Even as he wondered what a Silvanesti was doing so deep in the Great Green, Tol affected what he hoped was a rustic woodland accent and replied, “Uh, sorry. I didn’t think anybody would notice one bit o’ metal gone.”
The elf knocked the spearhead from Tol’s open hand. “This belongs to Chief Makaralonga!” he snapped. Spotting the saber hanging over Tol’s shoulder, he said, “An iron blade! Where did you steal that? Give it to me!”
Tol glanced over his shoulder at the trees-but couldn’t see any of his men. They were in hiding.
“I said, give me that iron blade!” he said, shoving Tol roughly.
“As you wish!”
Tol abruptly whipped his saber out and cut at the elf. He felt the edge scrape along the Silvanesti’s cuirass. Exclaiming in his native tongue, the elf warrior leaped back, groping for his own sword. He blundered hard against his comrade, and the man’s black hood fell back, revealing a familiar face.
Morthur Dermount!
Tol’s heart raced. What was a Silvanesti doing in the Great Green, and in the company of the empire’s most wanted fugitive? The man also known as Spannuth Grane had not been heard of since he’d disappeared from Juramona years earlier.
The elf whipped out his sword, as Morthur Dermount laughed. “No need for such exertions, Kirstalothan. I’ll down him for you,” he said. Fingering a length of slender copper chain, Morthur began to speak in the sing-song voice that Tol remembered from that night at his family’s farm.
Tol backed away a pace and threw a desperate glance at the trees. What was Felryn waiting for? Where were his men?
Even as Morthur continued to chant and finger the links of the chain, Tol realized he wasn’t feeling the heavy, irresistible sleepiness. Morthur’s look of consternation brought a fierce grin to his face as he lifted his sword again and launched himself at the Silvanesti.
No sooner had their blades met than six of Tol’s green-faced men burst from cover and joined in the fray. They bore the Silvanesti down. Black-garbed Morthur backed out of arm’s reach and dashed for the trees.
“Get him! Stop him!” Tol cried.
Four men raced after Morthur, but they soon returned empty-handed. The treacherous sorcerer had easily eluded them in the dark.
“It was Morthur Dermount!” Tol told Narren, who was sitting on the Silvanesti’s back.
The name meant nothing to Narren and the other foot soldiers; they had long forgotten Odovar’s former lieutenant. Grinding his teeth in frustration at having let the criminal escape, Tol snapped, “Spannuth Grane!”
That evil name all recognized. Felryn declared Grane had been the source of the evil magic that he’d detected. Yet he no more than the rest could say what Grane might be doing here, and with a Silvanesti warrior to boot.
They dragged the unconscious elf back to the trees. Bound and gagged, he became their second prisoner.
Felryn examined the white column. He declared the writing to be Dwarvish. According to the inscription, he said, this place was called the Isaren Glade, and was dedicated to the smith-god Reorx.
He added, “Yet elves don’t worship Reorx. Neither do the forest tribes. Perhaps someone merely wants us to think dwarves have been here. As for Lord Morthur-” Felryn shook his head. “There’s more at work here than meets the eye.”
As the foot soldiers discussed the strange doings among themselves, Felryn said quietly to Tol, “He cast a befuddlement spell on you. Didn’t you feel it?”
Tol said he hadn’t, and thanked the healer for his protection. Felryn stared at him silently for a moment. “I did nothing,” he finally said, but Tol could offer no explanation for the failure of Morthur’s spell against him.
With renewed care, the Ergothians passed through the mysterious glade after first hiding all the bronze weapons in some nearby bushes.
Back in the trees again, they began to hear movement. More than once Tol spied dark figures gliding through the woods alongside them. He kept his hand on his sword hilt, but no one else bothered them. The strangers must assume he and his party were foresters.
Eventually, the trees grew more slender and undergrowth appeared between them. As they made their way through the brush, they saw a glow ahead. Loud masculine voices rang out-Ergothian voices!
Narren started to push past Tol, but was held back.
“If we are near, now is the time for patience,” Tol whispered. Narren agreed reluctantly.
