“I don’t take your meaning, Elf Prince.”
Calin looked down upon the short figure. “Don’t play the fool with me, Dolgan Your wisdom is widely known and highly respected. You see it as well as I. Between my mother and Tomas there is something growing.”
Dolgan sighed, the freshening breeze carrying away his pipe’s smoke “Aye, Calin, I’ve seen it as well. A look, little more, but enough.”
“She looks upon Tomas as she once looked upon my Father-King, though she still denies it within herself.”
“And there is something within Tomas,” said the dwarf, watching the Elf Prince closely, “though it is less tender than what your lady feels. Still, he holds it well in check.”
“Look to your friend, Dolgan. Should he try to press his suit for the Queen, there will be trouble.”
“So much do you dislike him, Calin?”
Calin looked thoughtfully at Dolgan. “No, Dolgan. I do not dislike Tomas. I fear him. That is enough.” Calin was silent for a while, then said, “We will never again bend knee before another master, we who live in Elvandar. Should my mother’s hopes of how Tomas will change prove false, we shall have a reckoning.”
Dolgan shook his head slowly. “That would prove a sorry day, Calin.”
“That it would, Dolgan.” Calin walked from the council ring, past his mother’s throne, and left the dwarf alone. Dolgan looked out at the fairy lights of Elvandar, praying the Elf Queen’s hopes would not prove unfounded.
Winds howled across the plains. Ashen-Shugar sat astride the broad shoulders of Shuruga. The great golden dragon’s thoughts reached his master. Do we hunt? There was hunger in the dragon’s mind.
“No. We wait.”
The Ruler of the Eagles’ Reaches waited as the streaming moredhel made their way toward the rising city. Hundreds pulled great blocks of stone mined in quarries half a world away, dragging them toward the city on the plains. Many had died and many more would die, but that was unimportant. Or was it? Ashen-Shugar was troubled by this new and strange thought.
A roar from above sounded as another great dragon came spiraling down, a magnificent black bellowing challenge. Shuruga raised his head and trumpeted his reply. To his master he said, Do we fight?
“No.”
Ashen-Shugar sensed disappointment in his mount, but chose to ignore it. He watched as the other dragon settled gracefully to the ground a short distance away, folding its mighty wings across its back. Black scales reflected the hazy sunlight like polished ebony. The dragon’s rider raised his hand in salute.
Ashen-Shugar returned the greeting, and the other’s dragon approached cautiously. Shuruga hissed, and Ashen-Shugar absently struck the beast with his fist. Shuruga lapsed into silence.
“Has the Ruler of the Eagles’ Reaches finally come to join us?” asked the newcomer, Draken-Korin, the Lord of Tigers. His black-and-orange-striped armor sparkled as he dismounted from his dragon.
Out of courtesy Ashen-Shugar dismounted as well. His hand never strayed far from his white-hilted sword of gold, for though times were changing, trust was unknown among the Valheru. In times past they would have fought as likely as not, but now the need for information was more pressing. Ashen-Shugar said, “No. I simply watch.”
Draken-Korin regarded the Ruler of the Eagles’ Reaches, his pale blue eyes revealing no emotion. “You alone have not agreed, Ashen-Shugar.”
“Joining to plunder across the cosmos is one thing, Draken-Korin This . . . this plan of yours is madness.”
“What is this madness? I know not of what you speak. We are. We do. What more is there?”
“This is not our way.”
“It is not our way to let others stand against our will. These new beings, they contest with us.”
Ashen-Shugar raised his eyes skyward. “Yes, that is so. But they are not like others. They also are formed from the very stuff of this world, as are we.”
“What does that matter? How many of our kin have you killed? How much blood has passed your lips? Whoever stands against you must be killed, or kill you. That is all.”
“What of those left behind, the moredhel and the elves?”
“What of them? They are nothing.”
“They are ours.”
“You have grown strange under your mountains, Ashen-Shugar. They are our servants. It is not as if they possessed true power. They exist for our pleasure, nothing more. What concerns you?”
