“And mighty is the power of the awnshegh,” Lishet spoke up quickly. “But the elves had a deadly aim with their bows and aimed for arms, legs, and throats.”
“When the battle was lost, we decided to return to you with the news, mighty Czrak,” Demloke added.
Czrak knew the man was lying, and his rage boiled up again, but he controlled himself with an effort that was new to him. He rolled in the mud and considered the news. His rage had drained him. His hunger grew with every twist and turn, but he decided not to eat the humans. They were the only ones left. He would reinspire them and send them to find more followers.
Luckily a large band of gnolls, chased out of Coeranys, had tried to cross the southern end of the swamp, and he had caught them with his power. They, under the command of the humans, would help him rebuild his army.
But how large a force would he need to drive off the elves and reach the area of the portal? Even the Gorgon, with his superior strength and larger armies, had not succeeded. The mightiest awnshegh on Cerilia had not even drawn all the elven warriors to the northern borders.
Elves! The awnshegh gave in to another rage, rolling and thrashing.
Elves! Elves! Elves!
Elves!
Czrak wondered how he could have overlooked the obvious; he had concentrated on pitting an army against the elves of Sielwode. What if he pitted elves against their own kind? He needed elves to learn what force he faced, and to bring him word of the weaknesses of the defenders of the forest. He rolled to face the two humans again, his face twisted in a grimace that served him for a smile.
“Swift and deadly is the justice of Czrak,” he said quietly and watched with pleasure as they trembled. “But he also rewards loyalty. You returned to me with news.” Only because they were captured and brought to me, he thought, but he kept that thought to himself.
“You were wise to flee the fight when nothing could be gained.” They had fled in fear; he could read it in their minds. The next work he had for them would not require as much physical courage.
“Those who were unwise enough to lose their lives will not share in the greatness of my victories, but you will. Rest while I consider.”
Czrak’s hatred of the elves grew with his rage over being thwarted, but he had to admit a grudging respect for their determination and their expertise as warriors. He decided on a plan, and then spent three days turning it over in his mind. To fail again would be worse than not trying. His followers, the few he had left, would lose respect for his power.
He made his decision, gave his minions their instructions, and sat back to wait. In four days, the two humans and ten gnolls returned from Sielwode with three elves, bound and gagged.
To Czrak’s astonishment, he had to work a full day to suborn each elf. Their will was stronger than he had thought any mortal’s could be. But then, elves were not mortal in the true sense, he reminded himself. Their lives had no predetermined span; if they did not die in battle or of a sickness, they lived forever, and their minds were strong.
Three days later, he wallowed in exhaustion, but he had learned from them all they knew, and had sent them west with their instructions.
Demloke and Lishet left with the gnolls to bring in more captives, and Czrak took a much-needed rest. The next time he would not fail in his attempt to get the sword.
Fourteen
“There was a time when Eisermerien bred brave warriors,” Relcan said. He stood in the doorway of Eyrmin’s dwelling, looking out over the village of Reilmirid. His restless hands moved from his sword to the frame of the door and back. He was reluctantly expressing doubts about two elves from the southernmost village in Sielwode.
Eyrmin and Cald sat at their ease. The prince and his youthful human companion had just returned from the northern border, where they had been inspecting the elven defenses.
The Gorgon had made another strong attempt to invade the forest. The elves had not been able to hold the powerful awnshegh’s forces out, and the battle had raged from tree to tree. The elves retreated nearly a mile before they rallied and drove out the enemy. Fifteen elves had died in the battle.
The entire western arm of Sielwode was in mourning. Fifteen deaths among a people who could live forever was a tragedy beyond the understanding of those who measured their lives in centuries or less.
Returning with Eyrmin and Cald were eight warriors who had been severely injured and would need time to heal. Two others, Iswiel and Farmain, had insisted they needed recuperative leave from the border, but their wounds had been slight.
They were newcomers to the army of the western arm, from the village of Eisermerien. Their village guarded part of the southern border of Sielwode, in an area generally safe from invasion, since it bordered the swamp of northern Elinie. In centuries past, they had spent a great deal of their time gathering wild rice and talltails from the edge of the swamp, but some evil had taken over the bogs and they no longer traveled the fens.
Iswiel and Farmain had joined Eyrmin’s forces less than a month before, yet this was the second time they had returned to Reilmirid with slight injuries, claiming they were in need of rest and healing.
“It has been nearly four centuries since the people of Eisermerien fought pitched battles,” Eyrmin said. “Give them time to become hardened to war.”
Cald watched as the prince frowned over the attitudes of the two new elves. Though he himself would not admit it, Eyrmin, a hero of the battle of Mount Deismaar, shared Relcan’s difficulty in understanding the attitudes of the newcomers.
“Perhaps there’s something strange about their food,” Cald said, seeking a reason. Eyrmin raised his brows as he looked at the young human. Relcan turned from the doorway and frowned at Cald.
“I mean, mayhap they feel more pain from a slight wound than we do … a different type of food … perhaps it makes them more sensitive….” He shrugged. “It’s the only thing I could think of.” He had only wanted to lighten the prince’s mind.
Relcan gave a snort and turned away, showing his contempt for the opinion of the young human. Eyrmin mirrored Cald’s shrug, though his eyes were thoughtful.
“No song of lore mentions it, but then we have discovered other new things that require new tunes.” He sighed, a despondent sound that wrenched Cald’s spirit. “Let them have their rest.”
Relcan shook his head in disapproval, but when he opened his mouth to disagree with his prince, Eyrmin’s look, stiff with determination, stopped him. He turned and had just disappeared through the doorway when a shrill whistle pierced the silence. The message was plain.
The portal had opened!
Cald was tired from their all-night trek from the northern border, but he was on his feet as quickly as the prince. They grabbed their weapons and raced out of the dwelling, disdaining the stairs in favor of the ropes that allowed faster access to the ground.
Cald was ten paces behind the prince when they entered the Muirien Grove. Ahead of him ran Iswiel and Farmain. From the high platform in the Grove Father came another, longer, whistled message. The portal had closed again, but not before a score of halflings had entered Sielwode. The messages kept coming; the halflings had been the only intruders, and they were hurrying southwest, directly toward the elven village.
Thirty elves had followed Eyrmin, but he called a halt to the run and ordered all but Relcan, Glisinda, and Cald back to Reilmirid. Cald watched, feeling a familiar pride in his foster father. Eyrmin knew the halflings that came through the portal were usually terrified because of the evils that chased them. A large, armed force of strangers would just add to their fear. Often merciless in battle, Eyrmin could be sensitive and thoughtful to those who intended no harm to Sielwode.