by Thomas Locke
There was a quiet rustling of many leaves, and one of the Elves’ elders declared, “Highness, more than one has come.”
“Majesties, in return for your granting them the boon of entry, they wish to reveal a secret of their own,” Joelle said.
A rushing wind shifted the neighboring branches and swept lower, and lower still. And yet it touched none of them. Finally the leaves to Hyam’s right rose in a tight whirlwind. They turned russet, then golden, then blazed in a light as fierce as the wind.
There at the whirlwind’s center knelt a score of Ashanta, all wearing the white robes of leadership. They placed both hands upon the lane before them and planted their foreheads in the dirt.
Their voice was a rush of breezes that touched no face nor teased any hair. And yet the sound was clear as the sunlight that surrounded them. “We offer the apology that comes a thousand years too late.”
The silence held so long Hyam realized he would either be forced to draw breath or faint. The leader of the Elves also seemed to have difficulty forcing his chest to work once more. He waved at the gates behind him. Instantly his troops stepped aside and the gates opened.
“You are all welcome to enter the Hidden Kingdom,” Darwain said.
“I am grateful for your offer, Highness,” Hyam said. “But we do not have the time.”
The king turned back. “You refuse a royal invitation?”
“Just postpone our acceptance, with your permission,” Hyam replied. “The crimson one is hunting us. For a moment only, we may have left him both uncertain and wary. I want to take advantage of this indecision. For this, we need your help.”
The king looked genuinely pained. “We are the last of our kind. We are the one surviving remnant of our proud race. Our numbers are too few to risk upon some vague hope.”
“Darwain,” the queen protested.
“No. On this I will not be swayed. I am sorry, Hyam, but unless the crimson mage assaults our veiled realm, I must refuse—”
“I do not seek your army.”
The king hesitated. “Well then, what is it you want?”
As Hyam described his objective, all he could hear were the gaps in his plans. The potential risk for failure. And the very real prospect of not coming out alive.
But even before he was done, the king had turned to his queen and the cluster of elders. All of whom nodded.
Darwain said, “This we can do.”
“How much time do you need to prepare?”
“None. Time holds little sway in our realm.”
Hyam felt a wash of relief, partly from feeling this crucial element fall into place. But mostly because this ruler of a defeated people found value in his plan. “The Mistress Edlyn and her mages tell us that the crimson mage rests with each dawn. I suggest we attack at tomorrow’s daybreak.”
“We will be ready,” Darwain assured him.
But as he turned away, Joelle said, “Wait. I have a request of my own.” She stepped forward, took Hyam’s hand, and said, “It’s time.”
“Joelle, there is much that needs doing and little time—”
“I heard what you did not say. We all did. The risks are great. We may not . . .” She stopped, swallowed, and said to the Elven king, “I ask that you join us as husband and wife.”
46
Nervous, lad?” Adler was grinning.
Hyam had difficulty managing a swallow, much less a single word. So he made do with a nod.
“The man comes looking for war, and what happens but he’s blindsided by his own allies!” All the officer’s fears over finding himself at the fringes of a forbidden land were gone, replaced now by a vast good humor. “It’s war you want and it’s war you’re going to get!”
Meda snorted. “And here I was wondering how such a charming oaf as yourself managed to stay single.”
“Talk about battle strategy—your lass has the makings of a fine general!” Adler laughed out loud. “Hard to say no in the company of all these fine folks!”
“I didn’t want to say no,” Hyam managed.
“That’s the spirit.” Adler clapped him on the back. “When there’s no other alternative, a warrior commits!”
“Enough,” Meda snapped. “We’re not gathered around some battle fire.”
“Meda is right, you know,” Trace agreed. “We stand upon hallowed earth, in a moment that will be remembered by song and myth.”
Adler went quiet, but his grin remained firmly planted in place. “Who will stand for you, lad?”
“Master Trace?” Hyam asked.
“I would be honored, my liege,” the mage solemnly replied.
The Elven queen approached, followed by four smiling elders, who held cloaks and wreaths of woven forest blossoms. “It is our tradition to mark the joining of lives with robes and crowns fashioned from that which we hold most dear.” The woodland garments were fitted in place, and then the queen herself led them forward.
A man whose heritage was hidden from all walked alongside a woman whose heritage had left her excluded from the one people who could fill the gaping wound at the center of her being. Their way was lined by elders of a people who had spent a thousand years shunning all outsiders. Alongside them stood the leader of clans defeated by the crimson foe. They walked toward three leaders who smiled at their approach. The leader of the Ashanta stood to the left of the Elven king, ruler of the people they had allowed to be crushed. To Darwain’s right stood Bayard, a man denied his rightful throne by the foe who waited just beyond the Elven veil.
They halted before the leaders beneath a canopy of cathedral green. Watched by a thousand members of a green race who were no more.
Darwain, King of the Elves, said, “We are gathered here this momentous day to join Hyam and Joelle in the union of man and wife.”
47
Their wedding feast was delivered by an unseen servant who left the tray outside their cellar door. The next time the outside world encroached upon their joy was when Meda rapped on the door and announced, “Sire, the hour has arrived.”
