“When Azrai sent his servants among us, feeding our frustration, our anger … our hatred”—Eyrmin hesitated for a moment as if the memory gave him pain—“we listened, hearing only how we could kill those who destroyed our forests.”
“You could never align yourself with evil,” Cald insisted with the desperation of his love and admiration for the prince.
“Not knowingly,” Eyrmin agreed. “But we were less wise in those days. We heard honeyed words and had not yet seen the allies promised us. Azrai’s messengers were careful not to hint at whom we would follow into battle. It was not until we were at the foot of Mount Deismaar and we attended the war council that we knew.”
“And you would not fight for him,” Cald said, too used to their lessons to worry about interrupting the prince.
“A few elves stayed with Azrai, but most of us crossed the field in the night and took up stations with the humans.” Eyrmin said. “We had no love for them, but as I once said of the goblins, callousness is not true evil. When we understood the nature of Azrai, we knew that to join with the humans was our only hope of keeping the god of malice and cruelty out of our lands.
“Malthriever,” Eyrmin addressed one of the newcomers, “Deldemriod is the northernmost village in Sielwode, therefore closest to the land of the Gorgon. What tales pass among your people?”
Malthriever, who had been listening enraptured, gave a startled jerk when the prince spoke to him. He was small for an elf and compactly built. Cald had been watching him, thinking the warrior had the hands and feet of a child. When he spoke, his voice was lyrical, even through the roughness of emotion.
“The Gorgon’s evil is passing through the mountains of Mur-Kilad, though we have not faced any concentrated attack,” said the warrior. “It’s the belief of the people in Deldemriod that the invaders of the northern forest are just raiding parties.”
Cald and Eyrmin exchanged glances, and the human understood what was going through the prince’s mind. The Gorgon was not attempting to conquer the elven forest. His minions were trying to reach the grove.
“Maybe the black deer will get them,” Fleetfoot said, speaking first for a change. He curled one leg under him and began to pick at his thick toenails.
The six elves in the room jumped as if someone had dropped a carrion crawler in the middle of the room.
“He could drive them off,” Bigtoe nodded.
“He surely could,” Littletoe agreed as he watched his brother groom his feet.
“The black deer?” the prince asked. His voice sounded hollow, as if he were keeping some empty space inside himself, waiting for the knowledge they would impart to fill it.
When the halflings volunteered no answers, Eyrmin stared down at Bigtoe, who usually spoke first.
“Tell me about the black deer. You have seen the Stag of Sielwode?”
“I don’t know about the Stag of Sielwode,” Bigtoe said, and when he paused, for once he had no echo of agreement. “We saw a big black deer with silvery horns, drinking from the Moon Stream a few weeks ago.”
“It was indeed large,” Littletoe said.
“Thought it would drink the stream dry,” Fleet-foot said.
“A black deer?” Cald had never heard of the creature.
“It is not for the halflings, the goblins, or you to seek it,” Eyrmin said when he saw Cald’s interest. He had read the youth’s curiosity in his face. He knew Cald might hunt the creature, not for the sport of killing or for meat, but only to get a sight of it.
“The Stag of Sielwode is also an awnshegh, though it may have gained its power from the other gods and not Azrai. Elves do not fear it, though all creatures of the power are capricious, and one never knows what they might do, so we leave it alone. It could consider any non-Sidhelien its enemy, so avoid it if you can.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Cald groused, wondering just how ignorant he was.
“It usually roams the eastern and southern borders of the forest. We have never known it to come to this area,” the prince said.
Eyrmin paused; his head jerked slightly, and he stood listening. As if with one mind, the five newcomers were on their feet. The prince turned to the wall and hastily armed himself. Cald rose and hurried for his own weapons. He had not heard the alarm, but he did not have elven ears. The prince grabbed him by the arm.
“Remain here,” Eyrmin ordered.
Cald was about to object when he heard the message being relayed through the forest. Dimly, in the distance, Cald heard the whistle of alarm that had sent the elves into action. The birdlike sounds formed a limited language understood by the elves and Cald.
Invaders!
Humans! They were deep within Sielwode.
Others, closer by, echoed the call. It passed throughout the tree town of Reilmirid, alerting those who might be resting or meditating. When the call had echoed around the tree town, it rang back out across the forest again, passing from mouth to mouth, alerting the elves to the location of the enemy.
Cald understood the reason for Eyrmin’s order. The prince cared for him as a son and had raised him in the elven tradition, but he never forgot Cald was human and did not want him to fight against his own race. The prince’s consideration for the human boy and Cald’s determination to take his part in the defense of Sielwode and the grove had been the cause of several arguments between the human and the elf. Each was determined to have his way, so Cald said nothing.
He stood by while the prince armed himself and left. As soon as Eyrmin was out of sight, he rushed for his own armor, strapped on his sword belt, grabbed his quiver and bow, and looped them over his shoulder. By the time he reached the limb path, Eyrmin was leading the first group of warriors through the trees. Cald followed with the next group, keeping to the rear to remain out of the sight of the prince.
Just ahead of him, Belrinien and Flamarier, two elves who had recently joined the warriors of Reilmirid, glared at him and fell back as if they planned to keep an eye on this human interloper. Cald had heard that their village, on the eastern edge of the forest, had been attacked by a large party of human hunters, so he tried to tell himself their distrust was understandable. Still, he had been raised by the elves and was ready to give his life for their cause. He could not help resenting the attitudes of these two newcomers.
With his human limitations, Cald had no idea where the alarm had originated. He watched the elves around him as they paced themselves for the run. They were loping easily. None broke into a fast sprint, so the distance would be more than a mile, yet it must be close enough for them to feel they could run and arrive with energy enough to fight. Less than fifteen miles, he decided. If the distance had been greater, they would have been walking.
The direction led through the southern end of the Muirien Grove, through the clearing where the portal had opened. Every elf, even the most recent recruits, knew about the clearing, and they glanced around furtively. Cald grinned to himself, knowing how elven warriors hated having anyone notice their fears.
They were well past the clearing and near the edge of the forest when word came down the column that when the prince had passed by the edge of the grove, he had seen the spirit warriors massed by the Moon Stream. The day was clear and dry, but western Sielwode was steaming after two weeks of rain, and the creek was high. Ahead, through the trees, Cald could see the elves massed in a group. They crossed the ford one at a time. His group slowed to a walk.
Until the human had taken part in his first battle, he had never understood the emotional pitch that came with knowing he was preparing to face the enemy. Now he understood the trembling he had seen in many of the elves just before a battle. He felt it himself. Fear played a small part; Eyrmin had often said he distrusted a warrior who had no fear. Yet it was not a lack of courage that caused hands and voices to shake, but anticipation, an automatic emotional construction of fell purpose. He had discovered there was nothing worse than delay when a warrior was primed for the fight.