“The excitement in the air!” cried Hammadeen. “It’s the talk of the trees that you hear. They’re afraid, and so they should be.”
“What nonsense is this?” growled Galladel, moving to join Shayleigh.
“Oh, no, not nonsense!” replied Hammadeen, suddenly sounding distressed. “They’re marching in force, too many for the trees to count. And they have fire and axes! Oh, the elves must stop them—you must.”
Shayleigh and Galladel exchanged confused looks.
“Listen!” cried the dryad. “You must listen to—”
“We are listening!” roared a frustrated Galladel.
“To the trees,” Hammadeen explained. Her voice diminished—and her body seemed to, as well—as she blended into the oak. Shayleigh rushed over, trying to catch the dryad or at least follow her, but the elf maiden’s reaching hands found only the rough bark of the wide oak.
“Dryads.…” Shayleigh remarked, her tone less than complimentary.
“ ‘Listen to the trees,’ ” spat Galladel. He kicked dirt at the base of the oak and spun away.
Shayleigh was surprised by the intensity of the king’s disdain. It was said that the trees of Shilmista had often spoken with the forest elves, that once the trees had even uprooted and walked to fight beside Dellanil Quil’quien, an elf hero and king of times long past. That was only legend to young Shayleigh, but surely aged Galladel, a direct descendent of Dellanil’s, had lived in those times.
“We know now that our enemy is on the move again,” Shayleigh offered, “in great numbers. And we know from where they will come. I will arrange another surprise—”
“We know only what a dryad has told us!” yelled Galladel. “You would risk our entire defense on the fleeting words of a dryad, by nature a creature of half-truths and insidious charms?”
Again the elf maiden was taken aback by Galladel’s unwarranted anger. The dryads most certainly weren’t enemies of the elven host, and could well prove valuable allies.
Galladel took a deep breath and seemed to calm himself, as though he, too, realized his misplaced wrath.
“We have only the word of Hammadeen,” Shayleigh offered, “but I do not doubt that our enemy is on the march. There are many defensible ridges between here and the northern reaches. It would seem prudent to begin preparations even without the dryad’s warning.”
“No,” Galladel said. “We will not go out to meet the enemy again. We will not catch him so unaware again, and the result could be disastrous. Our powers are greater near the center of the forest, and there we may more easily elude this great force, if indeed it is coming.”
“If we run, we give them miles of the forest to destroy,” Shayleigh growled. “Shilmista is our home, from the southernmost tree to the northernmost tree!”
“Daoine Dun is not so far,” Tintagel offered as a compromise. “The caves there offer us shelter, and certainly the hill figures prominently in our power.”
Shayleigh considered the suggestion for a moment. She would have preferred taking the offensive again, but she knew well that Galladel would not give in to her reasoning. Daoine Dun, the Hill of the Stars, seemed a reasonable compromise. She nodded to Galladel.
The elf king didn’t seem convinced. “There are better choices more to the south,” he said.
Shayleigh and Tintagel exchanged fearful glances. Both wished that Elbereth had not gone away, for the elf prince was more attuned to their way of thinking, more determined to preserve what little remained of Shilmista’s glory. Perhaps Galladel had lived too long; the burdens of rulership over the centuries could not be underestimated.
“Our enemy numbers in the thousands, by every report,” Galladel snapped at them, apparently sensing their heartfelt disapproval—for his decision and for him. “We number barely seven score and hope that our courage alone will turn aside that black tide. Do not confuse courage with foolishness, I say, and I am still your king!”
The younger elves would have lost the argument then, except that cries rang out in the elven camp beyond the pine grove.
“Fire!” the shouts proclaimed.
One elf rushed in through the trees to report to his king. “Fire!” he cried. “Our enemy burns the forest. In the north! In the north!” The elf turned and fled back through the natural barrier.
Galladel turned away from Shayleigh and Tintagel, ran a shaking hand through his raven-black hair, and muttered several silent curses at Elbereth for going away.
“Daoine Dun?” Tintagel asked.
