by Andre Nolton
Rain-capes, with hoods snugged in around their faces, coats with an outer water-proofed surface beneath that, meant that what could have been a miserable situation was merely interesting. Provided that one could manage somehow to see past the gloom, this was a truly unique forest.
More waterproofed sheets—which would later serve as shelters for their three tents—covered the seven packs carried by the pack mules. This meant that their supplies and belongings were dry and would stay dry; no small consideration when, at the end of the day, they were going to be able to camp dry.
Too much water was, in the long run, better than too little. This could have been a hunt in the desert, and even Kyrtian was not entirely sure that magic would be enough to ensure water for everyone. Grels were the only option in the desert for transportation, but neither he nor anyone on his estate knew anything about grels. Their main problem here—and to some extent, in the caves—would be to prevent getting wet and cold with no way to get warm and dry again.
Game was certainly available, if not precisely plentiful. One would expect large game here, and yet the only animals that made an appearance were small game. Well, the advantage of traveling with foresters was that they didn't scorn small game in a futile search for something larger. The four foresters quickly traded their heavier bows and arrows for hand cross-bows, and took careful shots without ever seeming to aim. One by one, plump little bodies accumulated, tied to the cantles and pommels of saddles.
The rain never stopped. It let up, from time to time, decreasing to a mere drizzle, which percolated down through the trees and dripped from every limb, every needle. Then, when the rain resumed, it obscured everything in the distance, far or near, reducing visibility to a few horse-lengths ahead of the lead rider.
Which was not Kyrtian. He knew very well that he was not a forester. That was why he rode in the dead middle of the string, with Lynder in front of him and Hobie behind, two of the young foresters ahead and two behind. It surprised him, a little, that an entire train of fourteen animals could make so little noise, but the track that they followed, which led in the general direction of a purported cave-entrance, was ankle-deep in a layer of pine needles. They proceeded at an ambling walk, and not just to save the horses.
Up at the head of the string, Noet rode with his head slightly cocked, listening. Behind him, Shalvan concentrated on peering through the mist and rain. At the rear of the train, Halean and Resso shared the same duties.
Beyond the omnipresent sounds of rain plopping onto their capes, into the needle-bed, trickling down trunks, and dripping onto leaves, there were other sounds of life that Kyrtian took to be good signs that nothing else was stalking them. Once the crows got used to their presence, the birds stopped making alarm-calls and went back to their crow-business with only an occasional appearance as if to take note of their progress. Unexpected showers of droplets heralded the passage of small birds through the branches, and little rustles betrayed the passage of those plump little squirrels and rabbits.
By mid-afternoon, Kyrtian knew his men were looking for a place to stop and make camp for the night. Already there was a change in the quality of light under these trees, and his nerves were just a trifle on edge. He didn't know why, just that there was something ... odd....
Noet held up a hand, and the entire cavalcade stopped. Now Kyrtian knew what had him on edge—the absolute absence of any sound other than the dripping of water. Even the crows were gone.
"I don't like this," Noet said, in a low voice, but one that carried easily in the silence. "The horses and mules haven't noticed anything, but—"
"But maybe that's the point, if this is a hunter," Resso replied. "If it works by ambush and stealth."
"Should we turn back?" Kyrtian asked.
"Yes—but slowly and carefully. Just turn your horses and mules in place, people. Shalvan and I will become rear-guard.
We'll stop back at that stream we crossed, and try following it for a while."
"With any luck, it'll lead us to the caves anyway," Hobie opined.
One by one, they turned their horses and drew the mules behind them, the rearmost first. Shalvan and Noet already had their heavy bows out with arrows nocked to the strings. And as for Kyrtian—
His fingers tingled with power. At any moment, he could, and would, launch a levin-bolt into whatever might emerge.
"It's out there, all right," Shalvan said grimly, as Noet turned his horse and mule. "It's up the trail—off to one side, in the bushes. Every so often the bush shakes, and from the movement, I'd say that it's about the size of a haywain. It's not moving much, though. I don't know if that's because it's not certain of us, or if it's territorial."
