“What are you doing?” Dagorat asked.
“Our ancestors learned about the Light from the Elves. This is the sign of the rising sun. A typical form of greeting.”
After a moment, one of the Elves returned the gesture. All around Dagorat, the defenders went wide-eyed and made murmurs of disbelief. Craicwyth blurted out, “By the gods!”
Dagorat whispered to Cyril, “What are they doing here?”
The mage shook his head in a “not now” motion. He moved to stand next to Liberon and held his hand up, palm facing the Elves. “Drashta,” he said.
Cyril knew the Elvish language? As far as Dagorat knew, no men did. He regarded his old friend with a new appreciation. But Cyril’s attention was entirely fixed on their visitors. He pointed to his chest. “Badat Cyril.”
The Elves went wide-eyed and murmured to each other. One of the males sidled up to the female who had first emerged from the woods and said, “Varnya, hen shalef Varnya.”
The huntress replied, “Spash malekit chavadi.” The tips of the male’s ears reddened. All around them, the others let out chuckles and snorts. She held up her hand in a “shush” gesture, then fixed her attention on Cyril. “Badat Lhinthel, amir desh Althoviel.”
An inexplicable urge to get closer to the Elves gripped Dagorat. He moved forward to join Cyril. “What are they saying? What’s happening?”
“He was confounded over the fact that I spoke Varnya. The Elvish language.”
“As are most others around here.”
“She poked fun at him for stating the obvious, and now she has introduced herself as Lhinthel, daughter of Althoviel. Which makes her the queen, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I also speak your tongue,” Lhinthel said. “You are not mistaken.” The words flowed from her with a remarkable accent, something different from anything Dagorat had ever heard before. Her diction had a slow, smooth cadence, making even the harshest sounds seem soft.
“Why are you so far from home, and why have you revealed yourselves?” Cyril said.
“We chase these orcs for many a weary mile, but always they keep out of reach. They come upon you by chance. And attack simply because you stand in their way. If not for this circumstance, we would chase them still. We offer our thanks.”
Cyril cocked his head. “This mere little orc band could not have brought you so far from your woodlands.”
“Yes, they are small in number. Yet there are many such bands. Too many orcs moving around. Our faith-seers are correct in their visions. Ominous visions. The place you call Ethelton may perish by fire, lightning, and shadow,” Lhinthel said. “We ride to aid Ethelton. These orcs get in the way.”
Dagorat leaned over and whispered, “What’s a faith-seer?”
“Quiet,” Cyril said. His brow had furrowed in a grim expression.
A clamor rose from behind as a squad of Jalkenese Defenders stained with orc blood rode up, arms at the ready. In a flashing second, the Elves had drawn their bows and trained them on the soldiers.
Cyril held up a hand toward the Elves. “La. Odoshta!” He then faced the soldiers. “Sheathe those swords and quiver those arrows, you fools! We’d all be dead now without their help.”
The Jalkenese sergeant surveyed the scene, his gaze flicking between the Elves, the ragtag humans, and the stinking corpses littering the field. He twisted in the saddle and raised his hand. His troops lowered their weapons. After some moments, Lhinthel made a similar gesture, and the Elves stood down as well. She addressed Cyril again. “You go to Ethelton also.”
“Dra,” Cyril said. That must mean “yes;” Dagorat had learned his first Elven word.
Eyeballing the growing crowd, the mage grunted. “Too many ears.” He moved closer to Lhinthel. Dagorat let him go at first, but abruptly decided he needed in on the discussion. He had grown sick of secrets.
Not quickly enough, it turned out. As he approached, he heard “Orb” and “Golgent,” but not enough to make sense of the context. He stopped next to Cyril in time to catch Lhinthel saying, “But there is a pass through the Spine, known only to few people. This Blackfang is likely nearing his destination.”
By Korak’s swollen red ass! “A pass through the Spine? We’re not ahead of Blackfang, then. He’ll reach the pass before us.”
Cyril dug into a pocket and retrieved a rolled map. Dagorat grabbed it from his hand and flung it to the ground.
“How dare you!” Cyril thumped his staff on the grass.
