The Golden Forest was called such because, as well as all the ordinary trees, the golden-leafs grew here, too. They were majestic giants with dark orange trunks and broad leaves that looked as if they were cast out of pure gold. The golden-leafs only grew here, in the Golden Forest, and their timber was highly valued throughout the Northern Lands, not to mention both of the Empires and the Sultanate. If the orcs found a woodcutter felling a golden-leaf, first they chopped his arms off with his own ax, and then they did things to him that are too horrible even to mention.
“Harold, you should see how beautiful the golden-leafs are in the fall!” Kli-Kli gushed.
“Have you been here before?” Deler asked the jester.
Kli-Kli glared at the dwarf with theatrical disdain.
“For those who don’t know—the Golden Forest is my homeland. It reaches all the way to the Mountains of the Dwarves—and that’s all of eastern Zagraba, so it’s not really surprising that I know what it looks like in the fall.”
“It’s the fall already, as a matter of fact,” I said, just to provoke the goblin.
“Early September,” the jester exclaimed with a contemptuous sniff. “Just you wait till October comes.…”
“I’d like to be long gone from Zagraba before October comes.”
“Is your home very far from here?” asked Lamplighter, absentmindedly fingering the fresh scar on his forehead (a memento left by an orcish yataghan).
“Do you want to visit?” Kli-Kli chuckled merrily. “Then you’ll have to walk for about another three weeks until you reach the center of the orcs’ territory. Then another two weeks from there to the densest thickets in the forest, and then you have to trust in luck. Maybe you’ll be able to find some goblins; of course, if they want to be found. The orcs have taught us to be wary, and in the past you humans used to hunt us with those wonderful dogs of yours.”
Kli-Kli was right there—in olden times the goblins had been treated very badly by men, who had decided that the little green creatures were terrible monsters. Before they finally realized what was what, there were only a few tribes left of what had once been a large population.
“But the history of this forest is really interesting. Is it true that this is the place where elves and orcs both first appeared?”
“Yes.” Kli-Kli giggled. “And then they went straight for each other’s throats. I think the elves even have a song about it. ‘The Tale of the Gold,’ it’s called.”
“‘The Legend of the Soft Gold,’ Kli-Kli. You’ve got it all mixed up,” said Egrassa, who had overheard our conversation.
“Ah, what’s the difference!” Kli-Kli said with a careless wave of his hand. “Tale, legend … there still won’t be peace in Zagraba as long as there’s a single orc still alive.”
“Egrassa,” Mumr said to the elf. “Could you tell us this legend?”
“It has to be sung, not just told. I’ll sing it for you. At the next halt.”
“So you’ve decided to sing forbidden songs, cousin,” Miralissa chuckled, plucking a reddish-golden leaf from the nearest tree and crumpling it in her fingers.
“But why is it forbidden?” Kli-Kli immediately asked Miralissa.
“It’s not exactly forbidden, it’s just singing it in decent elfin company is regarded as the height of disrespect. But it is sung—mostly by rebellious youths, and mostly in secret, in dark corners, in order not to disgrace the honor of their ancestors.”
“What’s so bad about it?” asked Eel, raising one eyebrow.
“It doesn’t show the elves in the best of lights, Eel,” put in Milord Alistan Markauz, who had been silent so far, “and the orcs are shown as pure white lambs. I’d bet half my land that the song was made up by men.”
“Milord is mistaken, the song was composed by an elf. A very long time ago. Have you heard it?” Egrassa asked in surprise.
“Yes, in my young days. One of your light elf brothers sang it.”
“Yes, they could do that,” said the dark elf, adjusting the silver coronet on his head. “Our relatives rejected the magic of our ancestors, so it’s not surprising that they sing such things to strangers.”
“But you promised to sing it to us!” Kli-Kli teased Egrassa.
“That’s a different matter!” the elf snapped haughtily.
Whatever the dark elves might say to anyone, relations between them and their light brethren were not problem-free.
