Ryell’s sword tip dipped. He thought of Del’s fight with Mitchell the previous night. How could this man so willingly accept death?
Before he could find an answer, a cry of alarm rang out. “Look to the south!” yelled one of the elves, and the others soon understood his panic.
Streaming out of Avalon and northward across Mountaingate, spear tips and helms glistening in the early sun, came the regrouped remnants of the Calvan army, even now more than a thousand strong. All the elves realized at once that they had been caught unawares, never imagining that the scattered and leaderless army could be turned back on them so quickly.
“Deceiver!” Ryell cried in hopeless rage, and he spun back and launched his sword in a deadly arc for Del’s throat.
Ardaz was quicker, though, throwing a spell with a wave of his hand that stayed the blade and held Ryell motionless in mid-swing.
“Hold calm!” Arien commanded his people as the Calvans, still walking their mounts and showing no signs of breaking into a charge, passed the midpoint of the field. “The Rangers of Avalon are among their ranks.”
The army stopped a short distance from the stunned elves and three men rode out from their ranks. In the middle a fair-haired young man, dressed like a king in a flowing white robe with golden trimmings, rode a great roan stallion. Belexus, upon Calamus the Pegasus, flanked him on his right, and on his left rode the Ranger Lord Bellerian. In his arm Bellerian cradled a coral crown, pinkish white and inlaid with dozens of lustrous pearls.
Following closely came a line of eleven, ten Warders of the White Walls centered by Andovar, who bore a furled standard.
Arien grew more at ease when he noted the sincerity of the fair-haired young man’s keen, dark eyes. There was noble blood in the lad; he was not diminished by the mighty rangers flanking him.
He eyed Arien for a long moment, then raised his clenched fist above his head.
The Calvans had come too close if they meant to charge, but still Arien started defensively when the lad dropped his arm in a quick movement.
And to the utter amazement of the elves, the entire Calvan army, and the rangers riding with them, threw their weapons to the ground and remained at silent attention. At the same time, Andovar unfurled the standard-four white bridges and four pearls set against a blue field.
The banner of Pallendara before the reign of Ungden.
“I am Benador,” the young man announced in a strong, clear voice befitting his station. “Heir to the line of Ben-rin and rightful Lord of Pallendara. I was but an infant when Ben-galen, my father, and Darwinia, my mother, were murdered by Ungden the Usurper, and I owe my life to venerable Bellerian and the wizard you call Ardaz.”
Ardaz blushed and lowered his eyes from the many glances that came his way.
“For they hid me away from Ungden’s fell knife,” Benador continued. “And for lo these thirty years I have lived as a farmer’s son.
“Several months ago I came north to the fair wood of Avalon, that Bellerian might prepare me for the day when I would claim the throne that is rightfully mine. That day is come,” he proclaimed sternly, his arms outstretched and his eyes raised skyward. “Be it known here and now, and let the word go out throughout all Aielle, that the line of Ben-rin is restored to the throne of Pallendara!”
When he looked back at Arien, his friendly and unpretentious smile had returned. “And in the true spirit of my ancestor Ben-rin,” he said softly to the Eldar, “it is my first act to surrender my army to the night dancers.”
The astounded elves didn’t even know how to react.
“My people have committed many sins against you and yours, Lord Eldar Arien Silverleaf, the worst being the battle that was fought yestermorn,” Benador went on. “I cannot undo those wrongs, but I desire that the feud between Calva and Illuma end now.” He dropped his arms and, humbly, his gaze. “We trust in your mercy.”
At once, all eyes focused on Ryell.
“Let him go, Ardaz,” Del insisted. Released from the wizard’s spell, the confused Ryell hesitated.
“Here is the chance of your world,” Del said quietly to him. “Peace is yours if you will only reach out and grab it.”
He put his hand on Ryell’s shoulder. “Erinel is dead; the price has been high-too high. But if this doesn’t end now, then Erinel’s death means nothing. Then all of this will happen all over again.”
Ryell looked to Benador and the Calvan army, which was waiting patiently for his decision.
Unarmed.
“No tricks,” Del assured him. “I promise.”
“What say you, Ryell?” Arien asked. “I know my answer to the rightful Lord of Pallendara. It is an answer that I give willingly, with all of my heart. Yet many of our people have come to value your words above mine, and it is important that our stand in this matter be undivided. So what say you?”
“The whole future of Aielle rests with your decision,” Del added. “Will your world start down the same bloody path that led my world to its destruction? Or are you going to rise above this stupid violence?”
Ryell dropped his gaze, trying to sort through the sudden confusion this day had brought. How could he be expected to accept peace with the hated Calvans with an Illuman victory at hand?
His eye strayed to the funeral pyres of his dead comrades, the pyre of Erinel, joy of his life.
He glanced at the bodies of the fallen Calvans, some black with carrion birds, lying scattered about the field, and thought of the children back in Calva, standing in their doorways and crying for fathers who would never return.
Such were the horrors of war.
Humbled and embarrassed, Ryell faced Arien, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. “Too much blood has been spilled already,” he said softly.
He threw his sword to the ground.
“We do not accept your surrender, Lord of Caer Tuatha,” Arien said to Benador. “Only your friendship.”
Benador dismounted and extended his hand to the Eldar, and as Arien moved to accept it, he undid the clasp holding his scabbard and let Fahwayn fall to the earth beside the sword Benador had cast down. At that moment of friendship between the Eldar of Lochsilinilume and the Overlord of Pallendara, many elves and men alike came to know and share Del’s hopes for the future of Ynis Aielle.
“You’re free now,” Del said softly to Ryell. “Free of the hate that’s darkened your life for so long.”
Ryell could not manage a smile on his tear-streaked face.
But he offered a handshake to Del.
The funeral fires brightened the evening sky once again on Mountaingate. But this night, the grief of the survivors was not masked under cries of hatred or false glory. Both human and elf accepted their losses as a tragic lesson and vowed never to repeat the grievous error they had made.
In an act of the highest faith and trust, Arien, without opposition from any of his people, laid open the once-secret paths and led his human guests to the Silver City. There, a great feast was prepared and many bonds were made and oaths were spoken. The solemn celebration lasted a full week, its high point an invitation by Benador to the elves and rangers to share in the ceremony of his coronation in Pallendara in the spring of the next year.
On the morning the Calvans were to depart, Del went early to Billy’s room to rouse his friend.
“We did it,” Del said happily, his enthusiasm born of pride. “We were brought here to straighten things out, and damn it, we really did it.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Billy replied as he rolled out of bed and stretched. “You’ve forgotten your own world. Hundreds of years of prejudice and hatred don’t disappear overnight.”
Looking at his black friend, Del could only agree. He moved to the window and threw the curtains aside.