“We come.” Hyam stood with arms outstretched and watched as Joelle laced up the front of his emissary garb. “You have practice at dressing men?”
“You know I don’t.”
“You do this so well.”
She merely looked at him with those grey-violet eyes, and he knew she had set all jests aside. “I want you to hear me. I want you to agree. Without argument.”
He detested how the night’s sweet joy was vanquished. Though he knew it was necessary, still he hated the moment’s arrival. “I am listening.”
“I want to come with you.”
He started to protest, to object, to deny. But she stilled him with a hand planted upon the crest sewn into the purple leather that covered his chest. “We do not know what you will face. Only that our success depends upon your making this happen.”
“Joelle—”
“Who can say what difference it may make, having another’s strength to draw on?” She lifted her hand and sealed his words unspoken by placing a finger to his lips. “I know what you are thinking. You will enter and you will do this thing. And you will not survive.”
He stood defeated by the depths of her gaze. Unable to break free of her soft touch.
“You are probably right. Why do you think I made the request there in the Elven glade? Because it might have been our only chance. But you will not do this alone. You will not leave me alone. Do you hear me, Hyam? You will not.” She replaced her finger with her lips, kissed him softly, and said, “The others await us.”
But when they emerged from the chamber, they found only Trace waiting for them. He carried himself with a Master’s stern air. “I wish I could forbid what you plan on doing.”
“The others are waiting for us.”
“My warnings still stand. You can’t expect to practice this sort of magery without—”
“There is no other way.”
“Then let us postpone the attack.”
Trace tugged angrily on his robes, as though the cloth itself was a foe. “Take the orb, then.”
“Another impossibility.” Hyam started down the hallway. “What if we defeat the crimson one today?”
“What if we don’t?” Trace stepped in front of him once more. “Lad, you are inviting disaster.”
Hyam felt as though he had never truly seen Trace before that moment. Not the powerful mage and former Long Hall Master. The man. His face was seamed by years of cares and responsibilities. But not the hour nor his age nor even fresh woes could dampen the light in his clear blue eyes.
Hyam rested a hand on the mage’s arm. “I could not wish for a better friend. Now come. The time for argument is ended. The battle awaits.”
The gathered force filled the vast plaza that fronted the city’s main gates. Hyam had no idea how many they were. More people and more blades and more fierce expressions than he had ever before seen. He spied one of Gimmit’s sons, then the others, standing head and shoulders above most of the gathered throng. Hyam resisted the urge to tell them to go back to the sea, where they were safe, where they belonged. Who was he to refuse anyone the right to fight, if that was what they wished? He hoped he had not caused a division between the diminutive sailor and his sons. Then he watched Gault lift the stubby captain onto a ledge by the side wall.
Hyam stood upon the crowded parapet, joined by Trace and Meda and Adler and Joelle and Mistress Edlyn and Bayard and the clan leader. Dama stood on Joelle’s other side. The clan leader shouted out words in some badlands tongue, and portions of the throng roared their response. The Earl of Falmouth, heir of the Oberons, spoke then, and Hyam tried hard to listen. But his mind was as scattered as a leaf in a fitful wind. Directly below him gathered the grey-robed mages who had no rightful place in the realm. Some carried staffs, a few held knives. They and Trace and Joelle and Mistress Edlyn and Hyam were the only people in the plaza who did not wear mail and armor. But they all shared the same grim expression as the battle-hardened warriors. Hyam searched one face after another and found great comfort in their resolve. And great fear. So much depended upon him having gotten this right.
Hyam realized the parapet had gone silent, and all the people were watching him. He faltered, his fear a wash that stole away his voice. Then Joelle took hold of his hand, and he realized for the very first moment that he needed her. In this moment and in the battle to come.
Hyam knew what he wanted to say. How he had entered into this conflict alone and afraid. How he had found friends and strength and a purpose. How he hoped all this was enough to ensure them a great victory. How he was still afraid, but he carried their strength with him. And their friendship. And the love of a very good woman.
But Hyam was not made for speeches, nor had he ever addressed such a crowd, all watching and waiting. So he merely lifted the hand not holding Joelle’s and cried, “To fight! To win!”
When the cheer died, Bayard called to the gatehouse, “Lower the portal.”
In the sudden silence, the crowd waited as the drawbridge creaked down. The only other sounds were the sputtering torches and the huffing of horses. Then far in the distance, a bird of prey gave its piercing cry. Instantly Hyam touched the globe suspended from the satchel over his left shoulder and went out, searching, searching.
When he opened his eyes, everyone on the parapet save Mistress Edlyn was watching him. “Nothing.”
“It appears that our foe is resting this dawn,” Mistress Edlyn confirmed.
“Then there is not a moment to lose.” Bayard lifted his voice. “You know your orders. Our destination is the point where the forest comes closest to the main road. Enter the glade and you will be welcomed by allies. Remember that. The people who await you there are our friends.”
Bayard clattered down the stone stairs, followed by the mages and officers. He halted beneath the city’s main entryway, checked to his left and right, then focused upon the silent road that vanished into the last hour of dark.
“Run!”