We marched for another three hours before the elf ordered a halt. The group stopped in a meadow overgrown with small forest daisies, and the white flowers made it look as if snow had fallen. The autumn had no power over the Land of Forests. At least, not yet. We still came across butterflies and summer flowers.
There was a small stream gurgling through the roots of a broad-trunked hornbeam at the edge of the meadow, so we were well provided with water.
“We’ll stay here tonight,” Miralissa said decisively.
Alistan nodded. From the moment we entered the forest he had completely surrendered his command to Miralissa and Egrassa, and he obeyed all their instructions. One thing you couldn’t accuse Milord Rat of was a lack of brains. The count understood perfectly well that the elves knew far more about the forest than he did and he should take whatever they suggested seriously. That is, drop the reins of command when necessary.
“Egrassa, you promised us a song,” Kli-Kli reminded the elf after supper.
“Let’s get some sleep instead,” Hallas said with a yawn. “It’s the middle of the night.”
The gnome only liked the songs of his own people. Like the “The Hammer on the Ax” or “The Song of the Crazy Miners.” He had absolutely no interest in anything else.
“Not on your life!” the goblin protested desperately.
“Hallas, you’re on watch tonight,” Eel reminded the gnome. “So don’t start settling down, you won’t be getting a good night’s sleep anyway.”
“Oh, no! The first watch is yours and Lamplighter’s. Deler and me only come on for the second half of the night, so I’ll have plenty of time.”
Hallas turned over on his side, ignoring everyone else, and immediately started snoring.
“So, are we going to hear the song?” asked Mumr, who had just had the stitches taken out of his wound by Miralissa.
Thanks to the elfess’s shamanic skills, instead of an ugly scar, all Lamplighter had as a reminder of his terrible wound was a faint pink line running across his forehead.
“Yes, just as I promised,” Egrassa replied. “But it requires music.”
“So what’s the problem? I’ve got my whistle with me,” said Lamplighter, reaching into his pocket.
“I’m afraid we need music that’s rather more gentle,” said the elf, declining Mumr’s offer. “Your whistle makes too much noise. I’ll just be a moment.”
Egrassa rose lightly off the grass, walked over to his bag, and took out a small board about the size of an open hand. There were thin silvery strings, barely visible in the moonlight, stretched across the board.
“What’s that?” Deler asked curiously.
“A g’dal,” Miralissa answered. “Egrassa likes to play it when he has the time.”
Egrassa likes to play music? Well, now, I’d never have guessed. At least, I’d never seen the elf doing anything of the kind in all the time we’d been traveling together.
The dark elf’s rough fingers ran across the fine strings with surprising agility and the strange instrument sang in a quiet voice. Egrassa kept plucking at the strings and the sleeping meadow was filled with the melody.
“Don’t forget that the legend should really be sung in orcic. It won’t sound as beautiful in human language,” Egrassa warned us, and started to sing.
Arrows of bronze are used by orcs,
The elves make theirs of gold.
The Golden Forest and the Black—
The song of the branches is cold.
Led by their King, the elves arrived,
The orcs were led by their
Hand.
Facing each other eye to eye
Argad and the King did stand.
“This forest is ours,” said the King,
“Turn back, my friends, and go.
What use to an orc is a bleeding skin
Pierced by arrows of gold?”
“Your words will not serve you for soldiers,”
Came the answer from the Hand.
“I have two thousand bold warriors
And you but a small fighting band.
“We will take back our forest as booty,
Fortune favors the hardest blades,
Gold is the softest of metals,
And our bronze will rule the day.”
For long minutes King Eldionessa
Replied not a single word.
Then he took out an empty quiver
And smiled at his enemies’ lord.
“No arrows?” asked Argad in wonder.
“Then this is surrender, it seems.”
The King laughed: “Hand, you are dreaming,
Woe unto you and your dreams.
“Argad, your time is approaching!