Galladel waved a resigned hand the wizard’s way. “As you will,” he offered listlessly. “As you will.”
When Felkin opened his eyes again, he had to squint against the morning sunlight. The forest around him was deathly quiet, and a long time passed before the goblin mustered the nerve to crawl out of the leaves. He considered going back to check on his companions then snorted the thought away and made off with all speed for Ragnor’s camp on the forest’s northern borders.
Felkin felt a bit relieved a short while later, when he heard the hacking of axes. The sky lightened in front of him, the thick canopy thinned, and he came out of the trees suddenly, only to find himself immediately surrounded by Ragnor’s elite guard, a contingent of eight huge and hairy bugbears.
They looked down at poor, shivering Felkin from their seven-foot height. Evil, yellow-eyed gazes bored into the goblin.
“Who’re you?” one of the creatures demanded, poking a trident against the goblin’s shoulder.
Felkin winced from the pain and fear, nearly as terrified of bugbears as of the elf he had left behind. “Felkin,” he squeaked, bowing his head submissively. “Scout.”
The bugbears murmured something in their own guttural tongue then one of them prodded Felkin even harder and demanded, “Where’re the others?”
Felkin bit his lip to prevent crying out in pain; revealing weakness would only inspire the cruel monsters to greater acts of torture. “In the forest,” he whispered.
“Dead?”
Felkin nodded meekly, then he felt as if he were flying as one bugbear grabbed him by the scraggly hair and hoisted him high off the ground. Felkin’s skinny arms flapped as he tried to secure a supporting hold on the bugbear’s sinewy arm. The merciless creature carried him by just the hair all the way across the large encampment. Felkin continued to gnaw on his lip and fought back tears as best he could.
He determined their destination to be a large, hide-covered tent. Ragnor! The world seemed to spin around to the quivering goblin. He knew that he was fainting and hoped he would never wake up.
He did awaken, though, and wished that he’d stayed in the forest and taken his chances with the elf.
Ragnor didn’t seem so imposing at first, sitting behind a large oaken table across the tent. Then the ogrillon stood, and Felkin whined and crawled backward across the ground. A prod from a trident forced him back to his place.
Ragnor was as tall as the bugbears and twice as wide. His features were those of an orc, mostly, with a snout resembling a pig’s nose and one tusklike tooth protruding from his bottom jaw, over his upper lip. His eyes were large and bloodshot, and his brow heavy, always crinkled in an ominous glare. While his features were orc, his body more resembled his ogre ancestors, with thick, powerful limbs, corded muscles, and a barrel-like torso that could stop a charging horse dead in its tracks.
The ogrillon took three heavy strides to stand before Felkin, reached down, and easily lifted the goblin to his feet.
“The others are dead?” Ragnor asked in his throaty, commanding voice.
“Elveses!” Felkin cried. “Elveses killed ’em!”
“How many?”
“Lots and lotses!” Felkin answered, but the ogrillon didn’t seem impressed.
Ragnor put a single large finger under Felkin’s chin and lifted the goblin to his tiptoes. The ugly orc face with evil-smelling breath moved just an inch from the goblin, and Felkin thought he would faint again—though he realized that Ragnor
would skin him if he did.
“How … many?” Ragnor asked again, slowly and deliberately.
“One,” squeaked Felkin, thinking the better of adding that it was a female. Ragnor dropped him to the floor.
“An entire patrol cut down by a single elf!” the ogrillon roared at the bugbears. The hairy monsters looked around at each other, but didn’t seem overly concerned.
“You send goblins and orcs,” one of them remarked.
“I first sent bugbears!” Ragnor reminded them. “How many of your kin returned?”
The embarrassed bugbears mumbled excuses in their own tongue.
“Send bigger scouting groups?” the bugbear spokesman offered a few moments later.
Ragnor thought it over then shook his huge head. “We cannot match the elves with such tactics—not in the woods. We have the advantage of numbers and strength, but that’s all in this cursed forest.”
“They know the ground well,” agreed the bugbear.
“And I don’t doubt they have spies all around us,” added Ragnor. “Even the trees I don’t trust!”
