The stranger kept coming, so the elf drew his sword.
“Stay your blade,” the man called back. “I have leave from your king to pass and no quarrel with you. I seek the Muirien Grove.”
Though he had never seen him, Lienwiel knew the stranger he faced, and his spine seemed to freeze within his flesh. He had long ago proven his courage, but he had known on first seeing the man that it would not be wise to test his blade against him. Now he understood what he had sensed.
“You are Cald Dasheft,” he said, fear and awe leaking from his pronouncement. Only three and a half years had passed since the death of the prince, but the human child whom Prince Eyrmin had raised to manhood and who fought at his side had already become a legend among the elves of Sielwode.
“I am Cald Dasheft,” the human replied. To the elf it seemed less an agreement than a pronouncement of his fate.
Cald in turn, gazed at the elf, who pursed his mouth and gave a series of shrill whistles that would have seemed like birdcalls to the untrained ear. The first announced that the traveler was no enemy. The second called for another warrior to take his place on patrol. Cald understood the reason, and it angered him. He wanted his last walk in the Sielwode to be a solitary journey, a time when he could relive his memories undisturbed.
“I need no guard,” Cald snapped.
His objection seemed to weigh on the elf, but the slender warrior stood his ground. His eyes, as he gazed at the human, held the elven sadness of impending death. The elves made a great show of grief, claiming the end of any life, particularly that of a creature born to immortality, was a terrible loss, but Cald doubted they could mourn more deeply than he.
“I am the warrior Lienwiel. My people will honor a bond of friendship and let you pass,” the elf guard said. “But you must be escorted. Many have arrived in Reilmirid since you left. They will challenge you. If you seek death, Cald Dasheft, you will not find it at the hands of my people.”
Cald curbed his rising anger and disappointment. If Eyrmin could see beyond the portal, he would disapprove of Cald’s fighting with this new company of elves, which had taken over the protection of the westernmost tip of Sielwode. Cald nodded and accepted the escort, but the elf would be puzzled by the path he planned to take. His course would meander through the forest, approaching the grove from a different angle. His trail would be a historical walk, pausing at each of the most important points of his life—at least the points he had valued most.
For the past three years, Cald had been traveling in the human lands. He had watched the petty kings fight each other and listened to their intrigues. Except for the time he hired out his sword to escort a family of farmers from Lofton in Alamie north to the fertile hill country near Sorentier, he considered his time wasted. His human kindred, with their lust for power and wealth, had disgusted him.
Lienwiel had been right when he read Cald’s readiness to die. Cald had returned to open the portal to the Shadow World. He would free the elven prince from his imprisonment in the Shadow World or join him. He had no wish to die, but if he had to give his life to enter the portal, he would still join Eyrmin, the elven prince who had been father, teacher, friend, and companion in battle—the bravest and truest being he had ever known.
Cald left the plain of bright sunlight and walked into the dense undergrowth. The elf song that softened the thorns of the barrier bushes was so soft Cald only barely heard it, but he resented the guard’s assumption that he could not make his own passage. His voice was louder, rougher, less soothing on the ear, but he took a slightly different tack, making his own way.
His escort threw him a surprised look and ceased to sing. Instead he followed in Cald’s wake. The dimness acted like a balm to his eyes and his heart. To other humans, this dark, seemingly impenetrable forest was a place of menace. To the human who had been raised in it, the faint signs on the ground and on the tangled bushes and vines gave evidence of paths. They were walked by people who felt the life in every plant and tree in the forest, people who broke no twigs, disturbed no leaves. In turn, the growth of the forest gave way to their passing.
A walk of just over half a mile brought Cald to the foot of an ancient oak. Its thick branches and large dead leaves provided shelter for shadows that fled only in the early spring, when the sprouting of new leaves forced the old ones to fall.
There had been new leaves on the tree when Cald had first seen it, and the tree had seemed larger. But Cald had been much smaller then.
He had lacked three months of being four years old.
It had been nearly twenty years since he had crouched at the foot of that tree, at the age where he was trying to understand the grown-up world around him. He had relived that fateful day many times, both in thought and nightmare.
One
“We’re going to fight goblins,” announced Cald with the insouciance of a child who had not yet reached the fourth anniversary of his birth.
His mother, Sima Dasheft, who drove the second wain in the twenty-wagon caravan, glanced down at him in surprise as she shifted on the high seat. Her hair, a glossy black that usually swirled around her head like a storm cloud, had been tightly braided to keep it from tangling and blowing in her eyes while she drove the wagon. Cald thought the hairstyle made her head look small.
“Where did you hear that?” she demanded of him.
“Arthy Worsin,” Cald replied, though he knew they would not be fighting goblins. Arthy’s father had clouted his son lightly on the ear and told him not to be stupid. Cald had repeated the remark in hopes of enticing his mother to tell the tale of their adventure. He was bored with riding and staring out at the grassy plain of southern Markazor.
“We won’t be fighting goblins or gnolls or orogs,” Sima Dasheft told her son. “Fighting is for the army. We will be the first settlers in what will later be a new part of Mhoried. Benjin Mhoried has decreed growth for his nation.”
“Can land grow?” Cald asked. He stared out over the fields, wondering if hills would rise up out of the rolling plain.
“Not the ground itself, but a nation can grow,” his mother said, her eyes shining with the idea. “And there are times when it must. We must stay stronger than our enemies, because they are evil.”
“We have evil enemies,” Cald said, trying to prompt her.
“Oh, yes, and Arthy is right; there are goblins and gnolls living in northern Markazor. Before they become too strong, we must form a bulwark to protect the homeland.”
“Is a bull-wark like a cow-bull?”
His mother laughed.
“No, it is like a wall, but not a real one as in a house. Ours will be a string of small forts at first, with settlers and artisans living near them to supply the needs of the soldiers. They will keep away the goblins and the other monsters.”
“Uncle Mersel will fight, and we will grow potatoes, and father will make swords and arrowheads and shoes for the horses,” Cald said with a sigh. “When I grow up, I’m going to go in the army and help Uncle Mersel.” He was very proud of his mother’s brother.
Captain Mersel Umelsen commanded the forces that had traveled north a fortnight before the caravan had started. He had promised Cald’s father a great holding. The captain had also promised that the family would be protected. He was leading a caravan of settlers into the low hills of northern Markazor where the first fort should be even then under construction.
Cald had been excited about the journey. To him it seemed a great adventure to ride on the high seat of the wain and travel to a new place. After three days of riding he had become bored. The journey took far longer than he had anticipated.