Alith put in a fresh spurt of speed and cut to his left, disappearing from the knights’ view. He leapt onto a rock and from there jumped into the branches of a tree with the swiftness of a squirrel. He ran lightly along the branch and crouched next to the trunk, peering between the leaves at the approaching riders.
The foremost rider signalled for the pursuers to slow as he passed Alith’s hiding spot. Alith felt a tremor of fear as the small column came to a walk and paced by below him, their eyes scanning the trees for any sign of their prey.
“Halt!” called the lead knight, holding up his hand. “It has stopped running.”
Alith caught his breath and his heart began to race. He glanced at the ground beneath the horses but knew he had left no tracks as he had run. He also knew that he could not be seen easily. His pale skin was obscured by mud and blood he had painted across himself, and immobile he was all but indistinguishable from the bark of the tree.
Slowly shifting position, Alith turned his attention to the knights’ leader, wondering what sense it was that had alerted the rider. He was armoured as the others in heavy silver plate, his dark grey steed protected by a caparison of light mail and a black enamelled chamfron gilded with the rune of Anlec. A high war helm protected the rider’s head, decorated with a plume of long black feathers that swayed as the knight looked to his left and right. There was something else on the knight’s helmet, a band of gold that held in place a mask that Alith could not see until the rider turned fully around and stared directly at him. Alith gasped at what he saw.
The golden mask depicted a thin, snarling face sculpted with angular cheeks and diamond eyeholes. It was not the fierce expression of the war mask that so alarmed Alith, but what was set into it. A pair of blue eyes were bound to the mask above the eyeholes, a net of fine golden thread passing through the glistening orbs and the metal of the helm; real eyes that moved with a life of their own. A fine trickle of blood ran down the sides of the mask from these as they tracked back and forth, seeking something. They swivelled in unison towards Alith and the rider straightened as if startled.
For a moment Alith was locked in the unearthly stare of those magical eyes. He was transfixed with horror, not only of his discovery but by the means with which he had been found.
“There, in the tree!” the rider cried out, pulling free his sword and pointing towards Alith.
The knights’ exclamations broke Alith’s trance and he pulled himself higher into the branches with one hand, unslinging the moonbow from his back with the other. He felt the gift of Lileath pulse in his hand, mirroring his heartbeat. Angry shouts rose towards him as he lifted an arrow to the impossibly thin string. He pulled back on the shaft, with no more resistance than he would have from passing his hand through the air. Sighting on the knight with the abomination of a mask, Alith could hear the bow whispering to him, offering soothing encouragement. He could not discern the words, and doubted he would understand their language even if he could clearly hear them. Their tone was reassuring, relaxing him, quelling the trembling in his hands.
Alith loosed the arrow and it sprang from the moon-bow as a flash of white, cutting straight through the breastplate of the knight and out of his back to bury itself up to the fletching in the leaf-strewn ground. A gaping hole in his body, the knight toppled sideways and crashed lifelessly into the dirt. As he had done since finding the moonbow, Alith marvelled at its power; it was strong enough to send a shaft through a tree bole yet so light that he could balance it on a fingertip.
Alith shot another of the knights, the angle of the arrow passing down through the rider’s shoulder and splitting the spine of his steed. Both collapsed in a heap. With no means to shoot back, the knights turned and fled, one more of their number falling with an arrow through his back as they galloped back up the dell.
With moonbow still in hand, Alith dropped back to the ground. He felt a wave of revulsion wash through him as he stepped towards the knight with the grotesque helmet. Turning him over with his foot, Alith stared at the horrid contraption of gold and flesh wound into the helm. He knelt down for a closer inspection and saw that the wires holding the eyes in place passed through the helmet and into the face of the wearer. Though the knight was dead, the eyes continued to follow Alith, staring at him wherever he moved.
Forcing himself to look at those eyes, he regarded them with distaste, but also a feeling of recognition. There was something about their lidless stare that seemed familiar. Then it came to him: these were the eyes of the sentry he had interrogated. A sorcerer in the druchii camp had laid an enchantment upon them to seek out Alith, and gifted them with the ability to see him wherever he hid.
