“Surely untrue,” added Littletoe.
“Must be sour wine,” Fleetfoot observed.
Around the circle, voices muttered their objections, but Eyrmin raised his hand for silence.
“Let him finish,” the prince said, his voice cold. “Let him ask his questions and spew his poison in the sight of the fortunes of Tallamai, who know all. They will judge him. We will have these suspicions discussed in the open and over with, but know, Relcan, that speak or not, by moonset you will be gone from Reilmirid. I am done with you and your dark thoughts.”
Even in the torchlight, the paling of Relcan’s face was evident, as was the flush of rage that darkened it afterward.
“Then I will say and will say all! You are harboring these non-Sidhelien not for any honorable purpose, but as liaisons between your fell plans and your evil allies! The human hostage from Mhoried…”
“That tale is false and even you know it,” Hialmair shouted.
“Silence! Let him finish,” Eyrmin ordered, but the sturdy elf warrior jumped to his feet.
“Forgive me, my prince, but I will not be silent in the face of his lies against you! And there are many here who know the truth of that human massacre.”
“Which proves nothing,” shouted Iswiel, also gaining his feet. “It is possible that the massacre of the humans in the caravan was a ploy of the Mhor in order to get the child into the wood. Humans are not even capable of honor and loyalty to their own. They could have killed many of their own to achieve their aims.”
“And I myself have seen this human meet with messengers traveling from Markazor to Mhoried,” Relcan shouted. “And since the prince was present at the meeting, he cannot deny it.”
Cald and Eyrmin exchanged puzzled looks, since at that moment neither could remember a circumstance that could have been the foundation for the remark.
“Does he speak of the time I taught that family to braid the grass for fire logs?” Cald asked the prince.
“Have you spoken with any other travelers?” Eyrmin asked, and Cald shook his head.
“See, they must confer to cover their evil acts with a tale!” Relcan shouted.
Looking around the circle at the elven faces, some full of doubt, others closed, having decided on the truth or falsity of the accusations, Cald realized that his and Eyrmin’s frowns and their sudden conference had worked against them.
“You came here to aid in the defense of the elven spirits in the grove, but have you seen any?” Relcan demanded of the warriors sitting in the circle. “You were drawn by a ruse, and if you stay, it will be to betray your king and Sielwode to the very races that are your enemies.”
Relcan looked as if he would say more, but Eyrmin pointed a finger that seemed to freeze the other elf in midbreath.
“Enough!” the prince shouted. Then he lowered his voice. “You have had your say. The king knows I am loyal to his aims, but if you doubt it, begone from here now, and all those who choose may go with you. I will have none in Reilmirid who have not the heart for defending the helpless, assisting those who flee evil, or standing against the vile forces that try to invade this land. If you seek the safety of the court and Siellaghriod, then go. And take your tales, for the truth is known there and your lies will fall on deaf ears.”
With a face still set in anger, Eyrmin strode across the clearing, back toward the village. He looked neither right nor left. Cald followed, and knew that several others fell in behind them, but he decided it would be unseemly to turn and count those who were leaving the clearing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the halfling triplets moving east, toward the caves by the Moon Stream, and he heard the heavy shuffling of the goblins as they followed Cald.
Still, there were too many elves still sitting on the ground, their faces thoughtful or angry.
By the time they reached Eyrmin’s dwelling, Cald had made a decision. Speaking of it was the hardest thing he had ever done.
“I will leave,” he said. “I will take Bersmog and Stognad with me. We can go south into Elinie, where they will be safe from the wrath of the goblin chief. We’ll travel with the halflings….”
“No!” Eyrmin shouted at him. “You… you and the goblins and the halflings have proven your loyalty. I will not allow you to be driven out of your home. You—you, Bersmog, Stognad, Bigtoe, Littletoe, and Fleetfoot—are valued inhabitants of Reilmirid.” The prince paced the room twice before he continued. “Each of you, in your way, contributes as much to the welfare of Sielwode as Relcan, and does less to destroy the unity of our people.”
“But we are the reason for the distrust,” Cald argued.
“No, only the channel. Distrust and dissension are malevolent springs that seek any available course to flood and pollute. If you were not here, Relcan would find something else, nurture it into full growth, and the result would be the same. I have often believed he had an ambition for my place, and once he got it, he would eye the throne itself.”
“But if he takes his tale to the king, he could cause trouble,” Cald argued, desperately hoping to be talked out of leaving the forest, but still believing he should go.
“The damage has already been done, and the repairs made; there is trust between my cousin and myself,” Eyrmin said. “It was Tieslin himself who chose to seek the truth, and by now he has his answer. He will not be swayed by Relcan.”
“But Relcan can still cause trouble,” Cald said.
Still, he allowed himself to be ordered to his bed, to spend the night in the village.
At sunrise, he learned his last words to Eyrmin had been prophetic. Two thirds of the warriors who had come to defend the Muirien Grove and the western arm of Sielwode had left in the night.
A scant hundred warriors were left to hold back the Gorgon’s forces and the attacks at the portal.
Twenty-Two
Czrak squirmed within the large wain, silently cursing his minions, blaming them because he felt cramped. The skin on his sluglike body was dry, and relieving his misery drew on the power he had been hoarding. He would need all his resources when he reached the western arm of Sielwode.
Rage boiled inside his bloated body, rage at having to leave the swamp. He was sure he was endangering himself by coming out of hiding. He might be found by other awnsheghlien more powerful than he. In addition, he was suffering the discomfort of the dry air and having to stay inside the wagon.
Still, he controlled himself. Taking his bad mood out on his army of a hundred fifty humans, four hundred goblins and orogs, and twice as many gnolls would reduce his forces, all of which might be needed when he reached the wood.
The cart came to a halt. Czrak sighed with relief. The jolting irritated his eight exoskeletal legs, which were cramped from being trapped within the bed of the wagon. Still, his frustration rose. Each stop delayed the journey, lengthening the time he must stay confined and hidden. He was restless, and raised a pair of glowing red eyes as Demloke Winsin lifted the rear flap and looked in.
“Master, the end of the journey is at hand. The lead wagon is even now at the bank of the stream.”
“We have not yet been discovered?” Czrak cursed himself for the needless question. If the elves of Sielwode had learned the secret of the caravan, he would have heard their whistled alarm as it traveled through the forest.
The awnshegh had laid his plans carefully before starting his own assault for the possession of Deathirst. He had sent his forces more than a hundred miles to the south with orders to bring back large trading caravans. This time, obeying his orders to the letter, Demloke Winsin had completed the mission, though it had taken many months. He had returned with sixty large freight wagons, canvas coverings, and enough sturdy horses, oxen, and mules to pull heavy loads.
Czrak and the gnolls, goblins, and orogs rode inside, hidden by the canvas coverings. The humans, wearing homespun over their armor, walked in plain sight, leading the animals. The sharp eyes of the elves, and any other travelers they encountered, saw only a caravan of settlers on the plains of Markazor.