Something wasn't right. He gestured to a slender, black mare. "Iasta! Come here!"
Iasta was the band's most skilled woodsman. She knew as much about the forest as anyone Arhedion knew. She cantered over, swigging wine as she came. "What's the trouble?"
"The forest. It isn't right—dost thou feel it?"
"Truly," Iasta agreed gravely. "It's been so for the past mile, perhaps more. Shall I take a closer look?"
Arhedion nodded, and they walked to a young poplar tree. Iasta drew a knife and carved a strip of bark from the tree. She sniffed it, then broke off a bit and put it in her mouth. Grimacing, she spat it out. Raising the knife again, she cut three slashes across the wood she'd exposed. Brown, oily sap ran out. Tiny white worms oozed forth with it, and fell, squirming, on the ground.
"Stones and shoes!" Arhedion swore.
"As I thought," Iasta said, wiping her dagger on a fern. "Grimbough's magic. It isn't strong yet, but there's no mistaking it. The trees near my village became like this, three years ago. A season later, they were beyond help."
Arhedion swallowed. The Circle would want to hear of this. Perhaps he should send a pair of runners back to Ithax—
No sooner had he put together that thought than he heard hoofbeats approaching the camp. He whistled to his warriors. They dropped their packs and flasks and grabbed their weapons, in case the approaching riders were Skorenoi.
They weren't; it was the two outriders Arhedion had sent ahead. They lunged out of the undergrowth, red-faced and blowing hard, then pulled up when they saw the lances and arrows arrayed against them.
"Don't shoot!" gasped one, a yellow-coated mare whose flanks were daubed with whorls of war-paint. "Put up thy weapons. We weren't followed."
"Followed?" Arhedion asked. His tail twitched. "By whom?"
The yellow mare's partner, a gray stallion whose head was shaved save for a white braid above his left ear, cleared his throat. "Skorenoi," he said.
Arhedion's skin bumped with gooseflesh. He blew out his lips. "Show me. I would see for myself."
They waited until the outriders regained their wind, then he named Iasta and a dozen others to go with him. They rode half a league, to a ridge where tall pines swayed.
"Be silent," the yellow mare warned, and started up the slope.
It was a difficult climb: the ridge was steep, carpeted with needles that slid beneath their hooves. They made their way to the top without a sound, then hunkered low, below the rocky crest. Bow and arrow ready, Arhedion peered over the edge, into the broad valley below.
"Chislev's withers," he breathed.
The valley was blanketed with oaks and aspens, but there was no missing what lay beneath the shifting leaves. The woods were crawling with Skorenoi—thousands of them.
"Looks like an army," Iasta murmured shakily.
Arhedion nodded, feeling cold all over. "I think we'd better get back to Ithax."
There was no telling what gave them away. It could have been the jingling of a war harness, the glint of sunlight on an arrowhead—even their scent, borne by the wind into the valley. Whatever it was, though, the blare of horns sounded from behind as Arhedion and the others climbed back down the ridge. Then hooves rumbled, headed toward them.
Arhedion cursed, glancing around. Several of his scouts had frozen in horror. "Move!" he roared, waving his arms. "Run! Go!"
They slid down the ridge, sending showers of needles before them. Arhedion landed hard, losing half the arrows out of his quiver, then Iasta hauled on his arm and they bolted into the woods. The other scouts ran too, galloping recklessly through the trees. Before long, arrows began to fall around them. Arhedion glanced back, and saw the ridge was lined with Skorenoi archers. The gray outrider grunted and fell, an arrow between his shoulders. He started to rise, then another shaft pierced his skull.
Panic seized the horsefolk. Yelling, they pelted onward. An arrow grazed Arhedion's shoulder, drawing a line of blood; another shattered against his war harness. He ran on, heedless.
When the arrows finally stopped and the centaurs dared slow their pace, half the party was gone—including Iasta. Arhedion felt sick at this, but resisted the temptation to go back. Several of the other centaurs started to turn, clearly having the same urge.
"No!" he snapped. "They're gone! Get back to the others!"
They did, hearts hammering, pausing briefly to gather the rest of the party before plunging on. Finally, after they'd been galloping for more than an hour, they slowed their pace.
"We lost them," said one of the scouts. "They gave up the chase!"
