A warrior's joyrney

Chapter 9

The Great Green was denser than any forest Tol had ever seen. Ancient trees stretched lordly limbs up to the sky, blotting out the sun. The glare and heat of day gave way to a sort of muted twilight. Gray lichen clung to the trunks, and thick carpets of moss filled the space between gnarled tree roots. Not only were there majestic oaks and broad maples, but several of the truly gigantic vallenwoods united to form a leafy canopy under which lesser plants could not grow.

By the time they’d gone ten score paces into the forest, the Ergothians found the way clear of the clinging growth that first had hampered their progress. The forest floor was covered by a thick bed of dead leaves, broken here and there by islands of mossy boulders. The soft light and great tree trunks made it impossible to see much more than a dozen paces in any direction. A thousand savages could be hiding within a stone’s throw and they’d never know it, Tol thought. He wondered how Odovar’s and Egrin’s hordes had gotten anywhere on horseback in this maze.

The forest was still as death. No birds sang, and there was no game in sight, not even a rabbit. The weird silence brought out a kind of nervous tic in the soldiers. Every few steps, each man would pause and look around, certain he was being observed by hostile eyes. Even Felryn succumbed to the sensation.

Without asking permission, Crake slipped away from the soldiery. For a flute player who spent most of his days in a tavern, he was remarkably stealthy, moving ahead of them through the leaf-litter with hardly a sound.

A shrill whistle brought Tol’s band to a halt. He continued forward and found Crake crouched by a pit dug in the center of the trail. Sharpened stakes lined the bottom of the pit. Their points were darkly stained.

More traps, all likewise sprung, were found-snares dangling in the air, deadfalls tripped, more of the stake-filled pits. A few traps held dead horses, and there were plain signs Odovar’s men had fought back: tree trunks defaced by sword cuts, blood spattered on leaves, scraps of shredded buckskin. Still, there were no human bodies, living or dead. That mystery played on the soldiers’ already taut nerves.

When the rescue party topped a slight knoll they beheld an even more startling sight. A series of vines had been stretched between trees directly across their path. From the vines hung skulls, more than a hundred of them. Their missing lower jaws gave them an especially horrible aspect: they seemed to be silently screaming.

The soldiers shifted uneasily, drawing closer together. Their muttering was loud in the silence. Even the veteran campaigners among them were powerfully affected by the sight.

Felryn took a small vial from his belt pouch. He flung droplets from the vial at the screen of skulls. A musky, sweet aroma surrounded the men.

His banishing oil used up, the healer gripped Tol’s arm. “It’s woodland magic,” he said. “A display meant to cause fear.”

Tol swallowed hard. “It works well.”

Felryn examined the nearest bones with professional detachment.

“Human, elf, human, human-and judging by the size of those two, kender, or perhaps gnome,” he said. “And they’ve been here for years. Bones don’t get this dry overnight.”

Tol felt a flush of anger drowning out his earlier horror. “Cut them down! Cut them all down!” he commanded, drawing his saber.

The task helped dispel the last traces of the Ergothians’ fear. When the way was clear, Tol sheathed his saber and the rescue party moved on.

At the top of the next rise, behind a tangle of bracken, they found a distinct path worn into the mossy earth. It was the first real trail they’d seen, and as it ran along their line of march, Tol decided to follow it. Wary of traps, the Ergothians paralleled the trail on either side, moving single file through the closely growing trees. Crake alone chose to walk down the worn path, bow in hand.

Crake suddenly stopped. Keeping his right hand low, by his side, he waved for everyone else to halt as well. The Ergothians knelt in the leaves.

The young flutist nocked an arrow very slowly, hands still held low. Raising the weapon swiftly, he loosed the arrow at a high angle. There was a screech, and something heavy came hurtling down from the tree tops.

“Tol! Now!” Crake shouted.

Trusting his friend, Tol rose with his sword in the air. “Have at them!”

They ran forward with no thought of stealth. Ahead, the path passed between a pair of tall boulders, and more waist-high rocks formed a barrier between the pair. Shouting the name of Juramona, the foot soldiers leaped onto the rocks. On the other side, still scrambling to grab their weapons, were several dozen foresters.

Tol dropped into the midst of the shocked tribesmen. Though he’d never attacked anyone with lethal intent before, the heat of the moment seized him, and he slashed forward without mercy. In such close quarters, most of the Ergothians abandoned spears and drew swords too, hacking at the unprepared enemy. The foresters fought back as best they could with wooden spears, stone axes, and clubs.

Tol struck a spear from the hands of an older man, then followed this with an underhand cut. It caught the tribesman under one arm and sent him reeling. Tol leaped over his fallen foe, not even bothering to see if he was alive or dead. He ran the next man, a painted half-elf, through, then spun around and recovered his blade. As the foot soldiers battled below him, Crake stood atop a convenient boulder, picking off enemies with his bow.

The fight was quickly over. Not one of the foresters escaped. The Ergothians, flushed with battle fever, were dazed as the fight ended abruptly. They gathered in the center of the camp and surveyed the carnage.

“I can’t believe we were able to steal up on them,” Tol said, panting. His mouth was searingly dry, his voice little more than a croak. One of the older footmen passed him a waterskin.

“They had a sentinel,” Crake said. “I shot him from the path.”

“Odovar must have come this way,” Narren observed. “The fools thought the danger had passed. Only one man on watch? Stupid!”

Twenty-eight foresters had been killed in the skirmish. Eight were half-elves-and four were women. As the elf Harpathanas Ambrodel had warned in Prince Amaltar’s camp, the women had fought as hard as their men, and died just as bravely. The Ergothians had lost not a single man, though five had received minor wounds.

