Aside from the Battle

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Have you ever had to pull yourself out of bed at four in the morning? If so, you know the feeling. It’s that bitter realization that staying up would have been easier than tearing yourself away from the screen of your own mind right at the climax of a dream. You spend the next half hour just trying to peel your heavy eyelids open, fighting off sleep over a mug of black coffee or while mindlessly brushing your teeth. And yet, skipping sleep wasn’t an option either. The day ahead looms long and unyielding, and it won’t afford you even a brief minute to fade out.

That morning, Melaros envied Erion with every fiber of his soul. A zombie had no need for sleep, let alone for a waking up — especially one this wretched. Melaros had dragged himself awake ten minutes before the alarm, watching through the window as a bright autumn sun tried to claw its way through the thick September fog. When the clock finally chimed, he slapped the hateful mechanism quiet and shuffled toward the kitchen in his pajamas. In their cozy Corlenburg cottage, he and Evaniel kept no staff; if he wanted that coveted fuel, he’d have to squeeze it out of the machine himself.

By the time Lady Evie graced the kitchen with her presence, he had finally wrestled the espresso machine into submission and was cradling a steaming mug in both palms. A second mug stood on the table for her, right next to yesterday’s cherry pie from 'Ye Olde Bus.'

“Damn fine coffee,” the elf grumbled. “Damn wretched morning. Help yourself.”

“Melyo, I must remind you, this was entirely your own doing,” Evaniel said, her tone laced with gentle amusement. “You could have gone as a mere spectator. Or watched the whole race from a helicopter.”

“I hate copters.”

***

The brand-new Mk.3 Range Rover met the couple with the unchanging, cheerful grin of his mesh grille. Pitch-black, like a moonless night, with deep purple flanks that shimmered under the bright light, he had been dubbed Sirius. It wasn't in honour of the star, but rather after a character from a popular Earth movie about a boy-wizard who couldn’t do a single thing without a strange wooden wand. To anyone in this world, the boy looked utterly crippled, and his wand seemed less like a tool of power and more like a crutch.

Melaros slammed the door shut with a heavy, satisfying thud and cranked the Elanor-engine — a powerplant retrofitted here once the rolling chassis had arrived on Almarna. Instantly, the courtyard filled with the whistle and roar of a cold diesel, yet inside the cabin, it translated into nothing more than a faint, noble chatter of cold rocker arms, channeling the motion from the connecting rods down to the common crankshaft beneath the cylinders. The gauges came alive, glowing with a soft emerald hue, while the central electro-luminescent screen of the EICAS system booted up, cycling through system diagnostics and the audio setup readouts.

These vehicles arrived from Earth as bare glider kits — devoid of engines, transmissions, or any core electronics. Over the years, Earth-built machinery had grown excessively complex, eventually running aground on a fundamental barrier: no electronic or radio-wave system could function within the frequency range of 167.5 MHz to 16.75 GHz. Furthermore, modern Earth engines demanded highly refined, expensive fuel that was nearly impossible to source on Almarna. Consequently, local workshops retrofitted them with two-stroke diesels paired with simple, bulletproof four-speed automatic transmissions, hydropneumatic suspension, and homegrown electronics.

Melaros chose Depeche Mode’s Exciter from the CD-changer, slotted the selector into Drive, and as the music filled the cabin, he rolled Sirius out onto the Alenvahl Road. The route traced the curves of the Carance River as he began to pick up speed toward Corlenburg. Once in town, they were meant to collect another pair: a timekeeper and one more race marshal. Passing the Voigts' estate, Melaros noted that Elalin had already rolled out — which meant Elanor had likely been out at the circuit since midnight, wrestling with that finicky Saab of her own team. Eric, the chief safety officer, was either with her or had already started his final track inspection.

