Cald’s hope died as he took the blade in both hands, ceremoniously presenting the hilt to the prince. Eyrmin, in turn, held his weapon by the blade, presenting the hilt to Cald.
“We will exchange weapons, and you will have Starfire, a sign that I am always with you.”
As they traded swords, the prince suddenly seemed to take on more solidity; the shadowy gray of his armor glowed in the silver and gold of the world of Aebrynis.
“Prince Eyrmin!” Lienwiel cried out and bowed.
“We fight for the day when the passage between the two planes can be opened in peace,” Eyrmin said, his eyes on Cald. He raised the blade, and the wind that signaled the closing of the portal rose, roaring through the clearing.
The prince stood, the short cloak that covered one shoulder whipping in the breeze that had no effect on Cald, Lienwiel, or the trees of Aebrynis. Eyrmin was still gazing at the elf and the human when he disappeared with the trees of the Shadow World. Just before he disappeared, he raised the blade in salute.
The portal closed, and the sunlight returned. The first rays had just lit the clearing when the goblins trotted into sight, carrying their weapons. Behind them raced the halfling triplets, with all their weapons. One look at the sword Starfire, gleaming in Cald’s hand, told them they were too late.
“Aw, it’s closed,” Bersmog growled. He glared at Stognad. “You plenty dumb, plenty slow, and now we have no more fun.”
“There’s no fun beyond that portal,” Bigtoe said with a sigh.
“No fun at all,” Littletoe agreed.
“And everything tastes like straw and makes you belch,” Fleetfoot added.
“Then why have you come, bringing all your weapons?” Cald asked the halflings.
Addressed directly, the halflings traded looks as if not sure how to answer.
“They think they go back to help more shorties find the portal,” Stognad said. “Bersmog say is good idea.”
“But if Eyrmin is right, this portal will not open again,” Cald said and saw the distress in the faces of the triplets. He smiled and softened his tone.
“If the prince can permanently close a portal, he might be able to open another, so your people can still reach Cerilia. He likes them, you know.” He ruffled Bigtoe’s curly hair. “You can join your people in that land called the Burrows, and live in the open again,” he suggested.
“Maybe they’ve found something fit to smoke in a pipe,” Fleetfoot said hopefully.
“Maybe they have,” Bigtoe agreed.
“And turnips,” Littletoe added.
Cald noted the change in precedence.
Lienwiel had been gazing at Cald in wonder, completely ignoring the conversation.
“You will forever live in a new song among my people,” he said.
Cald swallowed, his muscles struggling around the emotional boulder in his throat. Rejoice, Eyrmin had said. Rejoice that the prince still had purpose, hope. The grief slowly faded, and in its place, Cald felt the stirring of desire, the need to justify the prince’s teachings.
“Don’t start my tune yet,” he said, raising the sword, contemplating the magical weapon. “There are deeds yet to be done before all the verses can be written.”
“How come you not go with Be-gelf?” Stognad demanded.
“Because he said there were still battles to be fought on this world,” Cald said quietly, careful to hide his disappointment. Eyrmin had said the human’s grief tied him to the portal, so Cald must not allow himself to grieve.
Rejoice, Eyrmin had said, and if a merry, joyful heart would aid the prince in his dark duties, Cald would attempt to give it to him. He smiled, knowing the curve of his lips was belied by a heavy heart, but he would win the battle over grief for the prince’s sake.
“You want fun?” he demanded of the goblins. “Pack your belongings and sharpen your axes. We’ll escort the Rootfinders on a journey to find their people and then have some fun.”
He led the way out of the clearing.
Appendix:
Deathirst and Starfire
The farmers of Reichmaar, near the southeastern coast of Aduria, looked up from their seedlings with worried frowns. The weather during planting season was usually mild, with a few gentle rains. The clouds that were forming in the sky were black and roiling. They promised a deluge that could wash away the tender shoots that had not yet had time to anchor their roots in the soil.
The farmers weren’t to know the storm would not hit Aebrynis in the form of weather, and when it struck it would not fall on Aduria.
High above the heads of the worried mortals, the dark clouds hid a meeting of gods. The roiling blackness shrouded Azrai, the god of strife and evil. Nearly as dark was the angry camouflage of Reynir, Masela, and Vorynn.
The beast-men of Azrai, the Shadow, had invaded a woodland under Reynir’s protection. With the assistance of their evil god, they had found a vein of iron ore in the nearby hills. In the process of mining and refining the ore and forging weapons, they had decimated the small forest, fouled the waters of the stream, and slaughtered the woodland creatures for food.
Since the small, new forest was Reynir’s pet project, he had been incensed. The streams, carrying the filth of the beast-men, had fed into the ocean and angered Masela, mistress of the seas. Vorynn, god of the moon and magic and an ally of Reynir and Masela, had joined them. He contributed his efforts to blast the beast-men out of the remainder of the forest.
Their actions had brought on a confrontation with Azrai, whose cloud boiled in the heat of his rage.
“You will pay for your interference,” he threatened the others. His voice reached the other gods, but the mortals below heard only the rumble of thunder.
“It is you who will suffer the penalty for the destruction you brought to the forest,” thundered back Reynir, usually a placid, thoughtful god. “Attempt to destroy another of my forests, and I will wipe your abominable beast-men off the face of this world.”
Far below, the farmers looked up from their planting as the blackest of the clouds seemed to move contrary to the wind, closing in on the other clouds with roiling menace.
Lightning streamed across the sky from the blackest cloud to the other three. The brilliant shafts then streaked back again, all aiming at the darkest, though none of the bolts seemed to find their target. The mortals crouched on the ground, hoping against hope the terrible storm overhead would not kill them.
Then, as suddenly as the storm had appeared, the clouds swept across the sky and out over the sea. The darkest was in the lead, and the others followed as if they chased it.
Even when the danger had passed, the farmers watched. The darkest cloud continued north over the sea, while the others slowed their progress and stopped. None of the humans understood the strange weather pattern.
“Where is he going?” Vorynn asked the others as they slowed, unwilling to chase Azrai farther.
“He seems to be turning north, toward Cerilia, the land of the demihumans and humanoids,” Masela said. She drew in the wisps of her cloud, rearranging the wayward tendrils as if she were combing her hair.
“There are deep forests and bubbling streams on Cerilia.” Reynir sounded worried and then thoughtful. “I have never considered them a part of my domain….”
“Those bubbling streams feed into huge rivers that run to the sea,” Masela said. “He will seek revenge on us—and all that falls within our spheres of responsibility. We should keep an eye on him.”
Lord Drien Veyamain walked in the deep forest, far from the crystal palace of Siellaghriod. As the elf ruler of Sielwode and loyal vassal of King Bliemien Oriaden of Aelvinnwode, king of the elves of Cerilia, Drien spent much of his time with the business of his land. Occasionally, he hungered for the shadows of the wood and the opportunity to enjoy the forest like any elf of lesser or no rank.