48
They ran on foot. The warriors who normally fought from horseback complained at the order. Bayard had not even tried to explain why the horses could not come. But the Elves had warned them that animals shied away from entering the hidden lane. Bayard and Fuca had decided not to tell the warriors they would traverse a mystical path put in place by green mages.
Hyam ran with Dama at his side, uncertain what would happen when he arrived at the thicket but knowing he could not order the dog to wait behind. Dama loped and panted and kept pace with him and Joelle. Hyam did not want to let go of Joelle’s hand, for in it he found the slightest hint of the love that had filled his night. “You were right.”
She ran easily, though her breathing came hard and fast. “What?”
“To want to come with me. I need—”
“Wait, Hyam. Wait.” She tugged on his hand and pulled him to one side of the tide.
On Dama’s other side, Trace ran with sprightly grace. The old mage veered over with the dog and asked, “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Joelle replied, and waved away anything else the mage might have said. She faced Hyam. “Now speak.”
“I wanted to protect you. But this isn’t about protection. It’s about getting it right.”
“You need me.”
“Yes, Joelle. I do. Now and every day.”
Behind him thundered a steady stream of men and women and blades and huffing breath. But for him there was only the smiling face of a woman dressed in tailored grey with violet trim, the forbidden crest upon her jacket. The dawn light painted her smile with a rosy hue.
“Thank you, Hyam. Now kiss me and let us go and do this thing.”
“And win.”
“Yes, Hyam. Win and come home.”
“I don’t understand what any of this is about!” Trace complained. “Does this mean you will heed my warnings?”
“You know I can’t, and won’t.”
“Then let’s be off, for the entire world awaits!”
But as they started to rejoin the throng, an idea struck with such force that Hyam shouted, “Wait!”
When the two drew back in beside him, he explained in a rush what he had in mind. Joelle nodded slowly. “I will do this.”
Now Hyam was the one to smile. Not that she would try, but succeed. “I know you will.”
Trace gave his vilest cackle yet. “This has the hint of battle brilliance.”
Hyam found great relief in the mage’s approval. “And now we must fly!”
They joined at the back of the rush just in time to see the forward troops falter slightly, then follow their leaders straight into what appeared to be an impenetrable thicket. But the warriors kept moving, and they arrived at the forest’s edge and continued forward. Straight into a lane marked by trees whose limbs formed a sheltering canopy high overhead.
At the lane’s entrance stood two men in green, their spears planted in the earth, their gazes searching the far horizon. Beyond them rose the vague shape of the ancient Ashanta Seer. The pearl luminescence that surrounded her did nothing to improve either her looks or her disposition.
“You’re late!”
Hyam stopped because the dog refused to go farther. “Any sign of our foe?”
“Not yet, but if you were to move any slower, he might still find you.” She waved a querulous hand. “Get inside so we can close this portal!”
Hyam dropped to his knees and gripped Dama’s pelt. “Guard our way home.”
The dog whuffed softly and licked his face. Hyam rose to his feet and stepped through the portal.
“Finally,” the Seer huffed.
“Seal the way,” one of the Elves commanded.
They were committed.
They assembled in an expanse as vast as Falmouth’s main plaza, roofed and sided by green. Bayard and Fuca stood upon a broad ledge fashioned from living roots. Bayard offered his hand, and the Elven
king climbed up to stand beside them. The crowd trembled slightly, like a secret wind rushed through and rustled the forest of spears.
Bayard lifted his voice and said, “You see what has been kept concealed for a thousand years. This is what we did not explain, because words would have failed to describe. But listen carefully! What lies beyond that portal, we do not know. So we give you two alternatives. First, if an army of human warriors dares to come against us, we will fight them.”
The clan leader lifted his sword, which most soldiers could not have wielded with two hands, much less held aloft one-armed as he did. “You heard the emissary,” he bellowed. “We will fight and we will win!”
When the answering roar subsided, Bayard repeated, “Listen carefully! If the foes who rise against us are not human, we will not fight! We will retreat, and survive to fight another day. It is vital that you obey this command!”
Bayard gestured to the clan leader, who loudly agreed, “The clans’ valleys are empty now because they fought forces beyond the reach of human arm and sword. If the ghouls rise from the earth, you will retreat! And you will live!”
A voice yelled back, “What victory is there in such a retreat?”
“Aye!” another shouted. “Why did we come this far just to run away?”
“I will answer that.” Master Trace started through the crowd.
“Make way for the mage,” Bayard called.
Trace was joined by Mistress Edlyn, and the two wizards were helped onto the massive platform. Trace opened the sack he had taken from Hyam’s shoulder. “There are powers arrayed against us, as you have heard.” He lifted out the glowing violet orb. “I and the Mistress of the hidden orb and her mages will enter into battle against them.”
Mistress Edlyn opened her own sack of grey burlap and held aloft the Falmouth globe. Its brilliant silver-white light joined with the violet illumination. The combined radiance was painful to see. It poured through the green sanctuary, revealing every face, every leaf. The gathered leaders of the Ashanta stood on a second ledge at the atrium’s other side, etched in a brilliant luminescence all their own.