“Then how do we proceed?”
“We continue our march,” the frustrated ogrillon growled. He grabbed Felkin by the throat and pulled him off the ground, again close to Ragnor’s ugly face.
“The elves know their forest, so we will destroy their forest,” the ogrillon growled. “We will force them out in the open ground and crush them!” Too excited by his own words, Ragnor’s hand jerked. There came a loud crack, and Felkin twitched violently then was still.
The bugbears looked on in amazement. One of them chuckled, but bit it back quickly. Too late; the other bugbears burst out in laughter, and their mirth increased tenfold when Ragnor joined in, giving the goblin a shake to make sure it was dead.
FIVE
FIRST CONTACT
Cadderly sat in the dim light of the dying campfire, a line of tiny vials on the ground before him, paralleling a line of empty crossbow darts. One by one, he took the vials and carefully dripped in a few drops from the flask that Kierkan Rufo had delivered to him.
“What is he doing?” Elbereth asked Rufo as they stood on the edge of the firelight.
“Making darts for his crossbow,” the tall man explained. His face seemed even more angular, almost inhuman, in the flickering shadows.
Elbereth studied the diminutive weapon, resting on the ground at Cadderly’s side, and the elf’s expression was hardly complimentary.
“That is a drow device,” he spat, loudly enough for Cadderly to hear. Cadderly looked up and knew the elf prince was about to put him on trial.
“Do you consort with dark elves?” Elbereth asked.
“I’ve never met one,” Cadderly answered, thinking, but not adding, that if Elbereth’s arrogance exemplified the good side of the so-called People, he most certainly would have no desire to meet one of the bad side!
“Where did you acquire the crossbow then?” Elbereth pressed, as though he was just looking for a reason to begin an argument with Cadderly. “And why would you wish to carry the weapon of such an evil race?”
Cadderly picked up the crossbow, somehow comforted in the fact that it had brought Elbereth some grief. He understood that Elbereth provoked him simply out of general frustration, and he certainly sympathized with the elf’s worries for Shilmista. Still, Cadderly had his own concerns and was in no mood for Elbereth’s continued insults.
“It was fashioned by dwarves, actually,” he corrected.
“Nearly as bad,” the elf snipped without hesitation.
Cadderly’s gray eyes were not as striking as Elbereth’s silvery orbs, but his glare more than equaled the elf’s in intensity. In a fight of weapons, of course, Elbereth could easily cut him down, but if the elf prince launched more insults Ivan and Pikel’s way, Cadderly had every intention of pummeling him with his fists. Cadderly was a fine wrestler, having grown up among the clerics of Oghma, whose principal rituals involved weaponless combat. While Elbereth was nearly as tall as the six-foot scholar, Cadderly figured he outweighed the slender elf by at least seventy pounds.
Apparently understanding that he had pushed the young scholar as far as he could without starting a fight, Elbereth did not continue, but neither did he blink.
“The perimeter is clear,” said Danica as she came back into camp. She looked from Elbereth to Cadderly and saw the obvious tension. “What happened?”
Elbereth turned to her with a warm smile that bothered Cadderly more than the uncompromising glare the elf had given him.
“A discussion of the young scholar’s unusual crossbow, nothing more,” Elbereth assured Danica. “I do not understand the value of such a puny weapon—nor the honor of its heritage.”
Danica sent a sympathetic look Cadderly’s way. If the young scholar was vulnerable about anything in the world, it was the crossbow and the memories it inevitably conjured.
“I killed a man with this,” he growled.
Danica’s look turned to one of horror, and Cadderly realized how stupid that proclamation had been. What a ridiculous and disgusting thing to brag about! He knew he had laid himself open to the elf, for Cadderly would find no courage to back up his bravado.
But the elf, looking from Cadderly to Danica, chose to discontinue the discussion. “It is my watch,” he said, disappearing into the darkness.
Cadderly looked at Danica and shrugged an apology. The young woman sat across the fire from him, wrapped herself in a heavy blanket, and lay down to sleep.