Do you hear the war horns sound?
Those are men in armor arriving,
Their boots are tramping the ground.
“Indeed bronze is strong, I know.
You were right to say that, Hand.…
But I changed our golden arrows
For a fighting force of men.”
The orcs closed their ranks together
And stood with their shields raised high,
The Hand he frowned and glowered.
The King had a glint in his eye.
“Foolish elf!” Argad’s harsh words
Struck like a mighty sword blow.
“Do you think, when they finish with us,
The men will just turn and go?”
Then metal on metal sounded
As blade struck hard against blade.…
Argad fell, twelve times wounded,
And could not rise again.
“Hand, why are you now so silent?”
Asked the elf, leaning down over him.
“Gold is the softest of metals,
To lie here is good, oh King.
“Death will sharpen the meaning
Of these few words that I speak.
Fight for your home with your own strength,
Though your forces may be weak.”
Thus saying, he opened his eyes
And death stopped the breath of the Hand.
“What was it you said?” asked the Elf-King.
“How am I to understand?”
“A hard battle,” the weary man panted,
“And dearly indeed has it cost.
Orcs are stubborn and bronze is hard,
Many good men have I lost.”
Said the King: “We are most thankful.
This service will not be forgot.”
The man asked: “Are we mere servants?
Surely, my friend, we are not!
“A hired soldier is a fine thing
When he fights on distant ground,
But at home greater honor is given
To the lowly hunting hound.”
“Now what is it you seek?
You were paid! And we fought too!
You know we are not mean!
Yet more pay? Here, will this do?”
“No more pay,” proclaimed the man-soldier,
Addressing the elf with a grin.
“Gold is the softest of metals,
And we shall just take everything.”
Egrassa sang well, and the song flowed quietly and beautifully. The rousing words were like a furious battle in the distance and the strings wept when the Hand of the orcs died after giving his final words of advice to his kinsman and bitter enemy.
The elf’s g’dal sang its final plaintive chord and an oppressive silence descended on the meadow.
“A beautiful legend,” Deler eventually said with a sigh.
“It’s hardly surprising that the elves are not very fond of that song. Milord Alistan is right: It doesn’t show your race in the best possible light,” Mumr commented.
“And the orcs are so very noble,” Miralissa replied with a contemptuous expression.
“Not the best possible light … so very noble…,” Kli-Kli drawled. “It’s nothing but a stupid song, and nothing like that ever really happened!”
“How do you know it didn’t?” asked Deler, stretching out on his horse blanket and yawning widely.
“Because it’s nothing but a legend. Without a single shred of truth in it. When the elves appeared in the Golden Forest, there weren’t any negotiations. The orcs went straight into battle. And definitely nobody called each other ‘friend.’”
“But Eldionessa did exist. The first and last king who ruled our entire people,” said Miralissa, pouring cold water on Kli-Kli’s belligerent passion. “His children created the houses of the elves.”
“And Argad lived eight hundred years later, and he almost reached Green Leaves; you barely managed to stop his army at the edge of the Black Forest,” the goblin said disdainfully. “And men appeared in Siala one thousand seven hundred years after the events described, so Eldionessa, Argad, and the man couldn’t possibly all have met each other. And the elves are certainly not such idiots as to make their arrowheads out of gold. And the orcs are not so stupid as to forge their yataghans out of bronze. It’s nothing but a legend, Tresh Miralissa.”
“But you must admit it’s beautiful, Kli-Kli,” I said.
“It’s beautiful,” the little jester said with an amicable nod. “And very instructive, too.”
“Instructive? What lesson does it teach, goblin?” asked Alistan Markauz, stirring the fire with a stick.
“That you shouldn’t rely on men or trust them, otherwise you can lose your home forever,” the goblin replied.
Nobody tried to argue or object. This time the king’s fool was absolutely right: Give us a chance, and we’ll finish off all our enemies, then our friends, and then each other.
