An unwary otter splashed in a pool, and he grabbed it, throwing it a quarter of a mile across the swamp. Luckily, the playful little creature fell into a deeper pool and limped away, favoring a sprained joint in its right hind leg. It would never realize its good fortune.
Czrak slid through the mud, seeking any prey. His anger needed release. A small island in the mire became his target. He tore at the few saplings on the island, reducing them to splinters. He shriveled the grass. By the time his initial rage had cooled, a barren clump of charred ground was all that remained of the little island. Overhead, a pair of marsh warblers circled, unable to understand what had happened to their nest.
Czrak deliberately stayed away from the area where his new minions camped. His rage brought his bloodlust to an almost uncontrollable pitch, and he could not trust himself near them.
He had lost one force in Sielwode, and it had taken months to collect another. To destroy them in his anger would be to compound the failure. His mind rankled with the knowledge that he needed them.
As he calmed, he also considered the situation. When his gnolls captured the three elves, he had heard the story of the elven spirits in the Muirien Grove, and Prince Eyrmin’s desire to protect them. The news had given him an understanding of why the grove was so closely guarded. The discovery of the court’s distrust of Eyrmin had given him another weapon, and Lerien had successfully worked on that suspicion in the elven court.
Czrak slithered down into a pool of cool mud to ease the heat in his bloated body.
What had the gnoll said about the elf Relcan? A member of the royal kindred, and the prince’s second-in-command? He had never seen the elven spirits, did not believe in them, and distrusted the non-Sidhelien that the prince had taken into service. Could Iswiel and Farmain make use of the elf’s doubt?
Was the royal kinsman truly distrustful, or did he harbor ambitions for the prince’s command? Czrak’s centuries of experience had taught him there was nothing like a taste of power to build an appetite. Perhaps he could turn the dissatisfaction of this elf to his own purpose.
He’d send Iswiel and Farmain another message, if he had not terrified the stupid gnolls into fleeing the swamp. He rolled over, soaking his back in the mud, and gave a sigh. But intrigue grew slowly and took time to bear fruit. And when it did, would he get the benefit of his efforts, or would the Gorgon, with his more numerous forces, make better use of the trouble among the elves?
No, he must go for the sword himself. He would need some huge conveyance, a large wain, many horses or mules to pull it, and all his forces.
But one way or another, Deathirst would be his.
Nineteen
“Sire, the army is ready to march,” Brechian prompted as he stood in the doorway of King Tieslin’s chamber.
The first light of the morning sun turned the Crystal Palace rose and gold, a favorite time for the elves of Siellaghriod. The early morning light enhanced a beauty already breathtaking. But as Tieslin turned to face his councilor, he wondered if any light could mask or soften the malicious satisfaction on Brechian’s face.
“They await you to review them as they leave, Sire,” Brechian urged.
“And they cannot start soon enough for you, can they, Brechian?” Tieslin snapped as he pushed past his advisor and walked down the long passage that led to the main balcony.
Tieslin walked slowly, pacing his memories. He inspected each carving on the wall, remembering the time when, as children, he and Eyrmin had played in that wide passage. With toy swords they had battled the monsters in the carvings and fought mighty imaginary battles in crystal forests.
Tieslin and Eyrmin had grown up as friends. Now he was leading an army against his kinsman and childhood playmate.
Tieslin delayed as long as he could, but in the back of his mind he knew his loyal forces were standing in full armor with packs of rations on their backs and their weapons in their hands, waiting for him to start them on a long and tiring march. His delay would not prevent elf from fighting elf, though reasonable haste might keep Eyrmin from bringing terrible enemies into Sielwode.
He tore his gaze from the walls and stared at the floor of the wide passage as he strode forward, out into the morning air, and looked down into the courtyard.
Five hundred elves in full war panoply stood below, looking up at him. He gave a slow nod and raised his hand. On the morning air, he sketched a rune, giving them the sign of good fortune.
As General Biestiel led his forces out of Siellaghriod, Tieslin turned away in time to see the lovely elf maid, Vritienel, raise her eyes toward Brechian, who gazed at her with hopeful admiration. Brechian’s face paled. The elven beauty stared at him with contempt. He might rid himself of his rival, but she would never forgive him.
When Brechian turned to his king, his eyes mutely pleading for royal intervention, his face went completely white. By Tieslin’s expression, he could tell the king would never forget his part in bringing about the downfall of the prince of the western arm of Sielwode.
The king gave a slight nod of satisfaction, knowing his cousin’s enemy would pay for his malice, but the feeling was fleeting. Armies might fight, and elves loyal to Tieslin and Eyrmin might die, but the true battle would be between the two contenders for the throne. He would have to face Eyrmin in battle.
He looked over the balcony to see two young elves, the proud bearers of his weapons and armor. They waited for him to give them a special sign. He waved them on, by gesture letting them know he would join them later.
Tieslin stood on the balcony and watched as his forces passed in review in the courtyard. After the last had passed through the main lemdair he turned back to the passage, heading for the exit from the Crystal Palace.
When he reached the forest, he set a fast pace, soon overtaking the bearers of his armor and the last of the line of warriors. His face was set in lines of determination, as was fitting for his people to see.
He hoped the sadness in his heart did not show in his eyes.
Twenty
Cald and Eyrmin walked in the forest west of the Star Mirror Stream. Since the last battle at the portal, Cald had spent all his time in the grove, eating at his post, sleeping rolled in a blanket on the ground, and bathing in one of the streams that formed the boundaries of the grove.
Eyrmin had been away from Reilmirid, walking the line of defenses, and had been present twice when the forces of the Gorgon made tentative forays into the forest. The decision to draw the perimeter back into the deep forest had provided the elves with unexpected allies.
Scenting the blood on the ground, the carrion crawlers, forest cats, and myriad other scavengers had moved in, and though they prevented few of the Gorgon’s forces from attacking, they finished off Raesene’s wounded when the invaders had withdrawn.
“They did us a service,” Eyrmin said as he walked with Cald. “The second time the invaders attacked, they were so worried about what might be behind them, they exposed themselves until our archers were nearly out of arrows. We had less need for swords and spears.”
“You once told me a disheartened enemy is one who fights your battle for you,” Cald said as he paused and looked back across the Star Mirror Stream. He valued every moment he could spend with the prince, but he disliked leaving the clearing in the grove. When Eyrmin had discovered Cald had not returned to Reilmirid since the battle, he had insisted on dragging the youth away from the oppressive atmosphere of the strange trees.
They continued to walk up the banks of the Star Mirror Stream, trading gossip on the daily activities during the time Eyrmin had been away from the village.