“To a degree,” nodded Balamor, “but there is more to it than that. It is more than our capabilities. It is how we will react in any given situation. It is our purpose of being. It is a multitude of things. We are creatures of discovery. Every day of our lives, we learn something new. How then can we truly understand ourselves, when tomorrow will present us with knowledge that we do not have today?”
“So until we have completed our learning,” offered Fredrik, “we cannot make judgments on who we are?”
“When we have completed our lessons,” Balamor smiled thinly, “we will be dead.”
“You mean that in a theoretical sense,” countered Fredrik. “Don’t you? I mean, you do know who you are, don’t you?”
“I am Balamor,” shrugged the gaunt magician. “I know as much about me as any man, but there are some who obviously know more than me.”
Fredrik frowned and shook his head. Podil chuckled and nodded towards the wagon.
“You mean Master Khatama?” puzzled Fredrik.
“If that is what you wish to call him,” nodded Balamor.
“You have never met him before?” questioned Fredrik. “I thought you were old friends.”
“If I met him before,” stated Balamor, “I do not remember when. Yet when he showed up at my home, I knew he was there to take me away. I was not afraid, but I was, and still am, confused.”
“But you know magic, don’t you?” asked Niki.
“Magic?” echoed Balamor. “What is magic?”
Podil was giggling and trying to hide it. Fredrik shook his head in confusion.
“It is casting spells,” answered Niki. “Isn’t that magic?”
“Is talking to animals magic?” countered Balamor.
“I think it is,” Niki’s face clouded over with confusion. “It is magic, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” shrugged Balamor. “I cannot talk to animals so I have no idea if it is magic or not.”
Master Khatama reached the peak of the grade and pulled the wagon off the road into a small clearing. Mustar dismounted and tied the horse to the wagon.
“I think you are having fun with us,” posed Fredrik. “You would not be chosen by Master Khatama if you were not a master magician.”
“See,” smiled Balamor. “Already you know more than I do.”
The four walkers reached the impromptu camp and saw Master Khatama beginning to make a meal.
“Seriously,” Fredrik asked as he sat on a log next to Balamor, “you are a mage, aren’t you?”
“You still have not defined magic to my satisfaction,” responded Balamor. “How can I answer your question if you do not understand it yourself?”
“All right,” conceded Fredrik. “Magic is making things happen that are not logical.”
“Then I hope that I do not know magic,” declared Balamor. “Illogical thought is a sign of madness. Are you sure that you mean what you say?”
“Maybe my words are inadequate,” sighed Fredrik. “How about healing? Do you have any special skills in healing?”
“If I raised someone from the dead,” posed Balamor as he rose and stretched his legs, “would that be considered magic?”
“Certainly,” Fredrik nodded vigorously. “I do not know of a magician who can do that.”
“Nor do I,” agreed Balamor as he strolled to the edge of the clearing and picked some yellow weeds.
He returned to the log and sat back down as his fingernails ran along the stems of the weeds. A milky substance gelled where his fingernails creased the weed.
“I am confused,” sighed Fredrik. “You do not want to answer my questions. I guess I will accept that, but there is no need to taunt me as you have been.”
Balamor turned and stared at Fredrik. “Taunting you?” he echoed. “I am not taunting you. I am trying to make you think logically. You talk of magic as if it is some wondrous abstract thought. Indefinable. Mysterious. Illogical. Life itself is more mystical than what you call magic. Nature is more wondrous. People are more precious. What is it that you want to know of me? If I can perform tricks that appear impossible to others?”
Niki came over to the log with cups of tea for everyone. Balamor held his cup between his knees and squeezed the milky juice from the weeds into his tea.
“If that is what you call them,” nodded Fredrik. “I do not see them as tricks, though. Magic is an art. You either have the talent or you do not.”
Balamor shook his head and handed his cup of tea to Niki as he rose. He walked to the fire and threw the weeds into it. He kept going past the fire and into the woods. After a short time, he returned and took a cup of tea out of Niki’s hands. He sat down on the log.
