Because of their long lives, elves were never in a hurry to do anything, even what was needed. Constructing a stairway up the Grove Father and putting a series of watch stations on it would remove the need for constant patrols along the borders. When the watchers spotted travelers, they could send a contingent of warriors to ward off any invasion.
Relcan was not happy with the thought of the halflings remaining in the forest, but not even he raised any further objections. Ever watchful to keep out the humans, he wanted the tower, and they all wanted warning of the opening of the portal.
The need to watch for invaders and help halflings were two reasons for a tower, but a third had not as yet been openly discussed. Glisinda judged the time to be right for it to be mentioned. She tilted her head to look up at Cald.
“Human boy,” she called out, though she usually used his name. The subtlety of her address drew the attention of the elves gathered around the wreckage. “A tale is passing through the village that you too saw spirit elves in the grove. Is this true?”
Every eye in Reilmirid seemed to stare at him. Fearing they might hear a lie in his voice, Cald shrugged.
“For those of us not blessed with your vision,” Relcan called, his voice scornful, “Describe them for us.”
Cald searched his memory for what he had heard of the private conversation between Eyrmin, Relcan, and Glisinda, and then shrugged again.
“They looked like elves, but they seemed sad and they wore funny clothes.”
Relcan’s jaw dropped, and he stared at Cald with a new respect. The prince’s face was a study in surprise. Glisinda, who was standing a little apart, turned to speak to Eyrmin, but her voice was louder than necessary; every elf in the village heard her clearly.
“He describes what you saw. If you did not speak to him of your sighting, then we must believe the spirits exist. You can cease thinking you were affected by a pain dream. Cald could not have shared it.”
The prince drew a deep breath, all indecision wiped away. He stepped up on a fallen limb so all the village could see him.
“I told only Glisinda and Relcan. As she said, I could not have shared a pain dream with the human child. There are spirit elven warriors in Muirien Grove,” he called. “No song tells their tale, yet they are there. In their faces, I saw honor and great courage entrapped. I have thought on this, and I ask this question: Is it possible that the undead of the Shadow World are seeking the strength of the elven dead to use it for their own foul purpose?”
He paused, allowing the villagers time to express their indignation that elven honor and courage would be devoured by the creatures of the other world.
“We will not build this tower to watch for human trespass into Sielwode,” he shouted. The elves stared at him, unbelieving.
“We will not build it to watch for the portal and assist the halflings.” Below him, Oles Digdown’s shoulders slumped.
“And yet we will do these things. The tower will be built to protect those helpless elves who look to us for protection.” He glanced down at the puzzled halflings. “Build the tower for us, and in return we will assist your people who escape the Shadow World. In this, your need and ours coincide.”
There were many heads nodding in agreement to that. No one doubted that the portal would open again.
Five
Czrak twisted in the cool mud of the swamp, sighing as the movement eased his discomfort. In his sleep, he had rolled onto the stump of a tree that he had broken in one of his rages. He raised his head, glared at it, and with a withering look, seared it to nothing, leaving the mud around it boiling.
A sound, an exclamation of surprise and terror, came from his left. He turned to see an elf staring at him, stunned by the horror of the creature that had risen from the bog. In one hand the elf held a knife, in the other a sheaf of talltails he had been cutting. The soft, spicy flesh of the plant was a favorite food of the elves, but more than a century had passed since any had come to collect it. Too many of their people had disappeared.
Czrak liked elves. They were his favorite race. Their innate magic and their immortal life span made their blood an excellent source of strength, bettered only by the bloodlines of kings and other awnshegh.
Czrak liked elves too well to let this one get away, so he glided forward, his thick, nearly boneless sluglike body moving across the mud of the swamp, propelled by eight insectile legs that resembled those of a giant water spider. He fixed his hypnotic eyes on those of his prey, but after a short struggle, the elf’s will broke Czrak’s hold, and the creature tried to bolt.
Czrak had not been able to hold it, but he had twisted the logic of its mind. When the elf tried to spring away, using its magic to increase the length of its leap, it chose soft ground that gave it no leverage. Not even the awnshegh’s abilities could stop it from covering ten feet, though the elf landed flat on its back, losing the knife and the talltails at the same time. They fell in a shower around the supine figure as it pulled a sharp sword and tried to scramble to its feet.
Czrak had spent three centuries in the swamps, and he could move quickly when he chose. He glided across the soft mud, oozing the upper portion of his soft body across the elf’s slender legs, preventing it from rising.
The elf’s sword hacked at him, narrowly missing his head and left arm, which was still a human appendage. The blade cut deep into the shell of Czrak’s left front arachnid leg, and he jerked with pain. The pain submerged beneath intense pleasure as he sunk his hollow, fanged teeth into the elf’s chest. One long fang reached directly into the heart, and he felt the strength and power of the elven blood flow into him. The elf struck again with the blade before the life went out of him, but Czrak did not feel the blow. He writhed in delight as the new power filled him.
When he had drained the carcass, he dragged it back into the deep mud and buried it in the cool dampness below him. He would eat it at his leisure. He healed his wounds with a concentration of thought, and for at least half an hour he wallowed in a sense of well-being.
The successful use of his power always gave Czrak a momentary satisfaction, but his complacency lasted only a few minutes. His movements had pressed down the mud, and he caught sight of his reflection in the thin sheet of murky water. The sight of his bloated, twisted face reminded him of his condition.
He had once been human. His name then had been Czrak Revemirov-tsan, leader of the Revemirov clan. He had walked with pride; his warrior skills drew looks of admiration from men, and not just those of his clan alone. His good looks brought sighs from women, and under his leadership the Revemirovs had held the lush grasslands above Cwmb Bheinn. Their herds of horses were reputed to be the best in Cerilia.
Then he had come. He … who in retrospect had been a nameless, formless blank among the sharp edges of clearer thoughts. Czrak now knew he had been the god Azrai the Shadow, but the deity had disguised himself when he influenced the Vos. Azrai had planted the seeds of discontent and nurtured them until the people of northeastern Cerilia were filled with lust for the lives of those that had supposedly wronged them. Azrai had led the Vos, along with armies of gnolls, goblins, people from the southern continent, and many creatures that defied description, into the battle at Mount Deismaar.
The Revemirov clan had fought valiantly that day. Czrak, bathed in blood and the glory of battle, had envisioned himself ruler of the great city-states of the south in reward for his valor. He and his people had been hard on the heels of a retreating contingent of the army of the Khinasi when Mount Deismaar exploded.
Death rained from the sky in boulders and tons of earth, giant trees, and corpses. For leagues around, everything living was destroyed. Czrak was one of the closest to the mountain to survive, but not the closest.