Cadderly considered the crossbow, feeling that it had betrayed him once again. He wished he’d been more attentive in his combat studies at the library. If he had been, perhaps he wouldn’t need to carry the unconventional weapon. But while the other clerics had practiced with the mace, quarterstaff, or club, Cadderly had concentrated on his spindle-disks—twin disks joined by a connecting bar, on which was tied a slender cord—a useful enough weapon for felling small game and an enjoyable toy to put through a variety of mesmerizing tricks, but hardly a match for a sword.
Cadderly’s hand went unconsciously to the disks, which were looped on his belt. He’d used them in battle a couple of times—had dropped Kierkan Rufo when the man, under the chaos curse’s influence, had come after Cadderly with a knife. Even against the tiny blade that Rufo had carried, Cadderly won only because his opponent was distracted. A single lucky throw had saved him.
Cadderly considered his walking stick as well, with its sculpted ram’s-head handle and smooth-bored interior. It was an expensive item and well balanced, and Cadderly had used it, too, in battle. Danica had told him that such a small staff—she called it a bo stick—was a favorite among monks in her mother’s ancient homeland of Tabot. Cadderly was barely skilled with it. He could twirl it and thrust it, even parry basic attacks, but he wouldn’t want to test his talents against a seasoned fighter like Elbereth, or any monster, for that matter.
Resigned, the young scholar filled another vial and carefully snapped it into place in the hollow of a dart. He slipped the loaded dart into a loop on his bandoleer; that made twelve.
In the first few fights at least, Cadderly might show as well as Elbereth. The young scholar hated that that fact mattered to him, but he couldn’t deny that it did.
The eastern fringes of Shilmista were not too far from the Edificant Library, and even crossing the rough mountain trails the travelers could have seen the forest on their second day out. Shilmista was a long wood, though, running one hundred and fifty miles from north to south, and Elbereth wanted to come out of the mountains nearer the forest’s center, where the elves made their homes.
For several more days, the four companions walked up, down, and around high peaks and through steep valleys. It was summer, even in the mountains, and the air was warm and the sky blue. Each turn in the trail promised a new majestic view, but even mountain scenery became somewhat dull to Cadderly after several straight days.
Often during this quiet time, Cadderly took The T
ome of Universal Harmony from his horse’s pack. He didn’t read it, though. He was too agitated by the trials ahead and Elbereth’s growing relationship with Danica—the two got on famously, swapping tales of places Cadderly had never seen—to concentrate properly.
On the fifth day, they came at last to the western ridges. Looking down, they could see the dark canopy of Shilmista, a peaceful and quiet cover for the mounting tumult beneath the thick boughs.
“That is my home,” Elbereth announced to Danica. “There is no place in all the world to match Shilmista’s beauty.”
Cadderly wanted to rebuff him. The young scholar had read of many wondrous lands—magical lands—and by all accounts, Shilmista, though a fitting wood for elves, was nothing extraordinary. Cadderly had the foresight, though, to understand how pitiful he would sound in making such a claim, and the common sense to anticipate Elbereth’s angry reaction. He kept his thoughts to himself and resolved to point out Shilmista’s weak points to Danica later.
Though the path had become clear and smooth enough for riding, the steep decline and winding turns forced the party to continue walking the horses. As they came to the lower foothills, mountain stone gave way to earthen ground, and walking their mounts proved a fortunate thing. From the back of Temmerisa, his great stallion, Elbereth would not have noticed the tracks.
He stooped low to examine them and said nothing for a long while. Cadderly and the others could guess the source of those markings from the elf’s grim expression.
“Goblins?” Danica asked finally.
“Some, perhaps,” Elbereth replied, his gaze drifting back to his precious forest, “but most are too big to have been made by goblins.”
The elf took out his longbow and handed the reigns of his horse to Kierkan Rufo. He then motioned for Danica to give her mount over to Cadderly.
The young scholar wasn’t thrilled with acting the part of a page, but he couldn’t argue against the value of having Danica and Elbereth with their hands free, ready to meet any sudden attacks.