“You are restless, Balamor?” asked Podil.
“I worry about my villagers,” nodded the gaunt magician. “They have come to depend upon me. I guess that is not necessarily a good thing, but then what is good, and what is bad?”
“You don’t know the difference between good and bad?” questioned Niki as she sipped her tea.
“Not really,” shrugged Balamor. “Do you?”
“I sure do,” declared Fredrik. “I have been both, and I will never have to worry about knowing one from the other again.”
Niki dropped her cup of tea. Her body turned a pale white and her face clouded over in a mask of confusion. Fredrik dropped his cup and grabbed Niki as her body pitched forward. He laid her gently on the ground, and Podil jumped to her side. The elf magician ran her hands over Niki and checked her pulse.
“She is dead,” declared Podil.
“Dead?” howled Fredrik. “That can’t be. How can she be dead?”
Fredrik looked around for Master Khatama, but he was gone. So, too, was Mustar.
“She can’t be dead,” cried Fredrik. “She can’t be. Can you help her, Balamor?”
“You say she is dead,” answered Balamor. “Is that good or bad?”
“What?” snapped Fredrik as he rose. “How can you make light of this?”
“I am not making light of anything,” replied Balamor as Podil picked up Niki’s cup and sniffed it. “Life is a serious business.”
“You have some explaining to do, Balamor,” Podil said as she handed him the cup.
Balamor took the cup and sniffed it. He frowned and nodded. “I guess she drank from the cup with the extract in it,” he stated.
“You killed her?” shouted Fredrik as a knife slid into each hand. “You had better bring her back or your life is over.”
Balamor shrugged and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a handful of tiny red berries and handed them to Podil.
“Make her some more tea,” Balamor suggested to Podil.
Podil nodded and hurried off to the fire.
“You haven’t answered my question,” Balamor said to Fredrik. “Is killing good or bad?”
“It is bad, old man,” snarled Fredrik.
“Yet you stand ready to kill me,” observed Balamor. “Would that be good or bad?”
“That would be good for me,” snapped Fredrik, “but bad for you. You better hope that Podil can bring Niki back to life.”
“So my killing was bad,” clarified Balamor, “but yours will be good. What about when you get your wish and kill your own father? Will that be good or bad?”
“I do not have time for this conversation,” scowled Fredrik. “Why don’t you just be quiet?”
Podil fed the tea to Niki as Fredrik and Balamor looked on. After two gulps, Niki’s eyes popped opened, and she started coughing. Fredrik dropped his knives and rushed to her side.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Sure,” nodded Niki as she sat up. “I guess I just fainted. Maybe I got too much sun today.”
Fredrik helped Niki to the log and then turned back towards Balamor. He gasped as his two knives were suspended in the air, right where he had let go of them. He looked curiously at Balamor as he grabbed the two knives and shoved them back into their arm sheaths.
“
You have some explaining to do,” Fredrik scowled at Balamor. “I could have killed you for that little trick.”
“I don’t think so,” shrugged the gaunt magician. “I would not have let you go that far. Earlier today, you would have said that bringing someone back to life was magic. Now you know better. You also said that you would always know good from bad, but I think you have learned that that is a matter of perspective.”
“Is that what all this was?” Fredrik asked caustically. “This was just a lesson?”
“All of life’s experiences are lessons,” nodded Balamor. “After you have spent your life studying, then you will know how little you know. Also, after today, you will always recognize a barrel weed when you see it. I trust you will also recognize pit berries as well. Be careful in their application. The pit berries must be administered within an hour of the barrel weed sap.”
Fredrik shook his head and stormed off. Niki chased after him.
“That was harsh,” remarked Podil. “The lad was only curious about you.”
“I did not mean it to be harsh,” sighed Balamor. “The young today want easy answers to everything. They are not yet wise enough to know that there are more questions than answers in life.”