He turned his horse as Noet stood guard and they moved at the same leisurely pace they'd maintained all along, back up the way they had come. The back of Kyrtian's neck prickled. What would—whatever it was—think of its prey moving away from it?
"Uh-oh—" That was Resso, now in the lead, and the hair on Kyrtian's head literally stood straight up. Pacing deliberately towards them was—not one—an entire herd of alicorns. Their red eyes flashed, and the black stallion in the lead tossed his head with its wicked, slightly curved, spiral horn.
"Don't move," Halean said in a strangled voice.
Kyrtian had no intention of moving. One alicorn was dangerous; what was a herd? They were trapped, between a very visible menace an invisible one.
The alicorn stallion snorted and moved towards them. Kyrtian wondered what was going on in those narrow heads. Should he fling a levin-bolt at them? But if he did, what would the thing behind them do? And wouldn't their horses spook if he did? None of them were war-trained—
None of them are war-trained. Mules will run until there's no pursuit. The mules are tethered to the horses—and vice versa.
"Give your horses free rein, and hang on," Kyrtian ordered, feeling that sense of presence and danger at his back increasing, just a little. "And duck your heads on the count of three." The alicorn-stallion pawed the ground and bared its fangs. "One. Two. Three!"
On the count of three, Kyrtian fired a kind of levin-bolt— straight up over their heads. It exploded in a blinding flash and a violent boom that actually shattered the nearby limbs of trees. The horses, as Kyrtian had hoped, bolted—and so did the alicorns.
The horses shot forward in the direction they had been facing, along the game trail. The alicorns, foe and prey forgotten, scattered in all directions, some off into the woods to either side of the trail, some turning and fleeing, and three, following the stallion, charging head-down towards them. At the last moment, the alicorns veered a little to the left, and the hysterical horses to the right.
Kyrtian hung onto his mount with every bit of strength that arms and legs possessed, ducking low along its neck to keep from being knocked out of his saddle by low-hanging boughs. Hooves thundered all around him; even if the horses weren't sticking to the game-trail, they were at least staying together. Behind him he heard a roar, and the battle-scream of an al-icorn, but whatever was going on would have to remain a mystery.
His heart raced, his hands and legs ached, and he clenched his teeth; he couldn't see what was happening or where they were going. His mount's mane lashed his face until his eyes watered.
Then, sooner than he'd thought, he felt the horse beginning to slow, felt a weight tugging at the lead-rein fastened to the saddle. The horse didn't like it; he tried to surge forward. The mule wasn't having any.
Gradually, the mule won. The headlong gallop slowed to a canter, a trot, and finally, the horse's sides heaving and sweat pouring from his neck and shoulders, a walk. Kyrtian took up the slack in the reins and brought his mount to a stop, and looked around.
The rain had slackened again, and through the mizzle, he counted his men scattered among the trees and quickly came up with the right number of riders and pack mules.
"Ancestors!" he breathed, in profoundest relief. The men said nothing; they simply guided their weary beasts
back towards him until once again they formed a coherent group.
"Everyone all right?" he asked, as their horses stood with heads hanging, and flanks a-foam with sweat. Only the mules looked unperturbed.
"I've been worse," replied Noet laconically. "Gonna kill whoever designed this saddle with a pommel right where it don't belong, though."
Noet did look a little pale, and in a certain amount of pain. Kyrtian winced, and hastily changed the subject. "Does anyone know where we are?"
"We bolted in the general direction of where we wanted to go," reported Shalvan. "So the stream should still be that way—" he pointed with his chin, rather than his hand. "We might as well get on with it, the horses aren't going to be the better for standing in the cold and rain, and they're going to need water after this."
Once again they formed up, but this time not in single file since they weren't following a trail; Halean rode on the right flank and Resso on the left. And, not too much later, they came to the stream, much to everyone's relief.