That night my nightmares came back, and at one point when my head was filled with incomprehensible hodgepodge, I opened my eyes.
Morning had already come, but everyone was still asleep, apart from Lamplighter. Hallas and Deler were dozing, having laid their own responsibilities on the shoulders of reliable Mumr. The soldier nodded without speaking when he noticed that I was awake. I lay there for a while, feeling surprised that Miralissa was not in any hurry to get up and wake the others. Perhaps the elfess had decided to let the group have a rest before the final dash for Hrad Spein?
That was probably it.
I heard Kli-Kli crooning gently somewhere at the edge of the meadow. The goblin was wandering along the line of the trees, singing a simple little song. So I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep.
“What are you singing?” I asked, going up to him. “You’ll wake everyone up.”
“I’m being quiet. Want some strawberries?” Kli-Kli held out a hat, filled to the brim with fine strawberries.
The berries were giving off an amazing smell, and I simply couldn’t resist.
“You were groaning in your sleep again, Dancer. Bad dreams?”
“Probably,” I said with a casual shrug. “Fortunately I hardly remember them.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” the goblin said with a frown. “Someone doesn’t want you to see them.”
“And just who is this someone?”
“The Master, for instance. Or his servant—Lafresa.”
“You certainly know how to keep your friends’ spirits up,” I told Kli-Kli. “Come on, let’s get a fire going while everyone’s asleep.”
“You go on. I’ll just finish off the strawberries and take Deler’s hat back.”
“Hmmm … Kli-Kli, surely you can see the inside is all stained with juice? You squashed half the strawberries!”
“Really? I never thought about that,�
� said the goblin, thoughtfully contemplating what he had done. “It’s just that I think squashed strawberries taste a little bit better than ordinary ones. Maybe I should wash the hat in the stream?”
“Please don’t, you’ll only make it worse,” I told him, and set off back.
Kli-Kli was like a little child; he didn’t seem to realize that now Deler would be yelling the whole day long about how his hat had been ruined! And the jester had made that unwelcome comment about the Master and Lafresa, too.
The Master was the nasty piece of work who had been making our lives a misery since the very beginning of our journey, but we still hadn’t found out who he was. The bastard was virtually omnipotent and vindictive, and his powers rivaled any of the gods’. But the lad obviously didn’t want to simply swat us like flies, so he just mocked and battered us, and when we ruined his latest tricky plan, it didn’t upset him at all, he simply came up with a new one even more elegant and dangerous in no time at all. The Master, like the Nameless One, was not very keen on the idea of us retrieving the Rainbow Horn from the burial chambers. But while it was a matter of life and death for the Nameless One, it was just one more whimsical fancy for the Master.
Lafresa was a servant of the Master, and although she looked like a twenty-year-old, she was several hundred years old—at least that was according to one of my dreams. (Yes, indeed, imagine that—I happened to have acquired the remarkable gift of prophetic dreams!) And Lafresa was also the most powerful shamaness (or should that be shawoman?) that I had ever seen in my life. The Master’s servant possessed the forbidden magic of Kronk-a-Mor, and she had managed to kill two of us with it after we stole the Key and left her with egg on her face. And to be quite honest …
“Watch where you’re treading, beanpole!” someone barked in a deep bass voice under my feet.
I was so startled I almost sprouted wings and flew away. I certainly jumped a serious distance up into the air.
“I’ve seen all sorts of things in my time, but I’ve never seen a beanpole jump like that before! Hey! Where are you looking, idiot? Look down! Down!”
Sitting there on the ground was a creature that looked like a strange mixture of a grasshopper, a dragonfly, and a goat. That’s right. This little creature had the legs of a grasshopper, the head and body of a goat, and the transparent, segmented wings had been inherited from a large dragonfly. Its entire body was covered with yellow and black stripes. In other words, sitting there at my feet was an actual legendary dragoatfly. The little beast was no larger than the palm of a man’s hand.
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