“Don’t look in his eyes!” Eyrmin shouted, and he gave the call for retreat.
Cald fell back with the others, wondering how they could stop so vile a creature. The magic of the elves could not stand against it, he knew.
What power … no power he knew … only another evil could stand against the awnshegh.
“An evil power …” he murmured, suddenly knowing what he must do.
The elves moved back, an orderly retreat, but Cald shouldered his bow and sprinted for the clearing. Behind him, he heard the elves’ contemptuous remarks about his lack of courage as he fled the defensive line, but he had no time to explain.
Eyrmin, with his brave and great heart, must not know what Cald intended. If he understood, he would take the task to himself. Cald trembled with the thought of the evil in that terrible sword he had found and used during the last battle with the forces of the Shadow World. Afraid the evil that had coursed through him might become a permanent part of his being or twist anyone that used it, he had buried it and forced it out of his mind. The thought of using the weapon a second time, and what it might do to him, filled him with horror. Still, he could not allow the prince to know of it. That great goodness that was the prince might be tainted. Better that the evil of the sword destroy a short-lived human than an immortal elf, he decided.
The clearing was deserted. He rushed into the center. There, the huge, old tree limb still lay where it had fallen during the battle in which Eyrmin had destroyed Mmaadag Cemfrid. Cald scrambled beneath the thick leaves and brittle branches as he searched, trying to find the rabbit hole where he had buried the sword. He had hidden it too well. He dug around in the moist earth, unable to find it.
Roars of the awnshegh’s frustration echoed through the grove, followed by the crash of another fallen tree. In the quiet that followed, Cald heard the rapid patter of halfling footsteps and the heavier tread of Stognad. The defenders were retreating into the grove.
Cald looked about in desperation, and as he moved, he fell over a thick branch broken from the fallen tree limb. That branch had been one that supported the debris, he realized. When it broke, the limb had shifted and rolled.
But how far?
Only a few feet, he decided, no more than three. He turned and searched again as he heard the thirrp-thirrp of elven bow strings and knew the battle had reached the clearing.
Suddenly, his fingers were digging in softer soil, and as he tore at the dirt, he felt the curved guard on the handle of the evil weapon.
He stood, bringing up the blade with him. His flesh shrank from the pulsing evil in the blade, but he kept his grip on it as he looked around. At the eastern edge of the clearing, the elves were taking what shelter they could. Judging by their stances, they were determined to hold.
Czrak’s human vanguard pressed forward, too close for the bows. The fighting was hand to hand. The elves, far outnumbered by the invaders, were forced out into the clearing. Their blades flashed in the morning sunlight.
Eyrmin was trading blows with a tall, black-clothed human protected by the shimmering leaves. The elf was clearly the better swordsman, but the magical protection provided by the awnshegh was deflecting Starfire every time the prince found an opening for a potentially fatal blow. A second magically protected fighter stepped into view and came up behind Eyrmin. Cald shouted a warning and scrambled over the fallen tree limbs, but he knew he would not be in time.
The halflings, who had been crouching low to stay out of the reach of the larger fighters, had also seen the prince’s danger. They dashed out, striking at the human. Bigtoe and Littletoe jabbed him in the back of his thighs, where the dweomered atwer leaves were loosely joined. Fleetfoot held his blade until the man fell, and then rammed his short sword though the human’s throat.
Stognad, axe in hand, gave a howl and rushed across the clearing, his weapon raised as he charged a goblin who had just entered from the south. He belatedly recognized his intended opponent as Bersmog, still wearing the bloody fur cloak and subchief’s helmet. Stognad tried to halt, but his momentum carried him into his companion. They both tumbled to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.
“You plenty stupid!” Bersmog roared as they scrambled to their feet.
“Always you have plenty too much to say,” Stognad growled as he groped for a firmer grip on his weapon. He faltered in his search, his small eyes wide with fear.
All across the clearing, the invaders paused uncertainly, and so did the elves from the city far to the east. The sun had suddenly disappeared, and the dread brooding that preceded the opening of the portal leached the color from the morning. The heavily rune-trimmed armor of the elves glowed in the growing darkness. The prince’s sword seemed to take on a power of its own as he cut down his opponent.
With a heave of his heavy body, the awnshegh forced himself between two trees, but even Czrak paused as if testing the strange atmosphere.
The trees of the Shadow World appeared like smoke, and then solidified. Six halflings raced out of the shadows. Behind them came the black-armored warriors of Klasmonde Volkir… and the lich himself.
Beneath that column of darkness thrown by the crown, the lich-lord’s eyes glowed with hatred, sweeping the clearing until he found the adversary he had faced twice before. He forced his terrified mount forward, galloping directly toward Eyrmin. His mount had moved less than twice its length when Bersmog’s spear caught the beast in the chest and brought it down. The lich-lord jumped away as the horse fell.
His decision made for him, Eyrmin forsook the battle with the forces of the awnshegh and dashed to meet his archenemy. In the presence of the evil from the other plane, his armor glowed, and his sword was lit with an inner fire. When their blades clashed, the sound dampened the other noises of battle.
The awnshegh recognized the newcomers as rivals at least, even enemies. His eyes glowed red as he glared at them, but the withering spell had no effect on the denizens of the Shadow World. He roared and raised one of his muscular arms, though they looked puny beside his bloated body. Fire flew from his fingers. Two elves, who had turned to face the warriors from the Shadow World, screamed as they writhed in the flames.
Cald believed that only the evil blade he held could destroy the awnshegh, so he avoided other, easier opponents. He slowly backed to the edge of the clearing, knowing his best chance was to approach the awnshegh from behind, using any surprise he could manage. His plan faltered; the clearing filled with undead. The stink of their rotten bodies polluted the air, making it hard to breathe.
Still more elves were arriving, he noticed. But why weren’t they assisting with the fight? Then he realized they were not the warriors who had marched with the king, but the ghost elves who lived in the grove.
They stood in fighting stances, their weapons in their hands, but instead of attacking the invaders, they all seemed to be looking straight at Cald.
Malala, her feet flying in her battle dance, had just injured a gnoll. As he backed away, his left shoulder bleeding, she followed for the kill, passing through one of the warriors. The female elf did not falter. She had not seen the ghost fighter, nor did he seem to see her. The apparitions were all watching Cald.
Then he understood his ability to see them. It came from the blade he held in his hand. He also remembered that he had heard a ghost warrior’s voice the last time he held the evil sword.
“Why don’t you help your people?” he shouted at the closest ghost warrior. The spirit had been turning away, but when Cald shouted at him he looked back, gazing at the human. He made no move to join the battle nor to answer Cald, but he had heard.
He had heard!
“Free us,” the ghost warrior said, as if making a decision to try again for help. “Free us and we will join you.”