***

Elanor fell in love with motorsport a few years ago, and her wild, unstoppable energy always dragged everyone else along. While she was out there hitting the trophy raids with her beloved Elalin, Eric — just to spend more time by her side — signed up as a chief safety officer. Given his background, the organizers were always over the moon to have such a specialist on board. As for Melaros and Evaniel, they went into marshalling. And even though Prince Melaros could easily pull some strings and get the title of 'Honorary Marshal of the Alliance of Light' right off the bat, he dug his heels in. He decided to start from scratch and went to honestly pass his exams for a Grade 3 Marshal.

It was the third year of their practice. They had more than enough experience logged by now; they needed to work just one more event to earn their Grade 2 badges. Most of the folks in the paddock knew them simply as Melyo and Evie, writing them off as a pair of eccentric 'civvies' from the big city who had somehow fallen in love with the racing scene and genuinely wanted to blend in with the crowd.

***

“I say, lad, you certainly live large,” Alexandros, the chief timekeeper, breathed in awe as he settled into the rear seat. The space was divided by a wide transmission tunnel beautifully trimmed in leather, Karelian curly birch, and polished aluminium. “Such a barge! I say, I love it!”

Normally, Melaros and Evie would show up to the tracks in their bright, primrose-yellow Landy, but for this end-of-season run, they both craved a bit of refinement and a smoother ride. Besides, there was no need to rig up any sleeping quarters inside the car this time. The final event of the season — the Corlenburg Championship — was being held at a brand-new venue, and the organizers had packed the entire itinerary into a single day.

After the authorities in Viilinna — some sixty miles from Corlenburg — refused to host the event, the organisers packed up and relocated to the vicinities of Igor’s Hill. It was a fortuitous move, as a brand-new autodrome for circuit racing and autocross had recently been erected there. The place was proudly named 'Igor Steers'. And some lads always added, “Down from the Hill”.

***

Down in the lowlands, a thick marsh-vapour shrouded the road as it snaked from ridge to ridge, skirting around the larger hills, though up above the sun kept shining just the same. For a Saturday, the traffic was astonishingly heavy — heavy lorries were rushing to and from Lenasmalt, taking a diversion while the main road was undergoing repairs. Mist condensed on the windows only to evaporate just as fast, while inside the cabin, a warm conversation drifted through the air, turning toward their plans for the coming year.

Melaros and Evie had always rooted for Team Esmeralda from Viilinna. The crew ran a lovely emerald Fiat 124 Familiale powered by a Kyrintaymo engine in the '1400D' racing class — a category reserved for diesel-engined cars under 1.4 litres of displacement, strictly without forced induction exceeding atmospheric pressure. This year, however, the grid also saw the first outings of a madcap Saab belonging to Elanor’s still-nameless team. The car didn’t even have a permanent driver yet; its main objective was simply to cross the finish line without needing a tow. Today, the wheel would be taken by a veteran crew: driver Falmarion and co-driver Vergendur. The two elves had been rallying together for half a century, back when a race rarely saw more than ten entries and class divisions didn't even exist. Lately, they spent most of their time coaching young drivers, only racing occasionally. Because of this, they were running unclassified today, opening the stage as the 'Triple Zero' car. Team Esmeralda wasn't on the entry list either; after their victorious run in Lenasmalt, they were resting, celebrating their championship title, and preparing for the winter season.

***

By seven in the morning, a vast gathering of vehicles had already amassed near the main building on the flat, barren crest of Igor’s Hill, whose slopes were densely blanketed in thick spruce forest. The organizers and racing teams had fully occupied the primary paddock, leaving the marshals and officials to take over the overflow parking lot. The rally was set to run along the rough gravel roads connecting the local hamlets, and right now, Cirdan, the Clerk of the Course, was busily sorting the marshals into groups and assigning them to their respective stages.

“Melyo!” he barked.

“Reporting!”

“Take Hitlailorielinduilven and get yourselves down to the service park. You’re on timecard duty.”

“Hi, I’m Ilven,” a very young, pretty elven girl said, stepping up to Melaros. “Looks like we’re paired up today.”

