Ogar had resolved that he would tell his father all about what happened as soon as he returned. His father would be pleased and proud, he knew. His son was not dead, as the tribe must surely believe by now. And Ogar was not only alive, but returning triumphant, having slain not one but three humans- Mira had slain the fourth. He had fulfilled his Ritual of Promise.
But, more importantly, he would bear news that not all elves were the halflings’ enemies. He would ask permission from his father to return and bring back his wife and son, so that the tribe could find out for themselves that elves and halflings could live together ... even love one another.
His tribe had welcomed him on his return, and there was a great celebration, and his father had sat proudly in his chieftain’s place as he told how he had slain his mountain cat in single combat, and then how he had slain the humans. But when he told them about Mira, everything had changed.
“Why did you not kill the elf, as well?” his father asked, his face darkening. “Father, she saved my life,” protested Ogar. “Saved her own life, you mean,” replied his father, scowling. “The humans had attacked her, and she merely used you for a diversion so that she could strike. That is the way of elves. They are duplicitous.”
“Father, that is not true,” said Ogar emphatically. “The fourth human would have killed me had she not come to my aid. He had wounded me severely, and she could easily have left me there to die. Instead, she pulled me out of the water and laid me on the shore, then tended to my wounds. And then she brought me back with her to her own tribe, and they took me in until I had recovered. They could easily have killed me, Father, but they accepted me into their tribe.”
“You joined an elven tribe?” his father said, aghast. “They are called the Moon Runners, Father,” Ogar said, “and they are not at all the way we have been taught elves are. They treated me with kindness, and it made no difference to any of them that I was halfling. I lived as one of them.”
“As their slave, you mean!” his father said angrily.
“No! Would they allow a slave to marry one of their own?”
“What?” his father said, jumping to his feet.
“Mira is my wife, Father,” Ogar said. “We have a child. You have a grandson. If you could but meet them, I know that you would-”
“That a son of mine should mate with a filthy elf and beget offspring with her!” his father shouted furiously as the other members of the tribe joined his outraged cry. “Never did I think to live to see this day!”
“Father, listen to me-” Ogar said, but he could not shout over the tumult that his words had prompted.
“You have disgraced me!” his father roared, pointing at him. “You have disgraced the tribe! You have disgraced all halflings everywhere!”
“Father, you are wrong-”
“Silence! You have no place to speak! I would sooner see you mating with an animal than to know you had rutted with an elf! You are no son of mine! You are no proper halfling! You are polluted and disgraced, and we must cleanse ourselves of this disgusting stain upon our tribe! Hear me, people! Ogar is no longer my son! I, Ragna, chieftain of the Kalimor, hereby curse him as anathema, and decree the punishment of death by fire to burn out this disease that has sprung up among us! Remove him from my sight!”
The seized him and dragged him away, kicking and fighting, and bound him securely to a nearby agafari tree while they went to prepare the stake and build the fire. In the morning, they would conduct the Ritual of Purging, where each member of the tribe would formally renounce him and curse his name before their chief, and when the sun set, they would bum him.
Late that night, after they had all retired, Ogar’s mother came to see him. She stood before him with tears in her eyes and asked him why he had done such an awful thing, why he had brought such pain into her heart. He thought of trying to explain it to her, but then realized she would never understand, and so said nothing.
“Will you not even speak to me, my son?” she said, “one final time, before I must renounce you to your father?”
He looked up at her then and sought understanding in her eyes. He saw none. But perhaps there was one final hope. “Release me, Mother,” he said. “If I have so disgraced the tribe, at least let me go back to those who would accept me. Let me rejoin my wife and son.”
“I cannot,” she said. “Much as it breaks my heart, your father’s word is law. You know that.”
“So then you would let me die?”
“I must,” she said. “I have your brothers and your sisters to consider. For their sake, I cannot risk their father’s wrath. Besides, you would have nothing to return to.”
He looked up at her with sudden concern. “What do you mean?”
“Your father has sent a runner to the Faceless One.”
“No!” said Ogar with horror. “No, not him!”
“There is nothing I can do,” she said. “Your father’s will is law. Never have I seen him so furious before. He has sworn that he will undo the disgrace that you have brought upon us, and he will ask the Faceless One to cast a spell against the Moon Runners, killing every last elfin the tribe.”
“But they have done nothing!”
“They have defiled Ragna’s son,” she said, “and through you, they have defiled Ragna. He is set upon his course, and nothing will dissuade him.”
“Release me, Mother! For pity’s sake, release me!”
“Would you condemn me to the fate you would escape?” she said. “Would you condemn your brothers and your sisters to the flames in your place? How can you ask me such a thing? Truly, you have been defiled by the elves, that you could think of yourself at such a time, at their expense.”
“I do not think only of myself, but of my wife and son, and of an entire tribe of people who have done nothing to offend you!”
“So, I see now where your true allegiance lies,” she said. “Ragna was right. You are no longer Ogar. You are no longer my son. You care more about a tribe of misbegotten elves than you do about your own family and your people. You are no longer halfling. My son is dead. I thought that he had died five years ago, and I see now I was right. I have already done my grieving. Nothing more remains.”
She turned and left him then, though he cried out and strained against his bonds. But they had tied him firmly, and there was no escape.
They had come down from the lower foothills of the northern slopes to cross a small valley at the desert’s edge, beyond which, in a jagged, curving line stretching out as far as the eye could see, lay the highest peaks among the Ringing Mountains. In the distance, as they had started across the valley, they had been able to see the Dragon’s Tooth, the tallest peak in all of Athas. Kether had seen it in his vision, and he believed that they would find the pyreen there. When he had told them that their quest was almost at its end, there was great joy among the Moon Runners, and as they began to cross the valley, heading toward the mountains, they had spontaneously burst into song.
Less than an hour later, all of them were dead. Alaron stood alone among their fallen bodies, stunned and numb and horrified beyond all capacity to endure, unable to understand what had happened to them. His mother lay stretched out at his feet, her eyes wide open and unseeing, her lips pulled back into a rictus of agony that had frozen on her features. He had prodded her and tearfully called her name and screamed, but she had not responded. She would never respond to him or anyone again.
Kivara, too, lay dead, and close beside her, Eyron and Lyric, his three young playmates, who had all fallen writhing and screaming to the ground, clutching at their throats and twisting in agony until they breathed their last. Kether, too, had fallen, and the mighty chieftain was no more. One by one, they had all been struck down by some terrible, unseen force, and now only Alaron remained, somehow unaffected by whatever had struck down the rest of them. Terrified and helpless, he had watched all his people die in excruciating agony.