A Scarecrow Left Standing (1)
Soon after, the Surpuk Duke mentioned that Owen had studied under Bellatel and was well-versed in dark elves.
“Oh! How timely.”
“Fortunate!”
The duke's heavyweights, bewildered by the situation, brightened up.
Owen was practically dragged into the meeting, thrust into a high-level council he had no business attending.
Earls, viscounts, and barons swarmed the room.
Huh...
Yet all these lofty nobles were staring desperately at Owen alone.
“Sir Leire. I've heard you know much about dark elves. Speak your mind freely.”
Bobert Count explained the circumstances.
Owen listened calmly, then nodded.
He had a hunch from what Brasiana had told him earlier.
Owen first questioned Lordrek, who had gone out to greet them.
“Sir Lordrek. Was there any decoration on that dark elf woman's breastplate? Nothing flashy, but something eye-catching?”
“A bat ornament was attached.”
“I know what it is.”
As Owen nodded, the heavyweights' gazes locked on him.
“What is it?”
“Out with it.”
Under their urging, Owen sold out Bellatel once more.
“Dark elves follow a matriarchal society. Women called Grand Matrons represent their families. If a seasoned-looking woman steps forward against dark elves, tread carefully.”
Some vassals looked embarrassed at that.
They were the ones who had puzzled over why a woman had come as envoy, knowing nothing of dark elves.
Lifetimes battling orcs had left them woefully ignorant on the subject.
Their knowledge stemmed entirely from legends and folktales.
“So that woman is high-ranking?”
Owen nodded at the Surpuk Duke's question.
“Likely a family's Grand Matron. Only they wear ornaments symbolizing their house, making them recognizable even in plain garb. A bat means the Shadow Bat Family without doubt. A house favored by the Queen.”
Owen added that he had already examined the dark elves' banners.
“Only one family serves the current Queen. Her Grand Matron makes her their number two.”
The Surpuk Duke grimaced.
“Damn it. Number two herself? With just a handful of followers?”
“The stronger the dark elf, the fewer escorts they keep. It's a boast that this suffices.”
In the end, their ranks hadn't matched.
They had sent their number two; the humans had dispatched a senior knight leading about a hundred.
The prideful Grand Matron had slapped him in fury and stormed off.
“Then what now? Owen.”
“Send me to their camp, Your Grace. I'll explain personally and clear the misunderstanding.”
Murmurs rippled through the room.
It sounded far too dangerous.
Even the Surpuk Duke tried to dissuade him.
“I value your zeal. But if your head ends up rolling, it'll haunt my dreams. We know the cause now—we can handle it. Go prepare for the dragon matches instead.”
Nods of agreement came from around the room.
A few disliked Owen, but most cherished him as Bris's rising star.
“His Grace is right, Sir Leire.”
“We'll take it from here.”
But Owen couldn't back down.
This was a golden chance to meet the dark elf Queen.
“Your Grace, your words move me deeply. Yet I must go all the same.”
“Why?”
“We've erred once already. Nothing says we won't twice.”
“Hmm...”
“And I'm the only one here versed in dark elf etiquette. We can't afford another slip now.”
The Surpuk Duke fell silent, pondering.
Against the unknown, another blunder was all too possible.
Meeting dark elves means courting blame from the start. Fail even that, and it's unsalvageable.
But Owen's rank was too low for an envoy.
Their number two had come, after all.
The duke was about to point that out when another voice cut in.
“Have you forgotten your own station?”
Cold sarcasm.
All eyes turned to the speaker: Russell Count.
He made no effort to hide his sneer.
“Sir Leire. Didn't you just say the clash stemmed from status? Yet send a mere baronet to stir more trouble? You don't even grasp your own words.”
“Count Russell, how could I overlook that? My intent is different. We must dispatch a high-ranking envoy this time—and I wish to accompany.”
Owen seized the moment to dunk on Russell thoroughly.
He turned to the Surpuk Duke.
“Your Grace, the most fitting man for this, I believe, is Count Russell.”
Russell's face soured instantly.
But Owen pressed on.
“A high noble, graced by your favor, and handler of eastern diplomacy. Who could be more suitable?”
“Hmm, indeed...”
The Surpuk Duke nodded as if it made perfect sense.
He knew full well Owen had dragged in the count who had mocked him—like drowning his foe.
Anyone else would balk at the perilous dark elf camp.
Yet Russell truly was ideal.
The others nodded faintly, and Russell's face twisted in clear dismay.
Grind.
He glared at Owen, teeth clenched.
Truth be told, Russell wasn't frowning from reluctance.
He wanted the task.
Famed for his nerve, he wouldn't shrink from dark elves.
He even thought no one else fit.
His gripe was the optics.
He should stride forth as savior before the desperate crowd—yet here he was, yanked along by some brat.
Sassed him for overstepping, and now this...
Russell felt trapped.
No room to wriggle free.