“Yet one must continually seek answers,” Podil pointed out. “The lad is on the right track. He has enough problems with getting answers from the Mage. He does not deserve the same from us.”
“I guess you are right,” nodded Balamor. “Somehow I knew better than to ask questions of Master Khatama. I knew that my questions would be answered when he felt like it. Have you any idea of where we are going?”
“No,” Podil shook her head. “He is very close-lipped about it. I gather from talking to Mustar that there was a problem when Mustar joined up. Mustar chose to share information with Fredrik about the coming journey. The Mage was not happy. Fredrik chose to share the information with King Arik of Alcea.”
“I have heard of him,” responded Balamor. “He is the one prophesized, is he not?”
“He is,” nodded Podil. “I suspect from talking with Mustar that what we are going to do will put us at odds with him.”
“Right or wrong,” mused Balamor. “It is the same as good or bad. It is all a matter of perspective.”
“You simplify things,” smiled Podil. “You act as if magic does not exist, yet I know that the Mage would not choose you for this journey unless you had incredible skill in the arts. Why do you seek to deny it?”
“I don’t know,” sighed Balamor. “Another mystery of life? No, that is not fair. You asked a direct question, and you deserve an answer. I have hidden my talents for so long, that I guess it has become habit. I have learned to dance verbally whenever the subject arose. I suppose I would have done so when the Mage came for me, but I found that I had nothing to say. I do not even know how I recognized him, but I knew who he was, and I knew why he had come. That is one question that I hope to have answered before I die.”
“Speaking of Mustar,” nodded Podil. “Here he comes with Master Khatama. I wonder what that conversation was about.”
“Why don’t you try to find out,” smiled Balamor. “I need to find the young ones and apologize for my lesson.”
“That is wise,” smiled Podil. “They are fine young people. I hope whatever we are doing for the Mage does not put us at odds with them.”
* * *
“The modifications to the pass look good,” commented Sayrak. “I am sure they would be noticeable to anyone who traversed it on a regular basis, but others would not think anything was wrong.”
“We took great pains to keep the general contours of the old pass,” beamed Zemo. “We dwarves of Dorgun pride ourselves on precision work.”
“And our Lanto mages made it possible in a short period of time,” added Kail.
“Both tribes have contributed what they do best,” nodded Sayrak. “Soon we will be called upon to contribute more.”
“Aye,” Zemo nodded solemnly. “Depending on how large the army is, we may be contributing a bit of dwarf blood.”
“If that is what is called for,” nodded Sayrak, “then that is what we will give.”
A blue fairy sliced through the air as it soared overhead. It turned abruptly in a sharp arc and backtracked to land on Sayrak’s shoulder.
“It is a large army,” reported the fairy.
“How large, Pebble?” asked Sayrak.
“Over a league in length,” answered Pebble. “And they are six abreast.”
Kail whistled in surprise, and Sayrak frowned.
“Didn’t you count them?” asked Zemo.
“Count them?” quivered Pebble. “Fairies don’t live forever, you know. They would be here before I could finish counting.”
“Over ten thousand,” interjected Kail. “Closer to fifteen maybe.”
“Whatever the count,” sighed Sayrak, “it is a lot. Dwarf blood will flow today.”
“Not as much as human blood,” vowed Zemo. “Not a one of them will escape this trap.”
“Can it accommodate the length of a league?” asked Sayrak.
“Just,” Zemo replied nervously. “Maybe,” he faltered. “We designed it to be a league in length, knowing that it would accommodate any size army that they sent. Who could have imagined this?”
“Queen Trana wanted to invite the elves of Sorelderal,” sighed Sayrak. “I wish I had not advised her against it. We could use their skill in archery here today.”
“You dwarves of Lanto have too much dwarven pride,” chuckled Zemo. “At Dorgun, we have learned to treat the elves as kin.”
“It took a hundred years to develop that relationship,” noted the young scholar, Kail. “We have only known them for twenty.”