Disgusted, Alith drew his sword and sliced through the golden bindings, spilling the eyes to the ground. They swivelled amongst the leaves, still staring accusingly at Alith. With a lurch in his stomach, Alith brought his sword down onto them and hacked them into viscous pieces. As he straightened, Alith wondered if the unfortunate sentry had survived the donation of his eyes. It would be like the druchii to blind him for his error, rather than grant him the ignominy of death.
Stowing the moonbow and his sword, Alith retrieved his precious arrows and turned down the dell to head back to where the pack was waiting in ambush. He would have to tell them there would be no hunt today.
For a dozen days after finding the moonbow, Alith and the wolves assailed the druchii, but the opportunities to strike back at his hated foes were few. The enemy advanced relentlessly, driving the pack before them. The wolves tried to head north and circle back to the west but after a day they ran into another druchii host; this one coming directly south and heading for the Ellyrion border. Eastwards the black regiments marched, unwittingly herding Alith and the wolves before them as they pressed on towards the Aein Ishain, shrine to the goddess Isha and home to the court of the Everqueen.
Save for the phases of the moon, Alith had not counted the passing of the days, but he started to worry about time once more. How far was it to the Everqueen, and how fast were the druchii moving? Was the spiritual ruler of Avelorn aware of the danger that pressed so hastily into the forests?
This last question Alith dismissed as soon as it came to him. These were the lands of the Everqueen and she was bound to them in ways far beyond a prince’s connection to his lands. The death of the beasts and the burning of the trees would be known to her, as Alith felt the cuts on his bare feet and the grazes on his skin. No, the Everqueen would not need warning of the threat that loomed over Avelorn.
Unable to hinder the druchii advance, Alith was at a loss regarding what course of action to take. Having seen the strength of his enemy, Blackmane wished to flee eastwards even further, down through the isthmus of Avelorn and into the Gaen Vale. Here the old wolf believed his pack would be safe from the druchii, though he would not tell Alith why he felt such surety.
In the following days Alith noticed a change in the forests. The nature of the trees altered, becoming even larger and older than those of the outer woods. Bramble and bracken barred their way and often Alith was forced to crawl after the wolves through natural culverts and along tunnels of sharp briar. Walls of thorns turned them northwards or southwards, and Alith was convinced the forest itself was trying to keep them from moving eastwards.
Sixteen days after drawing the moonbow, Blackmane’s pack came to the borders of the Gaen Vale. No elves save for Malekith’s half-brother and half-sister—and the Everqueen herself—had ever travelled to the Gaen Vale, but the legends surrounding it were many. Some claimed it was the spiritual heart of Avelorn, of all of Ulthuan, where Isha had cried out her last tears before she left the world for the heavens. Other tales told that the Gaen Vale was the birthplace of the first Everqueen, the mortal incarnation of the goddess.
That strange spirits lived in the Gaen Vale was beyond dispute. The forest had a consciousness of its own in those dark depths. The trees could walk and talk, infused with the life of Isha. Legend claimed that these spirits protect
ed Morelion and Yvraine, the first children of Aenarion, from the attacks of the daemons. The Everqueen sought counsel from the forest’s immortal guardians and Alith believed that they would be no friends of the druchii.
Alith cared not for the legends of Isha, but he could recognise sanctuary. Separated from the mainland of Ulthuan by the narrowest strip of land, the Gaen Vale could be easily defended against the druchii. So he followed Blackmane as the pack forced their way towards safety, the druchii ever close on their heels.
As night fell on Alith’s thirtieth day in Avelorn, they came to the northern end of the isthmus. The skies were swathed with thick cloud, the forest bathed intermittently by the white light of waxing Sariour and the sickly green of the Chaos moon. A mood of unease spread amongst the pack, a feeling of foreboding that Alith shared. The air tasted strange and Alith wondered if the druchii conjured a foul sorcery to stain Avelorn with their dark magic. The wolves gathered close together, the pack rubbing against each other for reassurance, their mewls and whimpers sounding in the darkness. Blackmane strode confidently through his charges, his bark bringing comfort to the scared pack.