Arhedion shook his head. "No. They'll come, sooner or later, all the way to Ithax. This is just the beginning."
25
Like the cave where the dryad had left them, there were no doors or tunnels leading out of the sprites' cavernous prison. Fanuin and Ellianthe solved the problem by flying up to a wall and parting the stone. A passage opened with a loud scraping sound.
Unlike the way Pallidice had taken them, the passage was solid granite, shot through with white crystals that glittered in the bug-lamps' light. It was cold, and their footsteps echoed eerily. Behind them, the stone sealed shut again, grinding noisily.
Caramon and Dezra shared Trephas's impatience. With the time they spent here multiplied thirtyfold in Darken Wood, even the passage of minutes became dreadful. Only Borlos seemed at ease, sharing stories with the sprites as they walked. The fey folk had an insatiable appetite for tales, and for them, even the War of the Lance was little more than a year in the past. There was much they hadn't heard. In turn, they told Borlos of times long past. Though Fanuin and Ellianthe were young, they remembered the glory of Istar and other ancient realms. Borlos listened to their stories, his gaze distant, a bemused smile curling his lips. It was a simpleton's grin, the same look he'd had after the dryad pulled him into her tree.
The gray stone surrounding them yielded, more and more, to shining crystal. The air grew warmer. Then, with no more warning than a sudden blast of wind, the tunnel ended in open air and a dark, starry sky. The sprites flew out of the passage; Borlos nearly followed, but Trephas pulled him back.
"Careful," the centaur warned. "Another step, and thou would have regretted it."
Borlos looked down, past his feet, and gasped.
"What's the matter?" Caramon asked, craning to see.
Dezra elbowed forward and followed Borlos's gaze down. She caught her breath, her eyes wide. "Huma's wooden teeth," she swore.
The tunnel had opened in the middle of a sheer cliff of white crystal, high above the ground. They were somewhere in the mountains—that much was clear from the shadowed crags before them—but that was all Dezra could tell. "Oh," she grumbled. "Well, that's just marvelous."
"Where are the sprites?" Caramon asked.
"Gone. Bloody bugs stranded us here," Dezra said. She threw up her hands. "What do we do now? Grow wings?"
Trephas chuckled. "That's what I said yesterday, when they took me to the Laird. Don't fret: they'll come back."
A brief eternity later, they heard a familiar sound: the flutter of wings. The sound grew steadily louder, then a broad, flat shape emerged from the darkness.
Caramon squinted, trying to make it out. "It looks like a blanket."
They saw, as it got closer, that it was just that: large enough to cover a king's bed, and well-woven in blue and gold. Several dozen sprites carried it toward the cliff, pulling it taut as they approached. They swooped down out of sight, then rose back up, coming to a hovering stop a yard past the tunnel's end. Fanuin and Ellianthe flew forward to float before the companions.
"It would be best," said Ellianthe, "if ye take off yer boots afore ye climb on the lugruidh."
The companions stared at the blanket, their faces the color of whey. "It'll never hold us all," Caramon hissed. "Even if it was just Trephas or me—"
"It was just me, yesterday," the centaur put in. "And earlier today, when I came back to fetch thee. Besides, we don't h
ave much choice—this is the only way to go."
"All right," Borlos said. "I'll go first."
He pulled off his boots, then tossed them and his packs over. Holding his breath, he sprung forward, into the void. The lugruidh dipped slightly as he landed, then the sprites recovered and lifted it back up again. Borlos turned back to the others and grinned.
"It's fine," he said. "Come over."
Trephas followed, then, reluctantly, Caramon stepped across the gap. He let out a yell, the lugruidh dropping several feet, then sat down heavily as the sprites again arrested its fall. Dezra wrung her hands, staring at it in disgust.
"Come on, Dez," Caramon said. The lugruidh wobbled as he got to his feet. "I'll catch you."
"No," Dezra insisted. "I'll do it myself."
They gave her room, clearing as large a space as they could. She tossed her boots to Trephas, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Just then, she heard the scraping sound of the stone against stone. She didn't need to glance back to know the tunnel was closing behind her. She leapt, and the passage sealed shut, as if it had never been.