One tribesman still lived, though he was wounded. He had long blond hair pulled back in a queue, and a short beard. His ears swept up to blunt points. Some of the men, eager to avenge Durazen, were ready to cut the injured half-elf s throat. Tol forbade it, though the footmen grew angry.

The awful scene of Durazen’s death would live in his dreams for a long time, but Tol stood firm. Looking at the fair-haired prisoner, the face of Vakka Zan came back to him. Tol adamantly refused to allow them to kill the captive.

One or two might have disputed the decision with force, but they were drawn away and calmed by the rest. Tol called for Felryn.

The healer examined the wounded forester, reporting the fellow had a sword cut on his calf. He applied a herbal powder and tied up the wound with a scrap of soft leather.

“It’ll hurt like a bite from the Dragonqueen, but he should live,” Felryn said.

Questioned, the green-daubed man would not reveal even his name. Felryn gave the ends of his leather bandage a tug. The tribesman’s face whitened.

“Nara,” he finally grunted. “Name’s Nara.”

There was no time to waste on interrogation. The forester’s comrades might even now be massing a force to counterattack the Ergothians. Over Felryn’s protests, Tol put him in charge of the half-elf s safety. Without the healer’s protection, Tol knew the other soldiers would likely finish the prisoner.

Uncertainty gnawed at Tol. As he walked along the row of slain tribesmen, he wondered if he had made a terrible mistake disobeying orders and coming into the forest. Like a hunter trembling after taking his first buck, he was sickened by the sight of death. His hands were shaking, and his eyes stung with tears.

Narren came up beside him, also gazing at the enemy bodies. Tol clenched his jaw, forcing the lump back down his throat. He would not shame himself by weeping at a time like this.

“Why do they color their faces?” Narren asked. He’d taken off his helmet, letting his fair hair blow free.

“To look fierce?” Tol suggested. “Or to better hide in the greenwood?”

His own words sparked a thought, and Tol turned abruptly. He clamped a hand on Narren’s arm.

“That’s it! That’s how we’ll get through!” he exclaimed. Narren’s confusion was plain, so Tol added, “We’ve been fortunate so far, don’t you see? The Panthers and the Eagles must have drawn off most of the tribesmen in these parts-the best armed, the ablest fighters. That’s why we’ve encountered only these ragged scavengers. If we go on, we’re sure to run into more fell warriors.”

“What of it?” said Narren. “We came to find our comrades. We’ve no choice but to walk the way in blood.”

Tol managed a smile. The plan forming in his mind chased away his earlier doubts. “Odovar, with two hordes at his command, foundered, so how can we hope to get through with only a hundred? We can’t, unless…” He looked again at the lifeless half-elves and their verdant skin. “Unless we become foresters too!”

It was easily done. Among their scant possessions, the slain tribesmen had small bags of paint, compounded from boar grease, leaves, and sap. There wasn’t enough pigment for the entire Ergothian band, but the veteran soldiers didn’t much fancy the idea of painting themselves up anyway. Tol and thirty-two of the youngest soldiers shed their armor and smeared their faces, arms, and hands with paint. As best as possible they copied the markings Nara bore, for extra authenticity.

The day was well advanced by the time they finished, and night would fall early under the shield of leaves. After a quick, cold meal in the boulder-ringed camp, the Ergothians set out again. Tol and his painted comrades led the way.

They detected signs of activity. More paths, leading off in various directions, were discovered. A faint smell of smoke drifted on the breeze, and twice they heard the distant pulse of drumbeats. At dusk, the drums grew louder.

By Felryn’s estimate, they’d come some five leagues from Zivilyn’s Carpet. Everyone was weary, but no one asked to stop. Night had truly fallen when they reached a small clearing. Tol signaled for the company to kneel in the shadows at the edge of the clearing. He called for Felryn.

Stars shone overhead in a clear circle where the trees had been cleared. The white moon was just peeping over the trees. In the center of the clearing stood a single white column. It was two paces tall, a handspan wide, and shone brightly in Solin’s light. The column stood on a low base of dark stone. Indistinct objects lay in heaps around its base.

“An altar,” Felryn explained softly. “There is power here, much greater than the simple fear-spell at the wall of skulls. This is a consecrated spot, though from this distance I can’t tell to which god it belongs.”

Tol took a deep breath and stood up. Felryn grasped his wrist, hissing, “What are you doing?”

“I’m a forester,” Tol replied coolly. “I’m not afraid to be seen here.”

He walked into the clearing. No alarm was given, so he advanced boldly to the white column.

The pillar was eight-sided, its top cut off on a slant. A smooth yellow gem was inset in the angled top. Around it and all down the sides of the column were finely carved hieroglyphs. Tol knew the writing was not Ergothian.

He squatted to examine the objects piled up around the pillar. To his surprise, he saw they were pieces of bronze weaponry-arrowheads, spear tips, knife and sword blades. All looked newly made and unblemished by corrosion.

Taking a spearhead to show Felryn, Tol started back toward the trees. Before he was halfway there, he was brought up short by a sharp command.

“You! Stop!”

Tol froze, then slowly turned. Out of the darkness strode two figures, one in a maroon cloak, the other wrapped in black. Like apparitions, they entered the narrow stream of moonlight and the silvery beams glinted off the bronze helmet worn by the maroon-cloaked fellow. He was a Silvanesti warrior in full array; of the other figure all that could be seen was the hooded sable cloak that covered him to his toes.

“What are you doing, half-breed? The Isaren Glade is a sacred place, and that bronze is not for you!” the elf said. The haughtiness of his expression matched the arrogance of his tone. Arms folded into voluminous sleeves, the hooded one said nothing.

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.’ ”