“I do not know. There is something . . . .”
“Tomas.”
For an instant Tomas existed in two places. He shook his head and the visions vanished. He turned his head and saw Galain lying in the brush next to him. A force of elves and dwarves waited some distance behind. The young cousin of Prince Calin pointed toward the Tsurani camp across the river. Tomas followed his companion’s gesture and saw the outworld soldiers sitting near their campfires, and smiled. “They hug their camps,” he whispered.
Galain nodded. “We have stung them enough that they seek the warmth of their campfires.”
The late spring evening mist shrouded the area, mantling the Tsurani camp in haze. Even the campfires seemed to burn less brightly. Tomas again studied the camp. “I mark thirty, with thirty more in each camp east and west.”
Galain said nothing, waiting for Tomas’s next command. Though Calin was Warleader of Elvandar, Tomas had assumed command of the forces of elves and dwarves. It was never clear when captaincy had passed to him, but slowly, as he had grown in stature, he had grown in leadership. In battle he would simply shout for something to be done, and elves and dwarves would rush to obey. At first it had been because the commands were logical and obvious. But the pattern had become accepted, and now they obeyed because it was Tomas who commanded.
Tomas motioned for Galain to follow and moved away from the river-bank, until they were safely out of sight of the Tsurani camp, among those who waited deep within the trees Dolgan looked at the young man who once had been the boy he saved from the mines of Mac Mordain Cadal.
Tomas stood six inches past six feet in height, as tall as any elf. He walked with a powerful self-assurance, a warrior born. In the six years he had been with the dwarves, he had become a man . . . and more. Dolgan watched him, as Tomas surveyed the warriors gathered before him, and knew Tomas could now walk the dark mines of the Grey Towers without fear or danger.
“Have the other scouts turned?”
Dolgan nodded, signaling for them to come forward. Three elves and three dwarves approached. “Any sign of the Black Robes?”
When the scouts indicated no, the man in white and gold frowned. “We would do well to capture one of them and carry him to Elvandar. Their last attack was the deepest yet. I would give much to know the limits of their power.”
Dolgan took out his pipe, gauging they were far enough from the river for it not to be seen. As he lit it, he said, “The Tsurani guard the Black Robes like a dragon guards its treasure.”
Tomas laughed at that, and Dolgan caught a glimpse of the boy he had known. “Aye, and it’s a brave dwarf who loots a dragon’s lair.”
Galain said, “If they follow the pattern of the last three years, they most likely are done with us for the season. It is possible we shall not see another Black Robe until next spring.”
Tomas looked thoughtful, his pale eyes seemingly aglow with a light of their own. “Their pattern . . . their pattern is to take, to hold, then to take more. We have been willing to let them do as they wish, so long as they do not cross the river. It is time to change that pattern. And if we trouble them enough, we may have the opportunity to seize one of these Black Robes.”
Dolgan shook his head at the risk implicit in what Tomas proposed. Then, with a smile, Tomas added, “Besides, if we can’t loosen their hold along the river for a time, the dwarves and I will be forced to winter here, for the outworlders are now deep into the Green Heart.”
Galain looked at his tall friend. Tomas grew more elf-like each year, and Galain could appreciate the obscure h
umor that often marked his words. He knew Tomas would welcome staying near the Queen. But in spite of his worries over Tomas’s magic, he had come to like the man. “How?”
“Send bowmen to the camps on the right and the left and beyond. When I call with the honk of a greylag, have them volley across the river, but from beyond those positions as if the main attack were coming from east and west.” He smiled, and there was no humor in his expression. “That should isolate this camp long enough for us to do some bloody work.”
Galain nodded, and sent ten bowmen to each camp. The others made ready for the attack, and after sufficient time Tomas raised his hands to his mouth Cupping them, he made the sound of a wild goose.
A moment later he could hear shouting coming from east and west of the position across the river. The soldiers in the Tsurani camp stood and looked both ways, with several coming to the edge of the water, peering into the dark forest. Tomas raised his hand and dropped it with a chopping motion.