Keeping the unpainted soldiers in the rear, Tol and his disguised comrades pushed forward. The ground sloped upward. They could hear the gurgle of a stream and smelled smoke. Parting the last barrier of brush, Tol beheld an astonishing scene.
Ahead was a large knoll, rising sharply above the surrounding land. The sides and rear of the knoll dropped into a steep ravine, through which a creek coursed. Across the open end of the knoll, large logs had been piled to create a low, zigzagging bulwark. Two bonfires blazed behind the fallen trees. Hundreds of Ergothian warriors and a similar number of horses were crowded together around the fires. All the warriors were dismounted, swords drawn and spears ready. The dead-foresters and warriors both-lay in heaps on both sides of the bulwark.
They strained every muscle trying to make out Lord Odovar, but could not find him, Tol did spot Egrin, slouched against a boulder, and his heart leapt with relief.
“The warden lives!” he said. In eager whispers, this news was passed back from the disguised soldiers to the rest of the footmen.
Outside the fitful light of the bonfires lurked hundreds, perhaps thousands, of tribesmen. Both groups of combatants were plainly exhausted.
“We’ll wait for sunrise,” Tol told his people. “We can’t attack now. Our own comrades might fight us. At dawn, one side or the other will attack again, and that’s when we’ll strike.”
No one had a better plan, so the footmen settled down in the dark to wait. Tol was amazed. He and his troop were surrounded by foresters, but none paid them any heed. Aided by darkness, they hid in the midst of their enemy. He couldn’t imagine falling asleep, poised on the very cusp of danger, with myriad questions about Silvanesti intruders and Morthur Dermount racing in his head, but sleep he did. Exhaustion finally got the better of him and he slumped against the base of an oak tree.
A high-pitched scream tore his eyes open.
Swarms of foresters came howling out of the woods, waving clubs, axes, and spears as they charged up the knoll. The Ergothians under siege braced for the onslaught, a bristling hedge of spears lining the length of the improvised wall. Ten paces from the bulwark, the foresters paused to hurl spears and stones. Armor was no protection against a fist-sized hunk of granite, worn smooth in a tumbling creek. Ergothians went down, faces bloody, under the barrage.
Tol kept his men hidden, watching the battle develop. He saw the attack for what it was-an obvious feint, an attempt to wear down the defenders with noise and thrown missiles.
“Footmen to the front,” he called softly. The undisguised soldiers worked their way forward.
“When the foresters attack the barricade, form up and hit them from behind. Shout ‘Juramona’ to let our countrymen know who we are. Those of us in paint will stay in the woods and cut off any reinforcements moving up against you.”
It was a dangerous plan. The footmen were outnumbered. If the tribesmen stood their ground in the face of the footmen’s surprise rush, the Ergothians could be overwhelmed. Although the risks were plain, no one spoke against Tol.
Every soldier was aching to come to blows with the enemy.
They did not have long to wait. The bombardment of the bulwark ended with the foresters scrambling back down the hill into the trees. Two breaths later, a mob several hundred strong erupted from hiding, screaming and running up the knoll. The first wave reached the line of felled trees and climbed over, only to be impaled on Ergothian spears. Still the wild-eyed tribesmen pushed on, shrieking like fiends, climbing over their fallen comrades, and letting their weight bear down the deadly spears.
For a moment Tol took in the horrible panorama: tribesmen naked to the waist, wielding a stone axe in each hand; women warriors, their long hair woven into braids, lofting arrows over the throng; painted Kagonesti and half-elves with slings and spears; and the grim, bloodied faces of the trapped Ergothians, finding three fresh foes behind every one they felled.
The veteran footmen were led by Caskan, one of the soldiers who had wanted to execute Nara. They fell upon the rear of the forester mob. Chaos reigned as the tribesmen struggled to turn and meet this unexpected blow. Behind their bulwark, the embattled Ergothians were plainly astonished, but took new heart from the recognized rallying cry. The rest of Tol’s band, those painted like foresters, slipped sideways through the trees, watching for any fresh threats.
A gang of tall, rugged-looking humans emerged from the ravine and moved to strike at the rear of Caskan’s band. Tol let them collect in a tight mass for charging, then hit them before they got clear of the trees.