“We’ve wasted too much time already. And you want to study maps? We have to get moving!”
The Elf put a hand between the two of them. “Gentle is the path.”
Liberon joined the group, retrieved the map and offered it to Lhinthel. “Show us.”
She pointed to the start of the Bordermark River in the northwest, flowing down from the Spine. “Here. There is a trail through the mountains, treacherous and hidden, but passable if one is brave.”
Dagorat stalked away while the others pored over the parchment. After some moments, he heard Cyril say, “We may yet be on pace with him.”
“The King of Easterly needs counsel and strength from us. Orcs move quickly, as does Blackfang, to join the Golgent. They converge on Ethelton soon,” Lhinthel said. “Come.”
He swallowed his impatience and observed in silence as Lhinthel glided over to her fellows. Her stance and gestures made it plain that she was issuing orders. Then she whistled; it sounded like birdsong. A great rustle came from the forest, and moments later, a herd of horses emerged. Their tack was white, with streaks of various shades of gray. The Elves mounted their steeds smoothly. Two of them bade their fellows farewell and galloped away. Lhinthel told Cyril, “The threat is real. My riders go to call our warriors to Ethelton.”
“We’ve only this pair of horses. We’ll need two more if we’re to ride with you.” Cyril said.
“Preneshti shan susik,” Lhinthel said to her fellows. Two of the smallest Elves dismounted, and then jumped up to ride double with two others. The riderless horses approached Cyril docilely.
He thanked Lhinthel and then addressed Liberon. “Unhitch our horses and load some provisions. We’ll catch Blackfang yet.” The monk nodded sharply and moved to obey, while Dagorat’s edgy heart jumped for joy.
As the Elves settled onto their mounts, the captain of the Jalkenese Defenders arrived, spattered in orc blood. He grinned proudly at the guardsmen. “Congratulations, men! A fine haul. Now pile them up for incineration. The smell of burnt orc means a great day is at hand.”
A fresh-faced young soldier piped up, “We didn’t kill those orcs.” He pointed to the Elves. “They did.”
“Wrong!” Craicwyth yelled. “I felled one with my bow.”
“And I with my daggers,” Katrina said. She marched triumphantly toward the orc she’d killed, placed her foot on his head and pulled her dagger free. “It’s a shame such a fine blade had to be soiled by orc blood.”
“Aye, my arrow can stay where it is. I don’t want it back.” Craicwyth gave a dismissive wave.
“Those bodies need to be stacked and burned, regardless of who gets credit for the kills,” the captain said. “Sergeant, make it happen.” The soldiers hastened to obey, and he surveyed them with a satisfied gleam in his eye before turning to Dagorat’s little group. “Who are they, anyhow?” He jerked his head toward Lhinthel and friends. But before anyone answered, he swiveled to stare at Liberon, who was busy unhitching the horses from the wagon. “You can’t do that. Put those horses back!”
“We must ride with these Elves to the Gorthul Pass,” Cyril said. “And for that, we need these horses.”
“Who says? I don’t take orders from you, old man,” the captain sneered. “Or Elves.”
Dagorat bristled. “Watch it, captain. This ‘old man’ is a great mage of the Shantokran.”
“Then let him go back there and teach. I’m in command here.”
“A great battle is coming which we’re trying to avert. Do not stand in o
ur way. Instead you should send word for more forces to aid the Easterlains,” Cyril said.
“My orders are to escort this caravan safely to Ethelton. No more, and no less.”
Cyril thumped his staff on the ground. “Ignorant fool.”
“Hold your tongue, old man,” the captain said.
Dagorat’s muscles tensed. This fool’s attitude was all too familiar. “Upon soft beds Mentirians lie, Jalkenese have fresh fruit for pie, because Easterlains protect them both and die,” he recited. The old saying still held true. Easterly took the brunt of Golgent attacks from the north, while the other kingdoms relaxed and grew indolent. Never did they aid Easterly. No, they wallowed in luxury and made snide jokes about Easterlains’ lack of finer things.
