The prince watched the other elves as they left, and was turning to meet the halflings when Cald touched his arm.
“Relcan’s complaint may be justified,” he murmured so only the prince and his second-in-command could hear him. He pointed to the two elves from the southern forest. Both were limping pathetically as they followed the rest of the warriors.
“Why are they here if they’re too wounded to fight?” Relcan asked, but Eyrmin was quicker in understanding.
“They traveled at a quick pace to get so far so fast,” he said, his eyes darkening with suspicion. “Yet now their limping makes it appear they can hardly walk.”
“They’ve not been telling the truth?” Relcan had difficulty accepting the idea of dishonesty among his own people. His head jerked with quick little movements and his hands twitched. He put up no argument; he had been the first to suspect that their courage was not all it should be.
“They may require more consideration,” Eyrmin said. Pain filled his eyes. “I confess to a lack of understanding—and trust.”
“Here come the halflings,” Glisinda said as she pointed toward the sound of cracking branches behind them. Bigtoe, Littletoe, and Fleetfoot Rootfinder came dashing into the grove. They wore elven helmets and carried small weapons made by their hosts to fit their smaller hands. As usual, Bigtoe led, Littletoe followed on his heels, and Fleetfoot brought up the end of the line.
“You missed the entire battle,” Cald shouted. The elves laughed.
Bigtoe glared up at Cald, his arms akimbo. Little-toe eyed his brother and did the same. Fleetfoot shrugged and sat on a fallen limb.
“There was no battle,” Eyrmin assured them. “Twenty or more escaped. Find them and assure them they are welcome to rest here for a few days.”
“We will find them,” Bigtoe said, leading the way.
“We surely will,” Littletoe agreed, and then followed his brother.
Fleetfoot stood up. “And search for a battle that isn’t there,” he said, stomping off.
In a few minutes the triplets returned with the refugees, who eyed the elves with suspicion. When Stognad and Bersmog came up behind them, however, they opted for the company of elves rather than goblins. They gathered around the human, Eyrmin, Glisinda, and Relcan.
“What are you doing in the grove?” Relcan demanded of the two goblins who circled the frightened halflings and joined the elves.
“Was not in place of half-dead trees. Plenty nothing good there,” Stognad replied with a sneer. Neither goblin liked the grove. “We on other side when heard the call.”
“Came to help fight,” Bersmog added. “Been tracking a deer, but it be gone now. Nothing to eat but elf slop.”
“And then get hard-mouthed by elf,” Stognad griped.
“Go back to your hunting, but not in the grove,” Eyrmin said, his mind on the small refugees. “The halflings need food, so you can hunt for them as well.”
“And likely not get to feed ourselves,” groused Bersmog. “Plenty trouble, living with elves.”
“You want to go back to Chief Splitear?” Stognad asked as they turned to leave.
“How come old Splitear not got himself killed by now?” Bersmog asked as he followed his friend through the wood. By the time Stognad worked out an answer, they were too far away for Cald to hear it.
The halflings stood wide-eyed throughout the conversation between the elves and the goblins, and when the humanoids trotted away, Glisinda gave the new arrivals the speech that had become customary.
“We know you flee the evils of the Shadow World. We will allow you to rest near here and then travel through our land as long as you obey our laws while you are in our forest.”
“And you can repay us by giving us news of the Shadow World,” Eyrmin added. With intruders attacking from the north and the south, all apparently attempting to reach the Muirien Grove, at first he had thought the elven spirits were the sole reason. A month before, he had decided the portal could be a rallying point for evil, but how and why and whether the ghost elves drew them was a puzzle he had not worked out. He had spoken of his thoughts only to Cald. Both sensed he was right, but their reasoning was still fuzzy and without form.
Eyrmin ordered the halfling triplets to lead the escapees to the caves that had been used by scores of refugees from the Shadow World. One sturdy little warrior, who was armed with a scythe and seemed to be the leader, shook his head when they called to him to follow.
“If the news we bring is to aid you, we should lose no time in the telling,” he said, still panting a little from his run. He introduced himself as Furfoot Tunnelgood. “Is the name, Klasmonde Volkir known to you?”
“The Klasmonde Volkir who served Mmaadag Cemfrid?” Eyrmin asked. The elves had questioned the halfling refugees and had learned a few names. Since the halflings who had escaped the Shadow World had been in hiding for generations, most of their tales were rumors, many confused and contradictory.
“Mmaadag Cemfrid was killed at the portal,” Fur-foot said. “Klasmonde Volkir is now lich-lord of Castle Gough. He is seeking the blood of everyone not necessary to the defense of the castle, seeking enough power to come through the portal.”
“It is said he is mad with the desire to reach Aebrynis,” announced a female halfling who had come to stand by Furfoot. On her back was strapped an infant, bound to a board. She carried a hoe as if it were a weapon.
“Curlytoe speaks true; it is said that Volkir thinks of nothing but reaching this world,” Furfoot said.
“How do you open the portal?” Glisinda asked. The question had been asked of most of the refugees. Like those who had come before them, the halflings glanced at each other and shrugged.
“It just appeared,” Furfoot said.
“It’s not there all the time,” Curlytoe added. “We have passed that spot many times and never have we seen a passage into this world, but we returned to the area inside the forked streams because the lich-lord has been seeking the portal in that place.”
“Then he seeks the grove,” Eyrmin said, staring out into the dimness under the trees.
The group of twenty-two halflings had little other news. They had fled their village when the soldiers of Castle Gough had come in search of slaves who had been living in the forest. They had gleaned their story from an escaped slave, but he had left them before they discovered the portal.
The triplets led them toward the caves above the banks of the Moon Stream while Eyrmin returned to Reilmirid, deep in thought. Cald and Relcan followed, allied and walking together only because they were not being made privy to the prince’s consideration.
In the main room of his dwelling, Eyrmin paced, indecision, consideration, and later, determination showing in his eyes. He kept his thoughts to himself, and that raised resentment in Relcan, who sat on a cushion and shifted as restlessly as the prince. His hands moved over the edge of the table at his side, filling his wineglass often until his eyes glistened with the drink.
Cald felt so keyed up he wanted to scream, just to break the tension.
Two hours later, Glisinda arrived in Eyrmin’s dwelling in response to a message from the prince. She had hardly stepped into the room before the prince whirled to face her.
“I believe the Gorgon and the lords of the Shadow World hope to meet in the Muirien Grove. Whether they are allies or enemies we have yet to learn. I need your knowledge. Have you discovered any reason they’ve chosen our land?”
“No.” Glisinda shook her head, her eyes dark with worry. “It could be as you have said; they may be seeking the portal because of the spirit warriors. Else, why not open the portal in the Stone Crown Mountains?”
“Because of spirits we cannot see?” Relcan’s voice was a little slurred by the drink. His accusing glare at Eyrmin threw Cald into a rage.
“Spirits you cannot see,” Cald snapped. He would have said more, but a chopping motion of Eyrmin’s hand cut him off.