Suddenly it was raining elven arrows on the camp across the river, and Tsurani soldiers were diving for their shields. Before they could fully recover, Tomas led a charge of dwarves across the shallow sandbar ford. Another flight of arrows passed overhead, then the elves shouldered bows, drew swords, and charged after the dwarves, all save a dozen who would stay to offer covering fire should it be needed.
Tomas was first ashore and struck down a Tsurani guard who met him at the river’s edge. Quickly he was among them, wreaking mayhem. Tsurani blood exploded off his golden blade, and the screams of wounded and dying men filled the damp night.
Dolgan slew a guard and found none to stand against him. He turned and saw Galain standing over another dead Tsurani, but staring at something beyond. The dwarf followed his gaze to where Tomas was standing over a wounded Tsurani soldier who lay with blood running down his face from a scalp wound, an arm upraised in a plea for mercy. Over him stood Tomas, his face an alien mask of rage. With a strange and terrible cry, in a voice cruel and harsh, he brought down his golden sword and ended the Tsurani’s life. He turned quickly, seeking more foes. When none presented themselves, he seemed to go blank for a moment, then his eyes refocused.
Galain heard a dwarf call, “They come.” Shouts came from the other Tsurani camps as they discovered the ruse and quickly approached the true battle site.
Without a word Tomas’s party hurried across the water. They reached the other side as Tsurani bowmen fired upon them, to be answered by elves on the opposite shore. The attacking group quickly fell back deeply into the trees, until they were a safe distance away.
When they stopped, the elves and dwarves sat down to catch their wind, and to rest from the battle surge still in their blood. Galain looked to Tomas and said, “We did well. No one lost, and only a few slightly wounded, and thirty outworlders slain.”
Tomas didn’t smile, but looked thoughtfully for a moment, as if hearing something. He turned to look at Galain, as if the elf’s words were finally registering. “Aye, we did well, but we must strike again, tomorrow and the next day and the next, until they act.”
Night after night they crossed the river. They would attack a camp, and the next night strike miles away. A night would pass without attack, then the same camp would be raided three nights running. Sometimes a single arrow would take a guard from the opposite shore, then nothing, while his companions stood waiting for an attack that never came. Once they struck through the lines at dawn, after the defenders had decided that no attack was coming. They overran a camp, ranging miles into the south forest, and took a baggage train, even slaughtering the strange six-legged beasts who pulled the wagons. Five separate fights were fought as they turned from that raid, and two dwarves and three elves were lost.
Now Tomas and his band, numbering over three hundred elves and dwarves, sat awaiting word from other camps. They were eating a stew of venison, seasoned with mosses, roots, and tubers.
A runner came up to Tomas and Galain. “Word from the King’s army.” Behind him a figure in grey approached the campfire.
Tomas and Galain stood. “Hail, Long Leon of Natal,” said the elf.
“Hail, Galain,” answered the tall, black-skinned ranger.
An elf brought over bread and a bowl of steaming stew to the two newcomers, and as they sat, Tomas said, “What news from the Duke?”
Between mouthfuls of food, the ranger said, “Lord Borric sends greetings. Things stand poorly. Like moss on a tree, the Tsurani slowly advance in the east. They take a few yards, then sit. They seem to be in no hurry. The Duke’s best guess is they seek to reach the coast by next year, isolating the Free Cities from the north. Then perhaps an attack toward Zun or LaMut. Who can say?”
Tomas asked, “Any news from Crydee?”
“Pigeons arrived just before I left Prince Arutha holds fast against the Tsurani. They have luck as poor there as here. But they move southward through the Green Heart.” He surveyed the dwarves and Tomas. “I am surprised that you could reach Elvandar.”
Dolgan puffed his pipe. “It was a long trek. We had to move swiftly and with stealth. It is unlikely we will be able to return to the mountains now the invaders are aroused. Once in place, they are loath to yield what they have gained.”
Tomas paced before the fire. “How did you elude their sentries?”
