Several strange elves stared suspiciously at Cald and the goblins. They were new arrivals in the western arm of the forest. For six years they had been coming—one, two, ten at a time, drawn by the spreading tale of the spirit elves in the grove. They could be depended upon for two emotions, distrust of nonelves and disappointment because they could not see the spirit elves. None seemed to doubt that ghosts of dead warriors roamed among the ancient, twisted trees.
At least most were disappointed; a few claimed to have seen something, a moving shadow out of the corners of their eyes, nothing they could identify, but they were certain in their own minds they had seen the spirits, and each tale added credence to the story.
“Hope has eyes of its own,” Eyrmin had once told Cald. Since they were the only two who had ever claimed to get a good look at the spirit warriors, they had been joking about the elves who might have mistaken the shadows of a windblown tree limb or a fleeing deer for the spirits. Cald had never admitted his lie, and he had never added to it.
Those six years had become increasingly active ones for the elves guarding the western arm of Sielwode. The attackers from the north invaded more and more often. If the intention had been to conquer the elves in the forest, the most practical strategy would be to travel due south from Mur-Kilad, attacking Siellaghriod, the capital. Instead, the forces from the north continued to attack the western arm of the Sielwode.
“They must be seeking the spirits in the grove,” Malala insisted to Saelvam. They had both been present when the portal opened and could not imagine anyone wanting to pass to the other plane.
Eyrmin’s eyes darkened. “They will not pass us to reach them,” he replied. “The ghost warriors cannot fight.” The elves nodded. They remembered his challenge when he first saw the spirit elves.
“Some magician may have discovered a way to use them,” Ursrien suggested.
“Little good it will do him,” Eyrmin decreed. “Though we may join them in death, we will not let our old heroes be used for fell purposes.”
The goblins made a show of sitting on the ground, their eyes rolling as the elves repeated the questions, speculations, and dedications to the ghost elves in the grove. For six years, every battle, every gathering in Reilmirid brought on a repeat of the conversation. The elves never tired of discussing a puzzle.
Glisinda had used every source of magic available to her, but no elven Speaker of Lore had any information on the spirits of the grove.
Cald was often impatient with the subject, but that day he stood quietly, hoping it would continue for hours.
A war of emotions was taking place in Eyrmin’s eyes. He was clearly proud of Cald’s success in his first battle. The young human had proved he had absorbed all the training the prince had given him. Battling against Eyrmin’s pride was a deep anger that Cald had disobeyed his foster father’s wishes. Clearly he did not count his single omission in ordering Cald to remain in the village as license for the human to join the battle.
Eight
The fight had not yet ended when the local carrion crawlers, smelling blood and sensing fatal injuries, emerged from underground lairs in search of a feast.
The elves removed their dead and abandoned the battlefield, leaving the predators to their grizzly pleasure. Two giant saber-toothed cats had sent their ominous roars ahead to announce their arrival. Until the bones had been stripped, that stretch of border would be defended by the scavengers.
The battle had been decisive, and for three months afterward, the western arm of Sielwode was quiet. Then, within a few days, two happenings occurred that sparked Cald’s curiosity. To the first, he would get no explanation for years to come. One afternoon, the two goblins trotted out of camp with the announced intention of hunting. They would bring back a deer and have venison for their dinner.
An hour later, they returned faster than they had left, and were empty-handed. Their small piglike eyes were stretched wide, and their only explanation was Bersmog’s “Wanted some meat, not too much meat. Some deer too big to hunt.”
Cald asked them questions, but they gave him no answer he could understand. He knew something had frightened the goblins; they stayed close to the village for weeks. When their dislike of elven food and a hunger for meat forced them to hunt, they cajoled Saelvam into going with them.
The second puzzle was the disappearance of Ursrien. The skilled warrior had not been injured in the last battle, but he had suddenly disappeared from the village. Three months later he returned, entering the prince’s quarters early one morning. His tired face split in a grin of victory, and he carried a large, awkward looking bundle on his back. Hialmair, Malala, and Glisinda had entered the room behind him, and they, too, seemed to be filled with happy anticipation.
Cald watched with interest as Ursrien gave the bundle to the prince. The elves exchanged speaking looks as Eyrmin carried the strangely shaped load across the room and laid it on the floor before the young human.
“Warriors of Sielwode should be fully armed,” he said with a smile and stepped back a pace. The other elves took a step forward as Cald grasped the meaning of Ursrien’s absence and realized what the long, slender, carefully wrapped item sticking out of the top of the bundle could be. With trembling fingers, he carefully removed it.
“Yes, very careful, it might break if you grip it to hard,” Malala said with a laugh as Cald gently unwrapped the bow. The pale wood of the grenathian tree had been laminated to wafer-thin strips of silver alloy that held elven magic. The spells would assist him in hitting his targets. Wrapped with the bow was a quiver trimmed with runes that represented a spell to keep his arrows in place. They would remain in the quiver though he turned it upside down, or tumbled into a roaring stream. Only his hand could remove them.
The bundle held more surprises.
With shaking hands and a heart bursting with pride and happiness, Cald removed a full suit of elven armor. Breast- and backplates, greaves, cuisses, kneepieces, gauntlets, tasse, and helmet all gleamed softly, picking up the color of the floor as he laid them out in display. Every piece was trimmed with runes to protect him in battle—a suit fit for an elven prince, as fine as Eyrmin’s. Added to it was a sword, many runed and light in his hand.
More important than the value of the gift was the knowledge that he had been accepted as a warrior among the elves. Cald’s happiness was too great for him to manage donning his new gear himself. Eyrmin, Glisinda, and Malala were assisting him when Relcan entered the prince’s dwelling. He stopped in momentary shock as he realized the significance of the scene. His face twisted in anger, and the glare he gave Cald was one of hatred.
A human boy being raised by the prince was a matter of contempt, but when that same boy became a man and a warrior, he would have an implacable enemy.
Cald tried to shrug away the cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Relcan was only one enemy while hundreds of other elves were his friends. Nevertheless, the prince’s second-in-command had taken part of the joy from what should have been a glorious day.
A week later, Eyrmin received a message from the king. He told no one what it said, but grew quiet and withdrawn. Sensitive to his new position, Cald had been worried, fearing Relcan’s influence at the elven court might drive him away from Sielwode.
After three days of deep thought, Eyrmin decided to scout the southern border of the western arm. Cald, in his new armor, went with him, accompanied by the two goblins. They left Reilmirid in the night to reach the eaves of the wood at dawn. They stood looking out on the flat plain as the growing light fed to the eyes details that had been obscured by darkness.