Iydahoe stood stoically before the elder's rage. He wished again that Hawkan was present to hear and believe the tale-and to stand up for his son. Yet that was obviously not to be.
Instead it was Kawllaph who came to his younger brother's aid. The warrior stood up and faced the raging Tarrapin. "Let him speak!" demanded the brave. "My brother knows what he has seen. Let him tell us!"
"I have proof. Here!" Iydahoe remembered his belt pouch and pulled forth the fragments he had gathered around the Pathfinder's hut. "This is what is left of the Ram's Horn and Washallak Pathfinder's axe!"
Iydahoe produced the blackened, broken pieces of the horn, and Tarrapin grew silent. The lean, scar-faced chief sat numbly staring at the shards, turning his glittering eyes toward Iydahoe as if he still sought a way to blame the young warrior for the disaster. Iydahoe pulled another bit of proof from his pouch-the grimy head of an axe. The blade was long and thin, and a narrow spike extended from the back of the head. Though the shaft had burned away in the ruins of Washallak's hut, Iydahoe had found the metal remains of the unique weapon that had always been the axe of the Pathfinder.
Finally, Tarrapin nodded gruffly and rose. He ordered Kaheena and Altarath, both young warriors, to carry word of the disaster to the Bluelake and Black Feather tribes. Then he ordered additional warriors to man the many watch posts located throughout the surrounding forests. Finally-and though it was still early morning- he returned to his lodge to smoke and meditate with a half dozen of the tribe's veteran braves.
Iydahoe knelt and again gathered the fragments of horn and axe. When he stood, he saw that Kawllaph had gone to comfort Berriama. She clung to his shoulders, weeping, and Kawllaph finally had to pry her away so that he could join the warriors' meeting with the chief.
Standing straight, Iydahoe concentrated on the banishment of any trace of emotion from his face. Acutely conscious that several of the tribe's young females watched him from across the compound, he knew that they would never mistake him for the feckless, playful boy he had been just a few short weeks ago. But then the girls, too, seemed more serious, less carefree than they were a few minutes before. His village could never offer the serenity, the peace, that Iydahoe had known here through all the decades of his life.
Would life ever return to normal?
The girls, he saw, had gone back to tanning a rack of doeskins, perhaps sensing the harsh glare of the matron Puiquill, who squatted beside the rack and critically inspected the maidens' work. She was a stern taskmistress, but skilled with the bone needle and gut-filament thread with which the wild elves had made their clothing since the dawn of time.
The young brave's mind returned to the horror of Silvertrout, beginning to seethe with thoughts of the vengeance Iydahoe would someday exact against the hated legionnaires of Istar. He himself would slay, would cripple and burn, with the same ruthless-
"Will you take us fishing, Iydahoe?" asked a young boy, shyly approaching the warrior from behind. Iydahoe remembered that the youth's name was Dallatar. "My father was going to show us the trout pools, but he has gone to speak with Tarrapin."
Iydahoe turned, startled. How could he be expected to do anything so mundane at a time like this? Then, surprising himself, he nodded. "Gather the youngsters. Make sure that each brings his spear. I will meet you at the head of the stream trail."
Delighted, Dallatar ran off. As Iydahoe watched, his heart suddenly pounded as Moxilli came around the great smoking lodge in the village's center. Unlike the tanning girls, but like Iydahoe, Moxilli had recently passed the rituals of adulthood. Over the past sixty years the two of them had been children and adolescents together, though only recently had the young brave become aware of just how beautiful his youthful playmate was.
Moxilli had the long black hair of all Kagonesti, though her flowing locks seemed more iridescent, fuller, and shinier than the hair of any other tribal female. Unconsciously Iydahoe strutted proudly, his chest thrust out, his arms pumping with relaxed precision at his sides as he strode toward his hut to get his fishing spear, then went to the willow tree marking the trail head.
He was quickly joined by Bakall, a young, serious fellow who showed signs of one day becoming a patient, skillful hunter and warrior. Now he scowled toward the stream, as if willing the trout to be ready for his spear. Iydahoe sensed that Bakall would do quite well.
Within minutes, a dozen youths had gathered beside the great willow tree that marked the path down to the river. Each of the boys had a three-pronged spear, which he had carefully whittled from a maple sapling. The tines had been hardened by fire, and on the shank of each prong the boys had carved tiny barbs, designed to keep the pierced fish from wriggling off the weapon. Iydahoe did not inspect the spears, knowing that for each boy the most important lesson would come from the successful landing of a tasty dinner-or the teasing flick of tail as the trout wriggled free.
The lads had been boisterous and playful in the village, but, following Bakall's intent example, they lapsed into stealthy silence as they followed Iydahoe. Extending into a long, single file, the boys soundlessly padded down the winding trail. Thick-boled trees rose on all sides, while the forest floor off the trail was choked with underbrush that often included hook-thorned vines and dense, tangled brambles.
