“Keep the men here while I find out where we are,” he said softly. Gerbid and the gnolls had promised they would emerge from the tunnels within the western arm of Sielwode, but not even the humanoids could say exactly where they would come out. Their choices had been limited to places where the natural underground caverns and passages would bring them within digging distance of the surface.
Through the trees, Hernan could see more light—a clearing. With Gerbid and Orsht acting as escort, he led the way forward. He approached the small meadow from the north, and from the eaves of the forest he saw only more woods. Working his way through the shadows, he circled the open area until he reached the southeastern side. He could just make out the Star Stair, more than ten miles away. Left of it was a grove of huge trees, the fabled sielwodes, and in the middle, one tree towered hundreds of feet above the others.
His destination was somewhere between the two, and closer, possibly not more than five miles. He nodded in satisfaction.
“You’ve done well,” he told the gnolls.
Gerbid shook with his silent laugh, but Orsht gave out with a loud cackle, cut off in midlaugh by an arrow.
“Fool!” Hernan hissed and kicked the dying gnoll as he fell. The human ducked behind a tree and looked out.
Across the clearing, an elf showed himself briefly as he looked for another target. Hernan was ready for him.
He pointed a finger and, with the power given him by Czrak, he threw a bolt—silent, invisible, and deadly. The elf was cut in two by the force. Another elf, who had remained out of sight, gave a piercing whistle. It was picked up by others, and the sound rang through the forest like an echo.
The surprise Hernan had counted on had been lost.
“Forward!” roared Hernan. “To me! To me!”
Across the clearing, his men appeared and sent a shower of arrows after the fleeing elves. Hernan pointed out their direction.
“It will be a running battle to the grove,” he told them. “The sooner we reach our destination, the sooner we can make a stand. Keep up or get picked off by the enemy.”
Once in the grove, they would be able to move slowly from tree to tree, and when he had found the sword, he could drive the elves back with the power of the blade. Getting to the grove was everything. He led the way at a run.
Eleven
“It is a long climb up those stairs,” Bigtoe Rootfinder puffed as he entered the treetop dwelling of the prince.
“A long climb indeed,” Littletoe agreed.
“It will be shorter going down,” Fleetfoot said as he followed his brothers across the room to sit on three cushions near Cald.
The halflings barely resembled the thin demihumans who had fled the portal years before. Their hearty appetites had been sated by elven bread made of wild grains and honey, abundant fruits and nuts, and meat supplied by the goblins. They had gained weight until they were stout, with rosy cheeks. Their bright hair gleamed in the morning light. Their original clothing had worn out years before, and they were now dressed in trousers and tunics of soft elven fabric, but they adamantly refused any footgear.
Eyrmin had been pacing the large room while he spoke to five elves from the eastern side of Sielwode. They had arrived the night before, and he had been instructing them on their duties. Elves were normally a patient people, but these, like all the rest who had come to join the prince, were restless. They wanted to hear about the ghost warriors in the grove. The prince obliged them.
Through the years, he had seen the spirit warriors several times. His wonder over their existence had changed to sympathy and pity; recently the thought of them seemed to give him pain. His face showed it as he continued from where the halflings had interrupted.
“They finger their weapons, not with anger, not even with hope, but with a long unfulfilled desire to take part in the defense of Sielwode,” he said. “They seem to be helpless. We must protect them.” Eyrmin’s face glowed with purpose, and the newcomers seemed to draw their determination from him.
“My prince, are we allowed to enter the grove?”
“Only in time of need,” Eyrmin said. “And for my part, I hope that will be long in coming.”
The young warriors tried to hide their disappointment, but the quick eyes of the prince had seen it.
“Their song has never been sung, so we have no way of knowing why they are there, or if our intrusion could be harmful to them. We will keep the evil of the Shadow World from them if we can. They do not seem to hear our speech, nor we theirs. If you are called to defend them, and if they approach you, do not fear their swords. That is all I can tell you about the spirit warriors,” he said. The five newcomers shifted, but Eyrmin raised his hand.
“Stay. I have yet to speak of a second and possibly greater problem. It came upon us a few months ago for the first time, and in the beginning we did not know what we faced. You will understand when I tell you we are being attacked by forces under the control of the Gorgon.”
Cald, who had been waiting for Eyrmin to find the time to explain the awnshegh to him, saw the startled and fearful looks that passed among the five elves. They, too, knew about the creature. He sighed, thinking he was the only one on Aebrynis who knew nothing about the awnshegh.
“These three halflings who remain in our village are here to assist their people who escape from the Shadow World. They know nothing of the awnshegh, and neither does our young human friend. You can help me explain the monster, and I would hear what you know of its activity.
“But what is it?” Bigtoe demanded.
“That is the question,” Littletoe agreed.
“I don’t want to know,” Fleetfoot said, giving his opinion.
“I do,” Cald snapped at the third halfling. He had been waiting several weeks for Eyrmin to explain.
“The awnsheghlien, those with the blood of darkness, were servants and allies of the evil god, Azrai,” Eyrmin said, keeping his voice low, as if to speak of evil too loudly would call it to him.
“They have great power. We believe they have the immortality of elves. Azrai’s power is shared among them, So none are as powerful as the god, but they all seem to match him in evil. When Azrai was destroyed at the battle of Mount Deismaar, his power showered over his servants. Those closest to him, or most favored, received the greater share. Others received varying amounts. The Gorgon—Prince Raesene, as he was then—is thought to be the most powerful next to the gods.”
“Did….” Jiamial, a young warrior from one of the central villages of Sielwode, said. When he realized he was interrupting the prince, he blushed crimson with embarrassment. “Your pardon, my prince.”
Eyrmin smiled at the young elf’s embarrassment. “This is no formal audience, and we have time. Ask your question.”
“Did you meet Prince Raesene at the battle of Mount Deismaar? I wondered what he was like when he was human.”
“Even as a human, he had some height and a handsome face, though by the time I met him in council, lines of cruelty had marred his features. He was a mighty warrior, but arrogant.”
“In council?” Cald was confused. Why, he wondered, would enemies be consulting together. The halflings were also shocked.
“Yes, there are some tales, tales of Sidhelien shame, that I have never told you,” Eyrmin said, his gaze holding Cald’s. “For a time, the elves of Cerilia were under Azrai’s influence, though we were not aware of the evil with which we were aligned.
“When the first humans crossed the land bridge from Aduria, we accepted them, thinking we could all live together. It was not so. They saw our forests only as trees to cut, using the wood for building and for their fires. When we tried to stop them, we faced magic we did not understand and were driven back. The great forests that once covered Cerilia were dwindling, and the loss of each tree was a blow to our hearts.