“Your raids are causing much confusion in their ranks. Men who faced the Armies of the West were pulled out of the line to rush to the river. I simply followed one such group. They never thought to look behind. I had only to slip past their lines when they withdrew and then again across the river.”
Calin said, “How many do they bring against us?”
Leon shrugged “I saw six companies, there must be others.” They had estimated a Tsurani company at twenty squads each of thirty men.
Tomas slapped his gloved hands together. “They would bring three thousand men back only if they were planning another crossing. They must seek to drive us deep into the forest again, to keep us from harrying their positions.” He crossed to stand over the ranger. “Do any of the black-robed ones come?”
“From time to time I saw one with the company I followed.”
Tomas again slapped his hands. “This time they come in force. Send word to the other camps. In two days’ time all the host of Elvandar is to meet at the Queen’s court, save scouts and runners who will watch the outworlders.”
Silently runners sprang up from the fire and hurried off to carry word to the other elven bands strung out along the banks of the river Crydee.
Ashen-Shugar sat upon his throne, oblivious to the dancers. The moredhel females had been chosen for their beauty and grace, but he was untouched by their allure. His mind’s eye was far away, seeking the coming battle. Inside, a strangeness, a hollow feeling without name, came into being.
It is called sadness, said the voice within.
Ashen-Shugar thought: Who are you to visit me in my solitude?
I am that which you are becoming. This is but a dream, a memory.
Ashen-Shugar drew forth his sword and rose from his throne, bellowing his rage. Instantly the musicians stopped their playing. The dancers, servants, and musicians fell to the floor, prostrating themselves before their master “I am! There is no dream!”
You are but a remembrance of the past, said the voice. We are becoming one.
Ashen-Shugar raised his sword, then lashed down. The head of a cowering servant rolled upon the floor. Ashen-Shugar knelt and placed his hand in the fountain of blood Raising fingers to his lips, he tasted the salty flavor and cried, “Is this not the taste of life!”
It is illusion. All has passed.
“I feel a strangeness, an unease that makes me . . . it makes me . . . there is no word.”
It is fear.
Ashen-Shugar again lashed out with his sword, and a young dancer died. “These things, they know fear. What has fear to do with me?”
You are afraid. All creatures fear change, even the gods.
Who
are you? asked the Valheru silently.
I am you. I am what you will become. I am what you were. I am Tomas.
A shout from below brought Tomas from his reverie. He rose and left his small room, crossing a tree-branch bridge to the level of the Queen’s court. At a rail he could make out the dim figures of hundreds of dwarves camped below the heights of Elvandar. He stood for a time watching the campfires below. Each hour hundreds more elven and dwarven warriors made their way to join this army he marshaled. Tomorrow he would sit in council with Calin, Tathar, Dolgan, and others and make known his plan to meet the coming assault.
Six years of fighting had given Tomas a strange counterpoint to the dreams that still troubled his sleep. When the battle rage took him, he existed in another’s dreams. When he was away from the elven forest, the call to enter those dreams became ever more difficult to stem. He felt no fear of these visitations, as he had at first. He was more than human because of some long-dead being’s dreams. There were powers within him, powers that he could use, and they were now part of him, as they had been part of the wearer of the white and gold. He knew that he would never be Tomas of Crydee again, but what was he becoming . . . ?
The slightest hint of a footfall sounded behind him. Without turning, he said, “Good eve, my lady.”
The Elf Queen came to stand next to him, a studied expression on her face. “Your senses are elven now,” she said in her own language.
“So it seems, Shining Moon,” he answered in the same language, using the ancient translation of her name.
He turned to face her and saw wonder in her eyes. She reached out and gently touched his face. “Is this the boy who stood so flustered in the Duke’s council chamber at the thought of speaking before the Elf Queen, who now speaks the true tongue as if born to it?”
He pushed away her hand, gently. “I am what I am, what you see.” His voice was firm, commanding.
She studied his face, holding back a shudder as she recognized something fearful within his countenance. “But what do I see, Tomas?”