Crouching in the high, windblown pass, a day's flight from his home in the Moonwood, Tarathiel recognized the sign clearly enough. Ores had been through. Many orcs, and not too long ago. Normally that wouldn't have concerned Tarathiel too much—ores were a common nuisance in the wilds of the valley between the Spine of the World and the Rauvin Mountains— but Tarathiel had tracked the band, and he knew from whence they'd had come. They'd come out of the Moonwood, out of his beloved forest home, bearing many, many felled trees.
Tarathiel gnashed his teeth together. He and his clan had failed, and miserably, in the defense of their forest home, for they had not even located the orcs quickly enough to chase them off. Tarathiel feared what that might mean for the near future. Would the lack of defense prompt the ugly brutes to return?
"If they do, then we will slaughter them," the moon elf remarked, turning to speak to his mount, who stood grazing off to the side.
The pegasus snorted in reply, almost as if he'd understood. He threw his head about and tucked his white-feathered wings in tighter over his back.
Tarathiel smiled at the beautiful creature, one of a pair he had rescued a few years earlier from these same mountains, after their sire and dam had been killed by giants. Tarathiel had found the felled pair, smashed down by thrown boulders into a rocky dell. He could tell from the dead mare's teats that she had recently given birth, and so he had spent the better part of a tenday searching the area before finding the pair of foals. That pair had done well in the Moonwood, growing strong and straight under the guidance — not the ownership—of Tarathiel's small clan. This one, which he had named Sunset because of the reddish tinges in his white hair all along his long, glistening mane, welcomed him as a rider. Tarathiel had named Sunset's twin Sunrise, because her shining white mane was highlighted by a brighter color red, a yellowish pink hue. Both pegasi were about the same height, sixteen hands, and both were well-muscled, with strong, thick legs and wide, solid hooves.
"Let us go and find these orcs and show them a little rain," the elf said slyly, tossing a wink at his mount.
Sunset, as if he had understood again, pawed the ground.
They were up in the air soon after, Sunset's huge, powerful wings driving hard or spreading wide to catch the updrafts off the mountain cliffs. They soon spotted the orc band, a score of the creatures, trudging along a trail higher up in the mountains.
So attuned were mount and rider that Tarathiel was easily able to guide Sunset with just his legs, swooping the pegasus down from on high, flashing through the air some fifty yards above the orcs. The elf's bow worked furiously, firing arrow after arrow down at the orcs.
They scrambled and shouted curses, and Tarathiel guessed that more got hurl by diving frantically behind rocks or over ridges than felt the sting of his arrows. He went up and around the bend and flew on for some distance before turning Sunset around. He wanted to give the orcs time to regroup, time to think that the danger had passed. And he wanted to come in faster this time. Much faster.
The pegasus climbed higher into the sky, then banked a sharp turnabout and went into a powerful dive, wings working hard. They came around the comer much lower, just above the reach of the orcs had any been carrying a pole arm or long spear. From that height, despite the swift flight, Tarathiel’s bow rang true, plugging one unfortunate orc right in the chest, throwing it back and to the ground.
Sunset soared past, a host of thrown missiles climbing harmlessly into the air behind them.
Tarathiel didn't push his luck for a third run. He banked to the southeast and set off from the mountains, soaring fast for home.
"How was I to know yer stupid spell had run out?" Ivan bellowed against his brother's continuing laughter. The yellow-bearded dwarf rubbed some blood off his scraped nose. "I didn't see no stupid door when ye said there was a door, so how'm I to be knowing when the door that ain't there anyway ain't there no more?"
Pikel howled with laughter.
Ivan stepped forward and launched a punch, but Pikel knew it was coming, of course, and he snapped his head forward, dropping his cooking pot helmet into his waiting, and blocking, hand.
Bong! And Ivan was hopping about in pain once more.
"Hee hee hee."
Ivan recovered in a few moments and went hard for his brother, but Pikel stepped into the tree, disappearing from sight.
Ivan stopped short and settled his senses then jumped in behind his brother. The world turned upside down for the poor dwarf.
Literally.
Pikel's tree-transport was not an easy ride, nor was it a level or even upright one. The brothers were rushed along the root network, magically melded into the trees, flowing through the roots of one to the adjoining roots of another. They went up fast and dropped suddenly—Pikel howling "Weeee!" and Ivan trying hard to keep his stomach out of his mouth.
They spun corkscrew motions along one winding route, then went through a series of sharp turns so violent that Ivan bit the inside of one cheek then the other.
It went on for many minutes, and finally, mercifully, the brothers came out. Ivan, who had somehow caught up to and surpassed Pikel, stumbled face-down in the dirt. Pikel came out hard and fast behind him, landing right atop his brother.
It always seemed to happen exactly like that.
With a great heave, Ivan had his brother bouncing away, but even that shove did little to stop Pikel's continuing laughter.
Ivan leaped up to throttle him, or tried to, for he was too disoriented,
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too dizzy, and his stomach was churning a bit too much. He ambled a step forward, two to the side, then after a pause, a third and a fourth to the side, to bang against a tree. He almost caught himself but tripped over a root and went down to his knees.
Ivan looked up and started to rise, but a rush of dizziness held him there, clutching at his churning stomach.
Pikel, too, was dizzy, but he wasn't fighting it. Like one of Cadderly's little children, he was up and laughing, trying to walk a straight line and inevitably falling to the ground, enjoying every second of it.
"Stupid doo-dad," Ivan muttered before he threw up.
Tarathiel watched the play of Sunset and Sunrise, the pegasi obviously glad to be reunited. They trotted across the small lea, whinnying and playfully nipping at each other.
"You never grow tired of watching them," came a higher-pitched, beautifully melodic voice behind him.
He turned to see Innovindil, his dearest friend and lover, walking onto the lea. She was smaller than he, with hair as yellow as his was black, and eyes as strikingly blue. She had that look on her face that so enchanted Tarathiel, a smile just a little bit crooked on the left, rising up sharply there to give her a mysterious, I-know-more-than-you-know look.
She moved beside him, to take his waiting hand.
"You've been gone too long," she scolded.
She brought her free hand up and tousled Tarathiel's hair, then dropped it lower and gently caressed his slender, strong chest.
His expression, which had been soft and bright as he had observed the pegasi at play, and brighter still at Innovindil's approach, darkened.
She asked, "Did you find them?"
Tarathiel nodded and said, "A band of orcs, as we suspected. Sunset and I came upon them in the mountains to the north, dragging trees they felled from the Moonwood."
"How many?"
"A score."
Innovindil gave that wry smile. "And how many are now alive?"
"I killed at least one," Tarathiel replied, "and sent the others scrambling."