Shaken at being attacked by men they had taken to be allies, the buckskin-clad humans retreated, before recognizing their new enemies and counter-attacking ferociously.
With difficulty Tol wounded a foe a head taller than himself, leaped over a prostrate forester, and traded cuts with another tribesman. This one had a magnificent head of golden hair, a thick beard, and eyes the color of a summer sky. He wore a brass circlet set with crudely cut gems, and carried an ancient straight sword of the kind used in Ergoth a century past. Three times Tol’s age, he was still a powerful man. The youth’s hands stung every time their blades met. If the golden-haired warrior had thrust with his straight blade, he might have killed Tol, who was no duelist. Fortunately for Tol, his untutored opponent chose to fight as if he had a saber, slashing overhand again and again.
The press of the fight propelled them both to the edge of the ravine. Below, the stream was stained with blood and littered with bodies. The blond tribesman delivered a mighty blow at Tol’s left shoulder, which the boy deflected by using both hands on his sword hilt. Pressing forward with all his strength, Tol slid his curved blade down his enemy’s straight one until the iron tip drove deep into the older man’s shoulder.
The forester was strong. He did not lose his grip on his sword even with a span of cold metal in his flesh, but as he backed away from the thrust, he did lose his footing and pitched backward into the ravine.
Tol slid down the muddy bank after his foe. He planted a foot on the fallen forester’s chest and shoved. Golden hair sank beneath the muddy water. Tol held him down, knocking the sword from his hand. When bubbles ceased coming from the warrior’s lips, Tol let him float to the surface.
“Yield!” he cried, digging the tip of his bloody saber into the man’s bearded jowls. “I will spare your life!”
“Traitor half-breed!” sputtered the beaten forester. “Makaralonga yields to no man of ill faith!”
Makaralonga. The Silvanesti warrior captured at the Isaren Glade had invoked this man’s name. He was a chief!
Tol swiped a sleeve over his face, scrubbing away paint. “I’m no forester,” he announced. “I am Tol, shilder to Egrin, warden of Juramona!”
Makaralonga blinked through sodden strands of hair. “A grasslander!”
“Yield, and you shall be honestly treated.” Tol stepped back, drawing a deep breath into his aching chest.
Above, Tol’s charge had broken Makaralonga’s attack, and Caskan’s footmen broke the foresters’ latest attempt to storm the knoll. When Tol emerged from the ravine with Makaralonga at sword point before him, a wail went up from the foresters. Although they still outnumbered the Ergothians ten to one, they lost heart at the sight of their chief in the enemy’s hands. They began to back into the underbrush, but their retreat became a rout when Ergothian soldiers flung themselves on the horde’s surviving horses and charged after them. The log barricade was dragged down and horsemen thundered down the knoll. They sabered scores of fleeing tribesmen, following them into the trees in their eagerness to pay back their tormenters.
Tol prodded Makaralonga to the broken bulwark. Waiting there was Egrin. Wan and bloodied, he still sat proudly on Old Acorn.
“By the gods, Tol! How did you get here?” Egrin exclaimed.
Tol told him quickly of Felryn’s vision and how they’d mounted a rescue.
The warden looked over the scattered members of Tol’s little host. “Footmen? You entered the forest with two hundred footmen?”
“One hundred,” Tol corrected. “Half remained behind to guard the encampment.”
Egrin shook his head, but put aside his astonishment to stare at the man Tol had captured. On learning the fellow’s identity, the warden was amazed anew. “The chief of the Dom-shu!”
“I am,” said Makaralonga proudly. “I yielded to this warrior on the promise of my life.” He grimaced, clutching his shoulder where Tol’s sword had cut deeply. “You raise bold fighters in your country, horse-rider.”
“So it seems,” Egrin said, staring at his shilder. He was torn. He didn’t know whether to upbraid Tol for disobeying orders and entering the forest, or praise him for his astounding success. In the end, he simply ordered him to secure Makaralonga inside the bulwark, then had horns blown to recall his vengeful warriors from their pursuit of the fleeing tribesmen.
At the crest of the knoll, they found Lord Odovar. The foolhardy, courageous marshal had been laid beneath a broad elm tree, arms crossed reverently on his chest. His armor was deeply scarred, and he bore many terrible wounds.
