When they caught sight of the new arrivals, they raised their bows, threatening both the human and the prince. Eyrmin’s name echoed through the group.
From out of their midst stepped an elven warrior in shining armor trimmed in gold and heavily decorated with magic runes. From the scabbard at his side rose a knotted form reminiscent of the twigs of the Sielwode trees. Cald had often listened to Eyrmin tell the tale of the making of the famous sword Emieline, and knew the magically armored elven warrior who stood before them was the king.
The spells on the shining helmet had not protected the king from a small wound on the cheek. The cut was only a scratch, but the blood still seeped out and ran down his chin.
Behind the king, Cald saw Relcan and several of the elves who had deserted Reilmirid. The royal kinsman’s face was white, and he stayed well back from the meeting of the rulers of Sielwode.
The king stared at Eyrmin with eyes wide with shock. He raised his sword, hesitated, and lowered it as Eyrmin gave a deep bow to his king.
“I rejoice at the reinforcements, Sire, but regret you put yourself in danger. I did not know Garienel asked for help when he sent you the message.”
“Message? Garienel? Eyrmin, what happens here, and why have I heard nothing about this creature that approaches?” King Tieslin spoke with the breathlessness that accompanies shock.
“The dawn has just broken on the first day of this tale,” Eyrmin replied, his eyes searching the wood for danger. “Until this past night, we thought all our troubles stemmed from the Gorgon and the evil beyond the portal.”
“We were crossing the stream when the monster rounded the bend,” King Tieslin said. He paused as a goblin spear hurtled through the forest and fell just outside the ring of listeners.
With hand gestures, Eyrmin ordered his people to take up defensive positions in the trees. Many of the warriors who had traveled from Siellaghriod with the king followed Eyrmin’s orders, relieved to be given direction.
King Tieslin’s worried followers had moved well back from the stream, and while they paused in a relatively safe area, the two royal commanders exchanged information. Neither had good news for the other.
King Tieslin had marched with five hundred warriors. He had met the deserters on the way and added them to his forces. He had crossed the Moon Stream with the fifty who were with him. Another group of seventy or so had been caught in the open when the awnshegh had rounded the bend in the stream. The monster had slain them all. The rest of his warriors were still on the other side of the creek.
He had been stunned by the power of Czrak, and almost as shocked by the defection of three elves who had scurried toward the awnshegh, calling him master. They had died with the rest.
“We must mourn their departure from the true paths, but not their deaths—if they served the awnshegh,” Eyrmin said.
The king nodded, took a deep breath, and seemed to be trying to marshal his mental forces.
Stognad, together with the halfling triplets, came trotting up. King Tieslin’s attention fixed upon the four, who carried elven-made weapons. The halflings carried small bows and Sidhelien swords and wore elven helmets. Stognad’s long-handled, double-bladed axe had been made in the fashion of goblin weapons, but its craftsmanship was elven perfection, and it glittered with magic runes.
“Where is Bersmog?” Cald demanded of Stognad. His concern for the second goblin caused him to forget he was in the presence of the king.
“Him find subchief helmet and give orders,” Stognad grumbled. “Sending goblins back downstream. One day he talk too much and somebody shut his mouth good.”
“What is he saying?” the king demanded.
Cald explained Bersmog’s tactics. Cald saw the doubt in the king’s eyes but could think of no way to convince him the goblins were loyal.
While they waited for the advance of the awnshegh, Eyrmin warned the king about the portal in the grove.
“A horrible creature is Klasmonde Volkir,” Bigtoe Rootfinder announced with no more awe of the elven king than of one of his own brothers.
“As horrible as the awnshegh is,” Littletoe agreed, nodding wisely though the halflings had not seen Czrak.
“And neither respects mealtimes,” Fleetfoot grumbled as he hitched up his trousers and peered into the woods.
Cald, who had been standing behind Eyrmin, had also been watching the forest. From between two trees, an elf appeared. By the movements of his legs, he seemed to be walking slowly, but his speed was faster than that of a sprinter. He passed through the side of a thick tree trunk as if it didn’t exist. The apparition looked straight at Cald and pointed to his back trail; he wiggled the fingers of his left hand, mimicking the multilegged walk of a spider. Eyrmin had also seen the ghost warrior.
“The awnshegh has left the stream; it’s coming this way,” he told the king.
“You know your area better than I,” Tieslin said, and then paused, giving Eyrmin the opportunity to chose the most easily defended area.
“We should move back fifty yards,” the prince said with the ready authority of a leader familiar with his terrain. He pointed to a place in the path of the awnshegh, where the trees were the thickest. “If we cannot hold him there, we won’t stop him.”
Cald had not counted the numbers, hoping against hope that more warriors were hiding in the grove, harrying the enemy. Only twenty elves had accompanied Eyrmin. Even the fifty who had arrived with the king seemed a pitiful number to pit against the awnshegh and his army.
The defenders retreated to shelter behind the thick growth of trees only fifty yards from the clearing. Near Cald, Stognad and the halflings waited. The small bows and short arrows of the demihumans looked like toys, and the human youth noticed the elves of Siellaghriod shaking their heads when they saw them. Cald wondered what they would think when the halflings tried to shoot.
The halflings often bragged about the warriors among their people in the Shadow World. According to them, the brave little fighters were the scourge of the evil rulers and their foul servants. Even so, the survivors of the Rootfinder’s village had been farmers and woodworkers who knew little of fighting. The halfling triplets were courageous, but their small arrows were as much a danger to the elves as to the enemy.
The noise of the approaching awnshegh preceded it through the forest. Added to the sounds of crashing and breaking limbs were the roars of frustration and the repeated orders for the goblins and gnolls to advance. By the number of shouted orders, it seemed the humanoids feared the elves as much as the creature they served.
Lightning flared through the grove. The screams of gnolls and the odor of burning flesh preceded a rush of humanoids as they rapidly advanced into a shower of elven arrows.
A few fled to the right and left, out of the reach of Czrak’s rage. Others tried again, throwing their spears ahead of them. Enough were moving out in a determined flanking movement to worry Eyrmin, who kept motioning the elves to lengthen their line of defense, thinning their already inadequate numbers.
As the gnolls and a few goblins moved off to the sides, their places were taken by human invaders. The center core wore the magical protection Eyrmin and Cald had seen in the forest. The wide leaves simmered indistinctly and the shafts of the elven arrows veered away.
“What is this power?” an elf from Siellaghriod asked Cald.
“Some foul magic of the awnshegh, but we learned the protection is limited to the leaves,” he told the warrior as he waited for a clear target. The humans also moved away to the side. Behind them came the sound of a huge body being dragged over the ground, and the clatter of exoskeletal legs as they cracked against the trees of the grove.
Directly in front of Cald, the bole of an ancient tree withered away. Beyond it, out of the gloom, appeared the bloated face of Czrak. It was distorted by rage, his fangs dripped venom, and the power of his eyes filled his enemies with terror.