“If humans understood the resources on the plain, perhaps they would stay away from the forest,” he said, explaining what he wished to do.
“It might prevent battles with the travelers, but not with those who wish to settle and build houses,” Eyrmin replied. “Still, I would be interested to see how humans accept new ideas.”
“If you wish to learn, I’ll show you,” he said to the girl, handing Bersmog his bow. He led the way out onto the plain. A chill wind blew from the north, so he walked to the leeward side of the wagon. They could use its protection for both the instruction and the fire. The two goblins followed, and Eyrmin brought up the rear, strolling along as if he were used to being ignored. Cald took note of the prince’s unaccustomed humility and left him his anonymity.
Beyond the eaves of the wood, the sunlight and the rich ground allowed the range grass to grow nearly waist high in summer. In autumn it died away and lay flat. He knelt and pulled a number of large clumps away.
“Pull up the clumps in a circle. Clear a place for your fire and make a pile here,” he told the two younger children.
Eyrmin took a seat on the ground and watched.
Cald took three of the clumps and handed them to Bersmog to hold for him. Working deftly—he had spent many hours braiding dry grass tightly around torch poles—he plaited the clumps of grass together until he had a tight bundle four inches in diameter. He added other clumps, weaving them in before he cut off the dirt clods at the end. Soon his “log” was nearly five feet long.
With his knife, Cald cut away the earth-covered roots at one end and divided the log into two short lengths. He showed them to the girl.
“They will burn more quickly than wood, but not like individual blades of grass,” he said, handing her the two short, fabricated logs. “As I said, the world provides if you know how to take advantage of what it offers.”
She stared at the tightly braided grass and inspected the ends, noting how the rough edges of the individual blades clung together and did not unwrap.
“Would you show me how you did that?” she said, her voice a little breathless. “We haven’t had a fire for days. Finally we were desperate enough to risk the eaves of the forest. We can’t live off raw turnips and tubers forever.”
To the disgust of the goblins, Cald ordered them to get a fire started, using the two logs he had cut. Then he sent them out to find some game. The plain abounded with rabbits.
While the older woman, Jelia’s mother, set a pot of water to boil, Cald sat on the ground and taught Jelia how to braid the range grass into logs. The work, the rays of the rising sun, and the fire warmed him quickly. He removed his new elven helmet.
Jelia stared at him, or more accurately, his ears. He felt himself blushing under her regard. She noticed and dropped her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I thought elves had pointed … I’m sorry.”
He understood. “Elves have pointed ears,” he said. “As you see, I’m not an elf.”
“But elves hate humans!”
Cald glanced at Eyrmin, who sat watching. No flicker of his eyes indicated he had understood a word of their conversation.
“Elves don’t hate their worst enemies.” Cald corrected her. “Hatred is the thief of strength and purpose. Elves gain part of their strength from noble thought. They will fight to the death to protect the forest, but that’s because they have an understanding of it that humans will never be able to share.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. Her questioning eyes seemed sincere.
“I have lived with them most of my life, and even I cannot share their gifts, though I see their abilities,” Cald said. “When the humans first crossed the land bridge and came north, the elves accepted, some even welcomed, them. Pull that braiding tighter or the logs will burn too fast. The wars between the races didn’t start until humans began cutting down trees.”
“Why did they accept you?” she asked.
Cald told her about the settler’s caravan and how Eyrmin had found him.
“Then you are Sima Dasheft’s son,” said her mother, who had been tending the fire. “I knew her well. I remember you as a child. I’m Damasina Archolin. As a child you played with my son, Sermer.”
“I think I remember Sermer,” Cald replied. In truth he remembered missing his playmate more than missing the boy himself.
“We traveled in the second settlers’ caravan into northern Markazor.” Damasina continued. “Your parents had invited us to join them in whatever shelter they had been able to build, but of course, when we arrived, we discovered they had not survived the journey.”
“My uncle …” Cald paused, not sure what he wanted to say. He had a vague memory of some kinship that he had valued, but no face or name remained. The woman seemed to understand.
“Captain Mersel Umelsen, your mother’s brother,” she said with a nod as she added peeled roots to the pot of water. “He sent out searchers, but never learned what had happened to the first caravan. He built a line of forts in the hills of Markazor, and held back the mountain monsters for years.” She flicked a quick glance around the camp, looking for the two goblins, who were crossing the plain and carrying two rabbits they had caught in their snares. They were still out of hearing range.
“But more than a year ago, three of the forts were destroyed.”
“By the soldiers,” the boy, whose name was Remin, announced with disgust.
“Not by the real soldiers,” Jelia snapped. “I’ve told you before, they were the Gorgon’s people who had fooled the captain, making him think they were from Shieldhaven.” She stopped braiding the grass logs and gazed at Cald, who had noticed the flicker in Eyrmin’s eyes. “There were more than three hundred of them. They rode in from the east, wearing the uniforms of the Mhoried military and using the trail across the ford near the border of Cariele. Captain Umelsen was glad of the reinforcements and stationed them in all the forts. For weeks they seemed to be just regular reinforcements. Then one night they slipped from their beds, killed the guards, and set fire to the walls of the stockades. In five of the forts, the soldiers were able to put the fires out, but three burned, killing everyone in them.” She dropped her eyes. “Captain Umelsen, my father, and Sermer died in the first fort to burn.”
Cald felt the wound of having lost his last known kinsman and his old playmate. Still, he had barely remembered he had an uncle or a friend; the loss of some of his elven friends had hurt worse.
“There were a few goblins and gnolls in those forts,” Jelia’s mother said, her voice low so the approaching Bersmog and Stognad did not hear her. “Not many, but some humanoids fear and hate the Gorgon more than they hate humans. They decided the blue and black of Mhoried was safer than the black and yellow of the awnshegh in the mountains.”
Jelia held up a long, four-inch-thick fabricated log and looked at it appraisingly. While she inspected her work, Cald and Eyrmin traded long looks.
Many of the attackers on the northern borders had worn black clothing with yellow circles that could be interpreted as a crown. The habitat of the most powerful awnshegh on Cerilia was called the Gorgon’s Crown.
“I wish we could tell the others how to make these logs,” Jelia said. “There will be a string of refugees leaving the hills of Markazor. They say the Gorgon is growing stronger every day, and gathering armies—” She shrugged. “Fear could make the stories more than truth, but in Markazor they fear him, and the armies that have attacked the forts are organized.”
For several centuries there had been rumors of an awnshegh to the north, where the Hoarfells and the Stone Crown Mountains met. They had even heard the name Gorgon, and knew it must be Raesene, who had absorbed power from the evil dying god Azrai, destroyed at the battle of Mount Deismaar. The elves of Sielwode knew the Gorgon was enslaving some of the humanoid races, but they had not known he was raising armies.