“True,” nodded Zemo. “You will learn.”
“How much time do we have, Pebble?” asked Sayrak.
“An hour,” chirped the female fairy. “That should be when the vanguard arrives.”
“There is not enough time to invite the elves now,” sighed Sayrak.
A broad grin washed over Zemo’s face as his nose expanded and lifted to sniff the air. “We shall have at least one elf with us today,” he said. “I smell Elandros.”
“Your nose is far better than your ears,” quipped the old elf as he stepped from behind a boulder. “If you were an elf sentry, you would be listening to your punishment for failing to detect me.”
“If you were a dwarf,” countered Zemo, “you wouldn’t have been detected at all. I think it has to do with your diet, but your smell travels farther than a rabbit.”
“Rabbit is a staple of our diet,” laughed Elandros. “I understand that we are having company today.”
“How could you possibly know that?” questioned Sayrak. “And what do you mean we?”
“Actually,” grinned the elf, “I didn’t know, but I do now. How long do my people have?”
“There is not enough time to fetch them,” frowned Kail. “We were just discussing it. There are fifteen thousand humans an hour away.”
“Well, that is plenty of time,” grinned Elandros. “My archers are only five minutes away.”
“How many archers?” asked Sayrak.
“Three thousand,” answered Elandros. “Queen Trana told us that you had advised against inviting us, but she thought better of it after you had left. I am glad that she did.”
“As are we,” nodded Sayrak. “My advice to the queen was not well thought out.”
“I am sure that you could handle them without us,” smiled the elf, “but now that we are here, where do you want us?”
“Both sides of the pass,” answered Zemo. “The trap we have set is one league long. It stretches from here southward. There is a tunnel under the road half way along the trap. You do not want your men to scale the sides of the pass. They must use the tunnel.”
“I will see to their placement and return here,” stated Elandros as he turned and ran off.
“Will the elves be enough help?” asked Pe
bble.
“More than enough,” grinned Zemo. “With three thousand elves, we could handle thirty thousand humans if they could fit in the trap. Their arrows have a much greater range than we can manage. Without them, we would have had to descend into the pass to clean up.”
“Kail,” ordered Sayrak, “alert our people about the elves and the humans that are coming. I want everyone prepared.”
The young scholarly dwarf nodded and ran off. Zemo and Sayrak stood in silence as they mentally prepared for the coming conflict. A half hour later, Elandros returned. He said nothing, but he pointed northward. Zemo and Sayrak followed the elf’s gaze and nodded.
“It begins,” Sayrak said softly.
Climbing up the mountain road was a huge column of Lanoirian cavalry. The road snaked around the side of the mountain until it got to the summit where the elves and dwarves waited. The dwarves had spent days modifying the sheer cliffs at the summit of the pass. For a distance of a league, the vertical walls had been undermined. Huge slabs of stone hung delicately, attached only at the top with spacers under the slabs to keep the pressure from cracking the stone. The road itself had been undermined in two spots a league apart.
The far section of road was so delicately undermined that the weight of two horses would collapse it into a pit twenty paces deep. The near section of road would require dwarf miners to smash the pillars holding the slab in place. That pit was also twenty paces deep. When the signal was given, there would be no way to ride out of the pass.
“Here comes the vanguard,” Sayrak announced softly as Kail returned.
Zemo turned and looked anxiously along both ridges to see if any of the warriors were visible. He swallowed hard, but nodded in satisfaction when he could not see his men.
“Kail,” whispered Sayrak, “head to the knoll now. When you see the far slab of road fall, catapult that torch. Be quick about it.”
Kail nodded eagerly and ran towards a high knoll about half way along the trap. It was situated far enough back from the edge of the cliffs that he would not be seen. Placed there earlier was a simple wooden catapult. The only load that awaited it was a simple torch. When Kail saw the road slab fall under the weight of the vanguard, he would launch the torch high into the air. That was the signal to begin the attack.
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