"Do you have any idea where we are?" Caramon asked Borlos as they glided among the mountains. He and the bard sat together, hunched in their cloaks to ward off the cold wind. Dezra and Trephas stood at the lugruidh's forward edge, talking with the sprites.
Borlos snorted. "Are you kidding? Even if it were daytime, I don't think I'd have a clue. I wouldn't even wager we were on Krynn at all, except for the stars."
Caramon glanced up. Sure enough, the stars were all there, even the red one that always shone in the north. "Well," he allowed, "I guess that's a relief."
The miles slid by, the lugruidh moving with surprising speed. The sprites didn't seem to tire, and passed the time by singing in their lilting tongue. The melody was strange, mixing joy and melancholy in a manner an elven harper would have envied. Borlos tried to play along on his lyre, but his deft fingers proved too clumsy to capture the song's unearthly beauty. He put the instrument away.
After an hour—more than a day in the outside world—a distant light appeared. It was a bluish glow, like the bug-lamps, coming from behind a ridge between two snowy mountaintops. Fanuin and Ellianthe called out, and the sprites' song changed to a simpler, brighter tune. The lugruidh turned toward the light, picking up speed. Now they were three miles from it, now two, now one… .
Then, suddenly, there were sprites all around them, bows drawn. Caramon regarded them warily. He had a feeling their arrows weren't tipped with harmless sleep-poison.
"Keep still," he told Borlos.
"I couldn't move if I wanted to," the bard replied tensely, staring at the sprites.
Fanuin and Ellianthe buzzed forward to speak with the leader of the archers. After a quick, unintelligible conversation, the commander yelled to his bowmen. “Nadh mhoirra!" he called. "Fin oc Guithern."
The archers lowered their bows, falling in on either side of the lugruidh as it moved on, toward the ridge.
Fanuin flitted over to the humans, doffing his cap. "I'm sorry if we frightened ye. Goidrach there—he's the one we talked to—is in charge of making sure no one intrudes on my father's court. He's quite good at it, as ye saw."
"But how'd they sneak up on us?" Dezra asked. "I didn't see them coming—they were just there, all of a sudden."
Fanuin raised his eyebrows. "That? Oh, that's easy," he said, and vanished.
The humans started. A moment later, Ellianthe appeared just as suddenly, in his place.
"More faerie magic," Caramon muttered.
"Ye could call it that, aye," Ellianthe replied. "It's more a talent than a spell—we learn to make ourselves invisible the way the bard there learned to play his lyre." She disappeared, though the sound of her laughing voice remained. "See?"
Dezra nodded, impressed. "Handy talent."
"Aye," said Fanuin, grinning as he popped back into view. "A pity we can't teach ye. Now, look! We're coming up on Gwethyryn."
They passed over the ridge, almost brushing the tops of the firs that grew on it. When they could see past it, they beheld a wide, bowl-shaped crater. It might have been a volcano once, long ago; now it was carpeted with rich grass and looming trees—mostly firs, but some aspen and ash. The rippling sea of their leaves and needles rivaled Darken Wood in its untainted beauty. Hundreds of bug-lamps hung among the trees, their glow filling the forest with blue witchlight. Clouds of moths and other insects flitted about them.
There were other flying things, too: Hundreds of sprites fluttered both above and among the trees, their silvery wings flashing with reflected light. They were all brightly attired, in bright yellows and oranges, pale greens and blues, rich reds and violets. Most were young, with gold or copper hair, but some had silver locks that identified them as elders. All of them wore swords, and many also had quivers of arrows on their backs.
As soon as the lugruidh reached the vale, a crowd began to form, swarming like locusts in the hopes of glimpsing the giants from far away. Goidrach directed his men to clear a path. For several minutes, as they passed through the swarm, there was nowhere the companions could look where they didn't meet the curious, suspicious gazes of the winged folk.
"Where do they all live?" Borlos asked. "I haven't seen anything like a house on the ground."
"That's because we don't dwell on the ground," Ellianthe replied. "Many of our people make their homes in clefts among the mountaintops. They tend fields of moss and herd beetles and bees. Those who practice crafts, or who are close to the Laird, live here, in the trees—either within the wood itself, or in houses among their boughs."
"Really?" Caramon said. "That sounds just like Solace, where I'm from."
