just a simple Svartalf, no doubt, but you hang out in a tavern working as a waitress or bar... barwoman something. Then, risking your own life, you saved a witch who was accused of attempting to kill the head of the village,” I say with a yawn. Climbing up the old green steep mountain looks not very difficult, but with every step I am getting more and more tired despite the fact that the place is full of small magical sources everywhere that are supposed to give me more stamina.

 Svartalf wants to tell me why she wants to go up the mountain, but something is bothering her.

 “You won't believe me anyway,” she mutters tiredly.

 “Imagine you are telling me a story. You don't need me to believe you, Svartalf.  Come on, I don't even care if it's true or false. I just don't want to fall asleep while our ascending. I need some entertainment. I see that your tongue itches to tell me everything. Come on! Come on!”

 “Fine, annoying witch! Fine. I'll tell you,” she nervously agrees. “How well do you know Woodland history?” she asks out of sudden.

 I wince. At the academy, I never respected theoretical subjects, preferring practical classes. Why would a battle witch need to know what year the troll uprising was or when the dwarves privatized the eastern and southern mountains and monoliths, monopolizing almost the entire mining industry, leaving humans high and dry. It feels that only humans get into trouble, as always; speaking about elves, they never care: there are multiple magical sources, portals to other worlds, and magical artifacts on the elven territory that will allow them to live in clover until the goddess Amixantra herself wants to feed all their souls to her sons, which, of course, will never happen.

 “Mmm... Let's say, I do know something about history,” I say evasively.

 Elfia sighs, “They should feel guilty for teaching you. The academy has lost its glory and old school noble professors...”

 “I was taught there for free, besides, they provided me with a roof over my head and some food when I needed it, so I can’t complain. I don’t think that your pompous elvish ivory school is better than my academy!”

 Svartalf rolled her eyes, “Humans are annoying, but humans with magical powers are the worst.”

 “Says the woman who's a half-human,” I snort, lifting the right corner of my mouth.

 She sighs, “Do you want me to continue?”

 “Sure thing!” I smile, saying it just like a curious little earthy farmerette. I sit on a flat rock not able to move anymore. She keeps on standing looking suspiciously excited for someone who's about to give me a brief historical overview.

 “How well do you remember the events of thirty years ago?”

 “Well, I was one year old, so not really great,” I say with a smile in my voice.

 “Don't pretend that you are stupid. I mean the events that were happening in the country thirty years ago.”

 “Queen Kattia Pettra has come to power.” I raise my head to the sky, watching how the fog begins to descend from the mountain, enveloping stones, trees, and silhouettes of crows that stubbornly refuse to go to bed and, as if our guards, are escorting us to a crater filled with water, “and the king was missing or dead or whatever, royal drama, nothing new.”

 “That's why humans live so poorly! You don’t care what happens to you, ignoramuses who don’t ask questions and take everything at face value.”

 “The vast majority of people are peasants who live in villages. They are illiterate not because they want it. I was lucky that magical powers woke up in me, otherwise, I would have long been milking a cow and giving birth to a child per year without being able to read and write. The peasants only know what the priest says or hear the news that comes from the palace with the official queen’s heralds. Even if they organize a rebellion, what can they do with pitchforks and shovels against the royal trained soldiers with swords and arrows? How should they stand against the royal sorcerers, most of whom are fed by the hands of the queen, and she gives them castles, gold, and lands. Her tamed sorcerers and sorceresses will do whatever she wants. She has a lot of her people ready to do everything for her.”

 “You have come to the right idea, witch. Luckily for me, your brain is working a bit.”

 I want to throw a light pulsar into her, but I am afraid that with scorched hair she would be a little bit offended and will be not in a mood to tell anything, but I am already very intrigued.

 “You are probably aware that queen Kattia is not a native of Woodland. The chronicles and sources say that a young noblewoman of small but rich Westlandia (your only human neighbors on this continent) marries your prince Pevie out of great love. The king (his widowed father) doesn’t keep his son waiting long, gives up the ghost, and now the young couple becomes new king and queen. What could be more beautiful than two adorable lovers from different countries. What a wonderful union of a small state and a huge stupid Woodland, a country of uncouth lumberjacks, a country where there is nothing but a bunch of evil forest creatures, useful resources, and wood.

Soon Pevie disappears. The queen, of course, is grieving, but soon, probably not to grieve too much, she invites more than thirty thousand relatives from her native kingdom to Woodland. She distributes land and serfs to them; she exempts them from taxes for decades to come. Kattia practically drives all your humans, witch, into slavery forcing them to work for Westlandia. Little Westlandia, that has neither the resources nor the large number of morons who are willing to work in the name of royalty for a piece of moldy bread, is enriched by the free power of your people.”