There wasn't much time before nightfall, and with the overcast skies and the forest all around, darkness would come soon. They quickly made camp, with Kyrtian tending to the fire-making chores. They pitched their three tents in a triangle, with the fire in the center. Once the tents were pitched and Resso took up the cooking, the rest gathered more firewood while Kyrtian ran a circle of mage-lights around the tents to stand between them and whatever was in the woods or across the stream. As firewood was brought in, he stacked it near enough to the fire that it stood a decent chance of drying out some before it was used.
The last thing he did was to run a string hung with small bells around the trunks of trees beyond the glow of the magelight at about ankle-height. Anything that brushed against that string would set the bells jingling.
"Do you think we need to worry about something coming in from above?" he asked Noet, with a frown of concern.
Noet glanced up. "Not through branches that thick," he replied. "I wouldn't think, anyway."
Darkness, as Kyrtian had anticipated, came quickly. They tethered the horses—and tethered the mules to the horses— within the circle of magelight. The rain actually stopped once darkness fell, and as they gathered around their fire, Kyrtian felt their mutual fear of what lurked outside that magic circle drawing them all together despite rank and race.
Resso had managed to grill the day's catch tastily, with a minimum of burning, skewered on twigs over the fire. With that and journey-cake, and sweet water from the stream at their backs, they made a satisfying meal. They had thrown the bones into the fire and were ready to divide the night into watches, when a voice from the darkness saluted them.
"Hello the camp!"
Kyrtian knew that voice, and had been hoping to hear it. He stood up eagerly and waved in the direction from which it had come. The Elvenbane walked calmly into the magelight circle without tripping over the line of bells.
"Well met, Lord Kyrtian! Good idea, those bells," she remarked cheerfully, as she joined them beside the fire and offered Kyrtian her hand. Today she was wearing a pair of breeches and a tunic of something glittering and blue, covered with jewel-like scales, a wicked-looking knife strapped over it. Her abundant auburn hair had been bound back at the nape of her neck in a severe knot.
The men were staring at this unexpected visitor with their mouths dropping wide open.
"Gentlemen," Kyrtian said solemnly, firmly repressing the urge to laugh at them as he accepted Lashana's hand. "May I present to you Lashana? Also known as the Elvenbane—"
If he had set off another of those explosive levin-bolts in their midst he couldn't have gotten a more interesting reaction.
Noet practically choked, Hobie and Shalvan let out involuntary whoops of surprise, Resso leapt to his feet wearing an expression of such utter shock that Kyrtian would not have been surprised to see him faint dead away in the next moment. Only Lynder managed to retain his composure. He got to his feet, gathered his young dignity about him, and took the hand that Kyrtian relinquished.
"My lady, this is an honor, and a privilege," he replied, bowing over the hand before releasing it.
"Oh pish," she said, blushing a little, but clearly pleased. "Didn't Lord Kyrtian tell you that I'd be intercepting you out here?"
"Lord Kyrtian didn't know you would, he only hoped you would," Kyrtian replied for himself. "Won't you join us?"
How she had gotten there, how long she had been out in the woods watching them, he didn't know. And, truth to tell, it didn't matter. As his men took their seats again and Lashana settled easily among them, it was very clear why this young lady wizard had become a leader. She drew all eyes towards her in a way that had nothing to do with her looks or her sex.
"Well, here's what I can tell you," she began. "We—the Wizards—have got watchers on your estate, my Lord, and that of Lady Morthena. If anything should threaten them, we'll know, and we'll be able to evacuate as many or as few people need to be gotten out." She dimpled. "And may I say, that is quite a celebration your people are putting on! I'd like to ask your mother if she would organize one for us, some day, when things are—more stable."
Kyrtian felt a great weight lift from his shoulders, but Lashana's next words made him tense again. "A certain Lady Triana—" she arched her brow at him, and he nodded grimly his acknowledgement that he knew the Lady, "—paid another, very short visit to Lady Morthena after you left. She claimed that she wished to consult Lady Morthena's favorite library, and indeed, she left again within a few hours. She arrived and departed by means of a temporary Gate set up just outside the Lady's estate. I don't suppose you can cast any light on what she was looking for?"