"Of course it does!" Fanuin laughed. "Where do ye think yer folk got the idea of putting their homes in the vallen-woods? Ye're not the first humans to come to this place, ye know."
Soon the shining forest fell away behind them, and they floated over darkness again. Now, however, they could hear the sound of water lapping below. Peering over the lugruidh's edge, they saw the stars beneath them, glittering on the surface of a wide, dark lake. A wispy blanket of mist clung, swirling and eddying, to the water.
As they crossed the tarn, they caught sight of another glow through the fog. It hovered high above the lake's surface, like the watchfire on a castle's tower. They drew near, and the source of the light became clear: an obsidian spire, jutting up out of the water. Several tall firs perched atop it, hung with scores of bug-lamps. The glassy stone shimmered with reflected light.
"Is that where the Laird lives?" Dezra asked. She did her best to sound jaded, but a note of awe crept into her voice.
"Aye," Fanuin said. "His steading's in the high boughs of the tallest tree. He awaits us there."
A score of winged folk, dressed in violet and armed with white bows, rose from the spire to meet them. Goidrach exchanged words with their leader, then called his archers to him and darted away again across the lake. The violet-clad sprites also spoke briefly with Fanuin and Ellianthe and fell in around the lugruidh as it descended toward the firs. As they neared the spire, the companions saw the Laird's steading, nestled on a platform built about the fir's slender trunk.
It was small but beautiful, an enclave of miniature buildings with large windows and open roofs. Violet-clad sprites darted from one structure to another. A party of silver-haired winged folk emerged from the roof of the largest building and glided toward the lugruidh. One of them, resplendent in amethyst and ivory, smiled warmly at Fanuin and Ellianthe, embracing each in turn.
"It's fine to see you again, my children," Laird Guithern said, taking their hands. He looked past them, toward Trephas. "And you also, friend centaur. These, then, are the humans ye told me about?"
"Aye, majesty," Trephas replied, bowing. The others did the same—except Dezra, who only inclined her head. Trephas frowned at this, but went on. "Caramon Majere, a hero of some renown among mortal folk, his daughter Dezra
, and Borlos of Solace."
"Ah yes," Guithern said, smiling at Borlos. He extended his hand. "The tale-spinner who's been spreading songs among the guards within the mountain. I'd like to hear some of them, if there's time." He turned from the bard, who looked ready to burst with pride, to Caramon. "And I remember you as well, Majere. I apologize again. An arrow in the rump is no way to greet a guest."
Caramon blushed. "Ah, well," he said. "No harm done, really. I'll just be sitting funny for a couple days."
Guithern laughed. "Excellent!" he proclaimed, clasping his hands. "Now, I'm afraid there's not room enough up here for all o' ye—nor, I'm sure, would ye be comfortable perching so high. I've arranged to hold moot below instead, atop the spire-stone. I've already had food set out for ye there, and milk and mead besides. When ye've had yer fill, I'll join ye, and we'll talk more."
With that, he darted away, back toward his steading. The other elders streamed after him, and Fanuin and Ellianthe as well. When they were gone, the lugruidh descended, gliding down toward the top of the spire.
"Thank the gods," Caramon said to Borlos. "Solid ground at last. And food, too—I haven't eaten since that feast the dryad set out for us. Bet you could do with a flask or three of mead too, eh?"
But the bard wasn't listening; his gaze had turned away, drifting across the misty tarn. At the far shore, the sprites' forest-village glowed in the fog. Tears stood on the bard's cheeks, sparkling like sapphires in the blue light.
"Hey," Caramon said, nudging Borlos in the ribs. "You all right?"
The bard looked at him, without recognition at first. Then he blinked. "Sorry, big guy. It's just—I don't know. There's something about this place. It's so beautiful. I mean, Solace is nice and all, but how can I go back there after seeing this?"
26
Chrethon strode along the line of the Skorenoi camp, gazing at Ithax's walls. The town's defenders lined the palisade, gripping their bows, staring back across the killing ground that had, not long ago, been a pleasant meadow. Now the grass and clover were gone, the earth trampled to blood-drenched mud. Spent arrows sprouted from the waste, a mocking memory of the daisies that had been in bloom when the siege began. Crows and flies feasted upon the slain. The stench in the air was horrible, but Chrethon reveled in it. To him, it was the scent of triumph.
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