The Surpuk Duke accepted at once.
“Very well. As you say. Step up boldly, and great rewards await success. Russell, lend your efforts too.”
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“...Understood, Your Grace.”
The meeting soon adjourned, and Russell crooked a finger at Owen—beckoning curtly, his displeasure plain unlike his usual poise.
“Count Russell.”
“...Quite the silver tongue earlier.”
“Spoken from loyalty. No one matches you.”
“Shut it. I'm a diplomat, but your bootlicking grates. One piece of advice.”
“I'm listening.”
“If dragging me in was petty spite and not shrewd gain, you'll regret that loose mouth.”
“My thanks for the wisdom.”
“Tch!”
Russell clicked his tongue, clearly loathing Owen, and issued a warning.
“Tell them only what's needed and stay meek. Know your place.”
“Of course.”
Owen replied meekly, but that wasn't his style.
He hadn't reeled in Russell just to bruise his ego.
“We depart in one hour. Don't be late.”
“Understood.”
Owen returned to his tent and briefed Brasiana.
She clapped, delighted things had gone smoothly.
“I'll head over first and relay the message.”
“Thank you, Lady Brasiana.”
Owen had volunteered for this peril because of her.
She melted into the shadows like ink.
An hour later, Owen stood fully geared at the camp's front—yet Russell never showed.
He arrived much later, apparently having fed Owen the wrong time to ditch him.
“You've arrived, Count Russell.”
“Move. Don't speak unless asked.”
No apology; he rode off, leaving Owen behind.
Six knights in ornate garb trailed him—elites for the hazardous mission.
They strode proudly, noses high, but paled as the dark elf camp neared.
Dark elves in signature black armor packed the area.
“Halt!”
A dark elf officer thrust his spear forward with a sharp cry.
His common tongue was fluent enough.
Russell glanced back and nodded at Owen.
Stay back—until needed, that is.
Owen stepped forward without protest.
“I am Owen Leire. It seems one of ours was rude to the Shadow Bat Family's Grand Matron at first meeting. I've come to express our regrets.”
The officer, poised to strike, looked stunned.
No human should know of the Shadow Bat Family.
Yet he refused coldly.
“No further meetings today. If so eager to apologize, wait a full day before our camp. We won't deny that.”
“Sleep on the bare ground?”
“As you heard.”
“The gentleman beside me is an eastern count. His station matches the Grand Matron's—yet you'll leave him standing?”
“If sincere, it's only fitting.”
They ignored the high rank.
Pure intent to humiliate.
Nearby dark elf soldiers snickered openly.
The accompanying knights blanched.
Some fidgeted with their sword hilts.
Owen turned and shook his head.
“Don't rise to the bait. It's their standard ploy.”
Owen knew from ample experience.
Even that taunting air was calculated.
Dark elves excelled at needling and provoking.
The knights glanced at Russell; he nodded.
“Sir Leire's right. They're angling for another slip to wring concessions. Likely with superiors' tacit approval for diplomatic gain.”
Owen inwardly marveled at Russell's calm analysis.
It matched his own read perfectly.
A famed diplomat indeed.
Ignorant of dark elves, yet piercing their game with raw insight.
Or do schemers like diplomats simply match dark elf temperaments?
As Owen mused, Russell was quietly impressed too.
Sharp one. If only my boy were like this...
He sighed inwardly at his troublemaker son, Austin.
The boy was improving with effort, but fell far short of Owen.
The jeering dark elves suddenly fell silent.
Their roguish airs vanished like smoke.
Provocation failed—no point pressing.
Fearsome. Tch.
Owen tsked to himself.
Even the instigating officer soured, sensing the flop.
Then, a plainly extraordinary figure emerged from the camp.
“I am Orkeus, steward to the Shadow Bat Family's Grand Matron. I'll escort you from here. The gate guards misunderstood. You may pass.”
A top-tier envoy.
Russell stepped forward.
His moment to shine, at last.
“Pleased to meet you. I am Russell, serving Surpuk Duke, overlord of the East.”
But the unexpected happened.
Orkeus acknowledged him perfunctorily—then ignored him entirely.
Instead, he approached Owen with genuine courtesy.
“You're the one who crushed our warriors in Edel. Foe though you were, splendid work. Heard you command a fine dragon. An honor.”
Orkeus's words drew stunned looks from nearby dark elves, all eyes on Owen.
“Oh...!”
Some murmured awe.
Dragon knights evoked hate and envy in dark elves.
They couldn't tame them.
Dark elves scorned humans in culture, art, craft—save one exception: dragon knights.
Gazes inevitably converged.
Even escort Orkeus gave Russell rote courtesy, his focus solely on Owen.
“How large is your dragon? The fire-breath rumors true?”
Walking abreast, he peppered Owen with questions.
Russell, trailing behind, began to seethe.
This mission should unfold under his lead.
Yet from the start, he was turning into a forgotten scarecrow.
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