Kyrtian shook his head reluctantly. "I haven't a clue. But knowing Triana, it can't be for anyone's good but her own."
Lashana snorted. "Believe me, I know. I've had—some experience of the Lady myself."
"My condolences." That response startled a smile from her.
"The army—minus your contribution of troops—has moved nearer to the trade-city of Prethon, where it's easier to supply. I'm assuming that in the absence of an actual place to put them permanently, that's where they'll stay, camped just outside the city walls." Lashana's green eyes twinkled. "Which is, of course, precisely where we'd like them, as far from our new Citadel as possible, which was why we suggested this place as the location of the imaginary Wizards. Even if they decided you weren't moving fast enough for them, this is miserable country to try and do any hunting of invisible people in, and the place is absolutely hollow with caves. You could spend a century trying to hunt through them all!"
"Actually—I wanted to ask you about that, Lashana," Kyrtian said hesitantly. "Do you have the time to hear some history?"
When she nodded, he launched into the story—as he had puzzled it out—of the Ancestors' arrival in this world, and followed it with the more personal tale of his father's own interest in that arrival and the things that might have been left behind. "So the last place where he was doing research before he disappeared was Lady Moth's library—and that was where I found some personal journals that gave descriptions that sounded like this area—" He waved his hand at the dripping forest beyond the camp. "You must admit that it's pretty distinctive. And the very few passages that described the Crossing made me think that the Ancestors might have come out into a cave, and not aboveground as everyone has always assumed. Then when we staged at Lord Cheynar's," he concluded triumphantly, "Lord Cheynar admitted that my father had gone off into these forests, and that he was probably the last Elvenlord to see my father alive!"
Lashana pursed her lips thoughtfully. "That—that's interesting. You know, I discovered that Wizards, at least, can use gem-stones to help concentrate and amplify their powers. I don't know if they'll work for Elvenlords that way, but it stands to reason that if our powers can be amplified by something, so can yours."
"I can't see any other way that the Ancestors could have built the things that they did," he admitted. Sh
e tilted her head to the side.
"It's a very good thing that I trust you, Lord Kyrtian," she said in a measured tone. "Otherwise I don't think I could allow you to leave these woods alive."
Lynder leapt to his feet, his hand on his dagger-hilt, and the others weren't far behind. Lashana appeared unconcerned.
And she probably has good reason to be. She'd be a fool to have come here alone, and no matter what the Elvenbane is, no one has ever suspected her of being a fool.
"Sit down, all of you," he said mildly. "Don't you realize what a horrible menace would be let loose in the world if someone like Aelmarkin got his hands on a way to make himself as strong as Lord Kyndreth? She's only speaking sense."
She made a little gesture of thanks in his direction. "Now, there's one other thing I'd like to show you, something my people will shortly be handing out to Moth's and yours, among others, then distributing covertly among the field-slaves." She held out a little object, shaped rather like an open clamshell, of a dull grey metal. He started to reach for it, and she hastily pulled it back.
"Don't touch it, Lord Kyrtian!" she warned. "At least, not with your bare hand! That's what you call Death Metal—forged iron."
He hastily drew back his fingers. He'd touched unprotected steel before, in the shape of one of the iron collars that Moth's own slaves wore under their pseudo-slave collars, and it had burned him like acid. He was in no hurry to repeat the experience.
"I brought an active slave-collar with me to show you what it does," she continued. "Watch—with your magic-senses." She took out a leather slave-collar set with a cloudy beryl, which was, indeed, active. She fitted the back half of the clamshell device behind the beryl, then snapped the top half over it, and nipped a catch to squeeze it closed and lock it.
The Elfstone went dead to his senses. He looked at her hand, with the dull-grey object locked around what had been an active device for the complete control of a slave, dumbfounded. Then he looked up into her knowing eyes.