Alith was filled with the sensation of being watched, but though he scanned the trees for any sign of an interloper, he saw nothing. Then he became aware of movement and the whimpering of the wolves increased. Alith sensed it now. The breeze brought with it a different scent, that of autumnal rot and mouldering leaves. Shadows shifted at the edge of Alith’s vision, but when he turned to look he saw nothing but bushes and trees. Eerie creaks and the swish of leaves filled the air. Things whispered in the undergrowth, a susurrus that came from every direction and none. Though he could see nothing, Alith was in no doubt that the forest was moving.
The trees were getting closer.
The pack gathered around Blackmane, Alith at his side. A near-impenetrable wall of trees surrounded the elf and wolves, branches reaching high overhead to blot out what little light crept through the clouds. A thicket of brambles had grown up around the trees, creating a thorny fence.
Alith drew the moonbow and nocked an arrow, glancing nervously all around. Even Blackmane’s fierce confidence had disappeared and the pack leader hunched at Alith’s side, ears flat against his head, eyes wide with fright.
Something shifted to Alith’s right and he turned, bow raised.
“Not welcome,” said a voice on the wind, reminding Alith of the rustle of leaves in the wind. One tree stood a little further forwards from the others, a huge bowed oak heavy with leaf. It shuddered and acorns fell to the ground in a loud patter. “Leave us.”
“Black two-legs come,” said Blackmane, standing up and taking a pace towards the arboreal apparition. “Kill. Burn. We run.”
The tree might have twisted slightly towards Blackmane, though it could well have been a trick of the moonlight.
“Wolves may come,” the voice said. “Two-legs must not.”
“Why would you deny your ally sanctuary?” demanded Alith, speaking in elvish. “I would fight to protect these lands from the druchii.”
“Come here,” the treeman said, bending a branch in Alith’s direction like a beckoning arm.
The elf approached cautiously, moonbow still in hand. He stopped a few paces from the treeman and saw a gnarled face in the bark, far above his head. Knots made for eyes and a split in the bark formed a mockery of a mouth, though neither moved as the treeman spoke.
“What manner of elf runs wild with the wolves?” the treeman asked.
“I am Alith, last of the Anars,” the elf replied, stiffening with pride as he spoke. The treeman said nothing and Alith continued. “I am the son of the wolf and the moon.”
At this the trees around the trees began quivering violently, branches clashing, leaves fluttering. Alith did not know if this signalled anger or amusement, but he kept calm.
“I request passage to the Gaen Vale, to seek sanctuary from those that would hunt me down and slay me,” Alith said, taking the arrow from the string of the moonbow and placing both in his quiver. “Or worse,” he added.
A branch reached out and laid leafy fingers upon Alith’s brow, their touch as light as a feather. A moment after it had settled, the branch whipped away with a crack.
“No,” said the treeman, its voice deepening to a rumble. “There is no place for you in Gaen Vale. You bring darkness with you. Death is in you. Only life is welcome in this place. You must go.”
“The darkness follows me, but it is not of my making,” said Alith, thinking of the pursuing druchii. “I will help you fight!”
“The darkness is drawn to you, and you are drawn to it,” the treeman said, slowly straightening. “You cannot pass into the Gaen Vale.”
Alith was aware of the eyes of the wolves upon him, Blackmane’s stare the most intent. The wolves could not follow the words, but Alith’s narrowed eyes and tense posture told them what they needed to know about the exchange.
“We go?” asked Blackmane. “Hide?”
“Yes,” said Alith. “You go. You hide.”
“Two-legs come,” said Blackmane.
“No,” said Alith, turning away from the treeman to focus on the wolves. “Two-legs not come. Two-legs will hunt. Wolves will hide.”
“No!” snarled Scar, trotting from the pack. “Two-legs hunt, wolves hunt.”
“Wolves hunt,” echoed Blackmane.