Anger smoldered in the captain’s eyes; Dagorat must have struck a nerve in his arrogant little brain. The captain kicked his horse savagely in the ribs and trotted out into the field of bodies. He gawked at the orc corpses as he passed, eyeing the wounds perfectly centered in throats and chests. With a grunt, he studied the Elves, sitting placidly with their deadly bows strung across their backs. He bobbed his chin and pointed at Cyril. “I’m no longer responsible for your wagon,” he said. “It was assigned to you in Mentiria, and you’ll pay for it later.” He wheeled his horse around toward his men, who had stopped their work to watch him. “Didn’t I order you to make a pyre?”
“We can’t ride bareback,” Katrina said, stroking a horse’s neck.
Cyril approached the captain. “These horses need saddles and bridles.” He waved a Mentirian golden-claw. But the captain offered a stern stare in return.
When Cyril presented a second coin, the captain held out his hand and accepted the payment. He issued a gruff order to the two nearest soldiers, who took off towards the supply wagon.
The others continued with their task. No doubt the field of death would be cleaned up by the time the caravan left. The captain studied them for a moment before cantering off.
Cyril and Dagorat joined Lhinthel and the Elves. “We’ll ride with you,” Cyril told her.
“I hear,” Lhinthel said. “And I hear all the other things.”
Really? No wonder these Elves were such deadly hunters.
“We informed him that we were leaving,” Cyril said. “There were no other things.”
Her lips turned down. “How little is changed in the world of men. You still do not know how to rise above your petty squabbling.”
With a half-hearted smirk and a roll of his eyes, Dagorat said, “Dra.”
CHAPTER 18
ACROSS THE QUEEN’S RIVER
WITH THE CARAVAN LEFT FAR behind, the Elves kept to a grueling pace, hoping to catch Blackfang. The day after they’d taken off, the road had curved and wound around the foothills of the Spine. But now, it slashed through the plain like a great brown scar. Were it not for the barren strip, any direction would be indiscernible from another. The great mountain range had faded from view in the haze to the southwest.
The group had scarcely taken any breaks over the past three days. They stopped occasionally to rest and water their horses, and eat a nibble of trail food – compact cakes of nuts, seeds and berries. During the night, they took four hours’ sleep, and maintained a steady, ground-eating trot all the next day. Dagorat’s rear end grew chafed and sore, and he longed to stretch out over a sack of rice back in the comfort of the wagon.
Lhinthel called a walk to give the horses a breather. Liberon called to Cyril, pointing to the far-off horizon. “Is there something out there?”
Cyril raised a hand to shade his brow. “Yes, I think there is something. It must be the towers of Ethelton.”
Dagorat squinted, straining to spot something through the haze. “I don’t see anything.” He scratched at the beard he’d grown over the last few weeks and tried again. “I still don’t see what you two are talking about. But you’re right, the towers should be the first thing to stand out.” Dagorat imitated Cyril, blocking the sun with a hand. A silhouette of the great stone towers of Ethelton came into view, teasing at the limits of his vision. Bright glints at ground level about a half mile ahead caught his eye. “See the glare?”
“Ah, the sun gleams off the waters of the Queen’s River,” Cyril said.
Wide and rushing, the Queen’s River offered no fords and could only be crossed at the Jalken Road Bridge. The choke point proved one of the city’s best defenses, as Easterly had never been attacked through its southern border. Unfortunately, the Golgent would descend from the north.
Katrina surged up from behind to ride alongside him. “You have any family for me to meet in the city?” she asked.
Dagorat sighed. Ironic. They’d set foot his homeland, but the first city they came across had no one he wanted to meet. “No. Nobody in Ethelton.”
“Any friends?”
“Definitely not. The last thing I need is to be recognized.”
She nudged her horse closer, leaned over and fluffed at his beard. “But it’s still a city. After the Gorthul Pass, can we pleeease go to a tavern for some food and a real bed? I bet your beard will keep you hidden.”