“Evie! Weren’t you planning to upgrade to Grade 2?” Melaros called out to his wife. “Go team up with Irene Valentine — she’ll whip you into shape in no time!”

***

Evie, her work done, went off to gossip with her endless circle of friends, Melyo and Ilven set to work loading the Range Rover’s boot. They packed away marshal signs, heavy stakes, and the ultra-precise master clocks that the crews would use to synchronise their watches before heading out onto the stages. There was no time to lose; they needed to get to their assigned Time Control as fast as possible.

Duty at the service park turned out to be deeply monotonous. Take a timecard from Ilven, hand it to the co-driver, share a brief word of paddock banter, and wish them luck. That was the whole routine. Forty entries in total — barely half the usual turnout — starting at strict one-minute intervals.

Then came over two hours of dead time. Two hours of listening intently to the hissing radio net, waiting for any scraps of news from the stages, followed by the conclusion of the first leg. Retrieve the card, pass it back to Ilven, and ask how the competitors were holding up. And just like that, the first leg was in the books.

The wait, however, wasn't nearly as tedious as it could have been. See, his partner proved to be a proper petrolhead with a deep fixation on all things mechanical. She was currently studying at the Corlenburg Polytechnic College, preparing to enter the Gensal Academy of Magic. Her current focus was on measuring instruments, but once at the Academy, she intended to join the faculty of mechanical magic under Elanor herself.

By the time the second leg rolled around, Ilven and Melyo swapped roles. Now it was his turn to handle the tedious paperwork, while Ilven chattered away merrily with the drivers.

***

Before long, Evie returned from the stages; her finish crew was only rostered for the first leg. Mind you, her job out at the stage finish was far more chaotic, exhausting, and infinitely more interesting. It was spectacular, too. Back at the service park, speeds were negligible. But at the flying finish, the rally cars would come tearing in — caked in dust, blistering hot, and rarely in one piece. Someone had left a bumper in a ditch, someone else had lost a headlamp to the thickets from the sheer vibration, and now and then, someone left an entire vehicle swallowed by the moors.

The airwaves out on the stages were always buzzing with the kind of chatter that rarely reached the higher ground of the hilltop. Evie spun her yarns, while Melaros and Ilven listened thirstily. Over on one stage, a bit of flying debris from a car sliding into a ditch had badly gouged a marshal's leg; they’d even had to call the event medic down to the scene. On the next stage, a Volvo 960 from Westersted had successfully buried itself in a peat bog, only for a crowd of twenty spectators to literally hoist the heavy machine out on their shoulders.

Once the event wrapped up, the tales kept piling up. The marshals, gathered in the paddock parking lot, traded accounts of beautiful drifts, flying shale, and screaming engines. They laughed about a little Fordie whose engine bay had caught fire, forcing the crew to deliberately steer her into a wayside pond just to douse the flames. Then there were the Lada lads who, facing the exact same disaster, didn’t just quench the fire — they conquered the stage and kept their rally alive.

Melyo and Ilven, who only an hour ago had felt so deeply proud of their work, now sat there nursing a quiet melancholy, realizing just how much of the action they had missed out on.

***

Darkness had already fallen by the time the official time sheets were signed off and the marshals were finally stood down. The radio net was reporting a monstrous traffic jam caused by a broken-down rig. Melaros took one look at the map and decided it was time to make up for a thoroughly uninspiring day. The first leg of the rally traced a clear path back toward Corlenburg: four special stages back-to-back, followed by a handful of twisting B-roads leading all the way to the Zugunder-bahn. Melaros buried the throttle. Sirius rolled a pair of spectacular black coal-tails from his tailpipes and tore down from Igor’s Hill. The machine flew along the dusty lanes, already churned up by the rally cars, kicking up thick plumes of grit and spitting sand into the night.

Back in Corlenburg, as he was unloading his timing gear, Alexandros checked his watch and remarked:

“The radio said the gridlock would take three and a half hours. We made it in two-forty. And that’s with twice the mileage!”