“He died fighting like a bull,” said a nearby warrior, badly wounded himself in an earlier fight. “The savages tried four times to capture him, wading out with nooses and nets, but hip-deep in water, Lord Odovar slew so many they drew back and rained arrows on him until they killed him.”
The hardened warrior put his head down and wept, and Tol grieved for the loss as well. So much had happened to him since that day in the onion field when he’d first met Lord Odovar. After the terrible head wound he’d received from Grane, the marshal had grown into a harsh and impatient man, yet he represented Tol’s first taste of a wider world, the world beyond the narrow confines of farm and family. Staring down at the still form, Tol silently thanked Odovar of Juramona for giving him the chance to make a better life for himself.
“A good death!” Makaralonga declared. “I would wish for the same.”
Tol blinked away his tears and looked up at the brawny chief. “Yet you surrendered. Why?” he asked.
The chief of the Dom-shu tribe, favoring his wounded shoulder, sat down heavily on a slab of sandstone.
“I could see you are a great warrior. There is no shame being beaten by a man like you.”
Later, when Makaralonga saw Tol scrubbed clean, the chief was surprised at his conqueror’s obvious youth, but showed no shame at having been captured by one so young. In fact, the knowledge only made him prouder.
“This one will be known to the gods some day,” Makaralonga declared. “And when they speak his name, they will say, ‘His first victory was over Makaralonga of the Dom-shu.’ ”
Chapter 10
Hostage of Victory
Egrin and Pagas led the survivors of the Panther and Eagle hordes out of the Great Green. Collecting their people and baggage from Zivilyn’s Carpet, they rode back to Caergoth to report the death of Lord Odovar, their sighting of the traitor Morthur Dermount, and not least of all, their repulse by the surprisingly well-armed and well-led forest tribes.
The news they brought was not unexpected-nor warmly received. Elsewhere, too, the war was not going as Prince Amaltar and his advisers had anticipated. Wanthred, leading the Firebrands alongside the Corij Rangers, had been attacked on three sides at once. His men had to resort to setting part of the woods ablaze in order to stage a fighting withdrawal under cover of the flames. The pillar of smoke from the conflagration could be seen all the way back to Caergoth.
Further south, two hordes under the dashing Lord Tremond had fared b
etter. They penetrated deeply into the wilderness, sacking a dozen small settlements and taking hundreds of prisoners. In the shadow of his success, blame for Odovar’s and Wanthred’s failures was laid squarely at the feet of those two commanders.
Tol was present when Egrin disputed this injustice before the prince. Lord Urakan, the general of all the armies of the empire, angrily dismissed Egrin’s explanations. Urakan, looking nearly as regal as the prince himself in the burgundy velvet robes he favored, berated the accomplished warrior as if Egrin were a blundering neophyte, using abusive language Tol had never heard before. Behind the enraged Urakan, Crown Prince Amaltar slouched silently on his high-backed throne.
When Egrin tried to point out the hidden dangers of the Great Green, Lord Urakan cut him off.
“You failed, that’s all that matters!” Urakan stormed, black brows drawn down in a ferocious scowl. “Odovar let the foresters hoodwink him into an obvious trap, and you failed to extricate him!”
“My lord. Your Highness,” Egrin said to the general and the prince, “it is true Lord Odovar did not take adequate precautions against ambush. He was a loyal and formidable warrior, but not a skilled tactician. However, it was because of one of Lord Odovar’s chosen men that we were able to fight our way back with valuable information and captives.”
With a bow to the prince, Urakan said dismissively, “A shield-bearer claims to have seen Lord Morthur Dermount in the forest. The prisoners Warden Egrin brought out of the forest, Highness, are hardly compensation for the shame of our losses!”
Egrin did something unprecedented; he bypassed Urakan, his superior, and spoke directly to the prince.
“Your Highness, our two captives are of considerable importance. One is the chief of a major tribe in the northern forest. The other is-well, he may have dynastic importance.”
“How dare you!” Urakan’s face went purple with rage at being disregarded. His hand reached for the hilt of his sword, but he was wearing no weapon in the presence of the prince. He declared, “I will have satisfaction for this insult!”
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