How could he say no? Especially after her disappointment at the edge of Jalken. He cupped her cheek. “There are many places …”
Truth be told, he preferred camping outside the city. But eagerness laced Katrina’s voice, and he’d do anything to make her happy. Besides, he had avoided Ethelton in his wilder days. As the most wanted man in the kingdom, hanging around the capital was hardly in his best interest. Things should be all right, he told himself. “Hey, Cyril. Which tavern should we go to for a goot meal?”
Cyril twisted in his saddle to stare at him. He raised a brow, then grunted. “As I recall, Etheldreda’s Table was a fine place.”
“What’s their specialty?”
“Wild boar steaks.”
“How does that sound to you?” he asked Katrina.
She leaned over and squeezed his hand. Her flashing, wide grin warmed him to the core. Somehow, the sun shone a little brighter.
After an hour, the city ceased to be a mere shadow on the horizon, and became something more solid. The soot-streaked outer wall stood thirty feet high, bare and imposing. When he squinted, Dagorat spotted tiny figures of soldiers patrolling the battlements.
“Looks dark and grim for a city. Where are the colorful pennants and trader tents?” Katrina asked.
“The king can’t spend money on beautiful decorations or places to attract foreign traders,” Cyril said. “All the city’s revenue goes toward defense. They’re eternally at war with the dark forces of the North, and what you see now is the end result of generations of sieges. And you’ll not find the finer cloths, rare books, or Gnomish inventions here.”
“I don’t care about any of that,” Liberon said. “I want to visit the Luminous Core Monastery, and other places where Etheldreda walked.”
Dagorat stretched to relax his tired arms. “Ethelton is known for its soldiers going oot ’n aboot, enjoying wild nights on the town.”
A puzzled expression crossed Katrina’s face. “You sound different ever since we first saw the towers.”
“Yes. She’s right. I thought I heard your Easterlain accent a minute ago. Remember, you’re a Mentirian now,” Cyril said.
He fell silent. Had he truly reverted, after all this time? It’d be a hard thing to explain away to an inquisitive Easterlain. He’d have to be more diligent. They continued through the last curve. Ahead lay the Jalken Road Bridge – and a contingent of twenty-odd Easterlain Vigilants to greet them. Several of them stood in formation on the other side of the bridge with halberds at the ready. Others were mounted, hands on their swords, ready to draw. The one in front bore a red plume on his helmet. That bloke’s the captain.
Dagorat eyed the battlements in the distance, where a number of silhouettes watched them from the high walls. They must have seen their small band approaching and dispatched the Vigilants to the bridge. He glanced over his shoulder and w
aved to Lhinthel. The Elf had her hood up, along with her fellows, as had been their custom for the journey so far. She nudged her horse to a fast trot to come up next to him.
“I think it’d be best if you went first,” he said. “And please order your group to flank us on both sides. The less the guards see of me, the better.”
She made a hand signal and her Elven soldiers complied, splitting into two groups on the right and left, surrounding Dagorat and his friends. When they crossed the bridge, the horses’ hooves clopped on the stone surface. The sound reminded him of Solstice morning, in the streets of Mentiria. How funny to think of that now; it seemed like a lifetime ago.
“Halt!” the captain called. “We’ll not allow an armed foreign force into Easterly.” His beard obstructed his mouth, and his skin was red and chafed from the ceaseless Easterlain winds.
Cyril edged his horse forward a step. “We must pass through.”
“Through to where?” the captain asked with a suspicious squint.
“The Gorthul Pass.”
The captain’s hand moved toward his hilt. “Only a Golgent dog would go there.”
“The Rights of Common Foe under Etheldreda’s Law of Arms must be granted,” Liberon said.
“Turn back and go home to your father, boy.” He drew his sword. “Or I’ll have a cook make nobnoggin soup from your bones.” His men chuckled behind him.
Lhinthel threw back her hood, and the other Elves did the same. The captain’s jaw fell open, and his sword fell from his hand. He fumbled quickly to recover and sheath it. “I’m Captain Branson of the Easterlain Vigilants,” he said as he dropped to one knee.
The mounted Vigilants swung down. The others relaxed their halberds, and all knelt behind the captain.
“I am Lhinthel, Queen of the Elves. Ride with us to the Gorthul Pass for a matter most urgent.”
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