“Cubs not safe,” said Alith. “Cubs not hunt. Black two-legs come soon. Wolves hide.”
“Cubs hide, wolves hunt,” said Blackmane. “Pack hunts with two-legs.”
Alith wanted to argue, but there were no words to express what he knew. The druchii would come this way, in ever-increasing numbers. The wolves had to flee, to head to safety in the Gaen Vale. Yet there was no way he could convince them of their peril. Alith would have to leave them.
“Two-legs not run,” said Silver, joining Scar. It was as if the wily female had read Alith’s mind. “Two-legs stay with pack. Pack protects.”
“Black two-legs kill pack!” snapped Alith, causing Silver to shrink back as if he had taken a swipe at her. Alith felt a pang of guilt, but continued, knowing that he had to make the wolves understand the danger. “Many, many black two-legs. Kill many, many wolves. Wolves run!”
Alith turned his back on the pack to a chorus of yelps and howls. He ignored them and strode westwards, away from the Gaen Vale. He’d taken only a few paces when he heard the padding of feet. Glancing over his shoulder he saw Scar, Silver, Blackmane and nearly two dozen other wolves following him.
“No!” Alith yelled, stooping to snatch up a handful of dirt. He flung it at the wolves with a wordless shout. Turning away, Alith stormed through a gap that had opened in the thorny barricade.
“Don’t let them follow me!” Alith called out in elvish, his voice catching in his throat.
“We will protect them,” the treeman’s haunting voice called back. The thorns writhed and within moments the gap was sealed once more.
Howls and snarls echoed through the trees, following Alith as he stalked into the darkness with tears in his eyes.
Alith wept for the rest of the night, sitting on the root of an enormous tree. He wondered why the gods could be so cruel. They tempted him with love and peace and then took away that which he desired most: Ashniel; Milandith; his family; Athielle; the wolf pack. In his grief he was reminded of Elthyrior. Loneliness is an indulgence for those with the time to spare for it. Some fill the emptiness with the meaningless chatter of those around them. Some of us fill it with a greater purpose, more comforting than any mortal company.
Alith had entered Avelorn thinking he had found a purpose, but it had not been so. Had he been wrong to slay the stag? He thought not. Had Kurnous intended him to run with the pack? It seemed likely. If so, then what had it brought Alith save for more woe?
Alith heard a gentle whisper and without thought reached to the quiver on his back and brought forth the moonbow. He stroked a finger along the silvery metal, relishing the warmth.
He held it to his cheek, his tears running along its length, soothed by its touch.
Here was the reason he had been brought to Avelorn.
Cradling the moonbow to his chest, Alith stood and took a deep breath. It was up to him to find his own purpose. Others could blame fate, or the gods, or luck. Alith was empty of blame, save for his hatred of those that had brought this woe upon Ulthuan. His fate had not been made by Kurnous, nor his father and grandfather, not even by Bel Shanaar. All that had happened to Alith had one source and one source alone: the druchii.
He had been a leaf on a river, pulled by currents beyond his control. Forced to fight. Forced to run. Forced to hide. That would change. The stag would run and be hunted down. The wolf chose its prey. Now was the time to act, not react. For too long the druchii had been allowed to choose the tune. That feral love of the hunt that Kurnous had awoken stirred in Alith’s breast.
He looked to the north, where the druchii made their camps and despoiled the forest. With the moonbow Alith could slay many of them. They would come for him and he would elude them, just as the Shadows had done. But it was not enough. Even with the moonbow, he could not slay enough druchii to halt them, to turn the war against them. The lone wolf was no threat to them.
Moonbow in hand, Alith turned to the south-west, towards Ellyrion. He could not hunt alone, but he knew where he would find his pack.
—
An Oath Fulfilled
Alith ran for many days, heading south across Ellyrion, filled with the spirit of the hunt. Clad in naught but his weapons, he avoided the herds of the Ellyrians, travelling by day and night. He did not pause to kill and drank sparingly, possessed by the vision of his new war against the druchii. As packs his warriors would hunt, like the Shadows of old.
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