 Her furious, spiteful speech gets me thinking. When Kattia lost her husband, most likely she helped him to get lost, the queen never married, justifying herself that she had not found a worthy king for Holy Human Land. She always emphasizes how holy Woodland is, and she always stresses that the people of this land are true martyrs who will receive eternal rest in the endless fields and gardens of the goddess Amixantra. Bullshit is everything about this goddess, of course, but if the peasants are relieved by the awareness of Her kind image in the branches of trees and grasses, let Her ghostly presence be an opium in which the poor can forget about everyday troubles.

 “If I’m not mistaken, king Pevie had a younger brother, but he tragically died along with his family, because the forest mara scared the horses and the carriage fell somewhere... their family was even recorded as great martyrs and their portraits are everywhere installed in the village churches. I wonder why they were canonized as saints? Probably for a short and inconvenient trip in the forest in an expensive carriage,” I remark sarcastically. I don’t feel sorry for the children who died with their royal parents too. Much more peasant children die from cold, hunger, and disease, but no one puts their portraits anywhere in churches.

 “Do you believe that this is how it happened? Pevie and Kattia had no children, which meant that his brother was supposed to take the throne in his place, but due to fortunate circumstances for Kattia, he dies with his whole family in the forest.”

 “Does that mean you know how things really were,” I ask curiosly.

 “Yes,” my companion answers shortly. “The elven spies in the castle found out that Kattia had poisoned her beloved husband and got rid of the body thanks to her Westlandian henchmen. The spy managed to pass the information to my mother (at that time Woodland was in friendly alliance with the elves). The king could no longer be resurrected, but the true dynasty could be saved. She rushed to the highway where at that moment Pevie's brother and his family were supposed to be. When the mother found them, the parents were dead: the maras had already been eating them, but the eldest child, a four-year-old boy, was still alive, he fell into the honeysuckle bushes, and as you know, it scares these creatures away. Surely, the attack was staged. It was strange that such a noble family was accompanied only by a nanny and a coachman during the journey along the highway. Most likely, Kattia's guards were with them, they were supposed to kill them without witnesses in the forest, but the night maras intervened, and the guards decided to leave it to the maras to kill the children. My mother noticed that the reason for the death of the married couple was not the claws of those creatures. She grabbed the child and hid him in the safest place: Crow Mountain. This is an old elven protected area. It is difficult for strangers who do not know the entrance to go up this path up the mountain.” She lifts her chin proudly as she watches my face. 

“But where is the youngest child now? Itorina, a girl, did she die too?" 

 Svartalf shrugs her shoulders, “Mother did not find her. She had little time to look for someone in the darkness of the forest. Most likely, the maras ate her first.”

 Unexpectedly for me, I feel a little sorry for this Itorina... all alone, in a dark forest full of monsters, marauders, and murderers.

 “Kattia wants to put her so-called nephew on the throne. She’s preparing a boy to be a new king after her death. Though you've probably figured out by now that he's her baby, her flesh and blood, born to one of her Westlandian favorites.”

 “Is that the reason why you are going to the mountain right now? Is it time to take the trump card out of your sleeve and start a revolution?”

 “It's too early for a revolution. The elves and the old regime Woodlanders have not yet persuaded all the priests who can get the people to turn against Kattia. Peasants listen only their local priests (the mortal sons of the goddess): faith in the almighty Amixantra is all they have. If the priest says that the queen is illegally occupying the throne, and that the true heir is alive, then they will listen. The problem is that someone blabbed that the boy Imor was hiding on the old elven mountain. I'm going there to warn him."

 “Haha, you made me puzzled over why such a noble babe lives in a seedy village and works in a tavern, which, by an amazing coincidence, is located next to the mountain on which our true ruler Imor is hiding. Why did you save me? Why did you tell everything? What if I spill the beans?” I get up from the rock. My bun is frozen. Fog has already swaddled our bodies.

 “They won’t believe you, and if they do, they will immediately execute you as a witness. You're not stupid, as much as I hate to admit it. You're broke: you need money and a horse, and I need a bodyguard. If you help me, I will guarantee you a comfortable life. You can have your own estate and some land if you want. My family has money.”

 “Lie to yourself if you want, but they are not your family. You are just a bastard, and you want to do something to make your mother and other noble elf relatives accept and love you as an equal. Ahh," I sigh, "but you are right: I do need money. To be honest, I do not care who’s gonna be the ruler of Woodland. All rulers are the same, and they hit their slaves’ backs with the same heavy stick.”