A sound carried through the woods, rising from the direction of the stream-but clearly unnatural in origin. It was a metallic "clink," or else the sound of something very hard striking a rock. Iydahoe froze, the boys doing likewise. The brave looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow, and Bakall nodded back, before peering into the woods. Apparently the boy had heard the same thing.
The sound was repeated, a muffled noise that nevertheless came clearly to alert, elven ears, probably because its source was closer. In a flash, Iydahoe understood that whatever had made the noise was approaching them up this trail.
Urgently the warrior gestured for the boys to retreat back toward the village, though he didn't look around to see if they obeyed. Instead, he crouched, watching, among the branches, knowing that the whorls of his tatoos would make his face difficult to see for anyone who might come around the next bend of the trail.
The breeze, which had been listless all morning, suddenly picked up, carrying the unmistakable scent of horses to Iydahoe's nose. His hand tightened around his spear as the terrifying thought came: legionnaires! He stared at the trail with blazing intensity, but he saw nothing.
With a sick feeling in his stomach, he remembered the butchery worked against the Silvertrouts. Now, as he thought of the youths behind him, the girls at their tanning rack, and beautiful Moxilli, brushing her hair by the well, he almost groaned aloud.
He felt, rather than heard, the presence of Bakali close by and knew that they had to get back to the village, to carry the alarm. But an alarm of what? All he knew was that someone with horses and metallic equipment was creeping up the trail.
"Go back," Iydahoe hissed, holding his lips a few inches from Bakall's ear. "Tell the warriors there are horsemen coming up the stream trail. Now, go!"
Eyes wide, the young Kagonesti scrambled silently up the trail, urging the other youths before him. Iydahoe slipped off the path, ignoring the brambles that scratched his skin, and started to work his way downward, seeking a look at these intrusive horsemen. How could they have gotten so close to the village? Were all the sentries dead?
Within a few moments, he heard the sounds of hoof- beats, though the steps had a surreptitious quality-the riders were holding their steeds back in an effort at stealth. Peering from beneath a leafy fern, the Kagonesti looked down a straight stretch of trail. He saw branches moving, pushed aside by a solid presence-but it was a presence that Iydahoe couldn't see!
Hoofprints appeared in the dust of the trail, advancing steadily closer. The warrior stared, but he saw no horse, no rider-nothing! A faint shimmering obscured the trail, as more and more puffs of dust floated upward. But how-when there was still nothing to see? Yet something was undeniably there, adva
ncing up the trail. Iydahoe caught the unmistakable smell of horses, and he knew that he couldn't be wrong.
But why couldn't he see? There was only that shimmering-like a cloudy presence, an essence of something that was solid but invisible.
Iydahoe stood, bursting upward from the concealment of the bush. He heard a horse whinny in alarm, a man's curse commanding obedience. The fishing spear seemed like a horribly flimsy weapon, but the warrior hurled it with all of his strength. The shaft flew outward, then struck something unseen and dropped to the ground.
The horse gave a shrill cry of pain, and more curses were added to the din. Iydahoe heard a sharp, powerful word cut through the chaos and, abruptly, the screening cloak was removed and a column of horses and riders blinked into sight. The lead mount had bucked off its rider, and now that skittish horse blocked the others from moving up the trail.
Second in line rode a strangely garbed man clad in long gray robes. That fellow pointed at the wild elf and shouted-"There he is! Kill him!"
Iydahoe recognized the voice, knew that this was the man who had spoken before, whose single powerful word had broken the screen of invisibility. With a shiver of apprehension, the warrior knew that he faced a wizard.
The first man struggled to remount, hampered because he had instinctively drawn his sword. Other riders pressed forward, tightly packed on the narrow trail. These Istarian legionnaires, wearing cloaks of red and breastplates of polished brass, formed a column so long that its tail was out of sight somewhere down the trail-enough soldiers to form a grave threat to the village.
Iydahoe slipped backward, rising to a crouch when he was out of sight of the trail. He raced through the underbrush toward the village. After two dozen paces he stepped back onto the trail, since the bends in the winding path would conceal him from the humans and the broad track would save him precious seconds on his race to warn the tribe.
Then sounds of violence rocked through the trees, and he knew he would be too late. Terrified screams rose from the unseen village, splitting the pastoral forest air, while hoarse shouts and the clash of steel against steel told him that there were more humans than just the party advancing up the trail behind him. Kagonesti war cries mingled with crude commands and grim shouts of triumph. Loud hoofbeats now pounded to the rear, and he knew that the horsemen had heard the sounds of battle and wasted no time as they raced to the fighting.
Iydahoe burst into the village clearing, his knife in his hand, a furious war cry shrieking from his lips. Yet his worst moments of bleak imagination could not have prepared him for the sight that met his eyes.
A line of legionnaires on foot, shields held across their chests, advanced from the forest across the village. Several braves leapt toward them, courageously attacking, but these wild elves fell quickly before the scythelike reaper of the close-packed footmen. Kawllaph, Iydahoe's proud, capable brother, raced to the attack and then fell immediately, his head all but slashed from his torso.
Other humans, carrying spears and swords, rushed into the village from the right, and, though Kagonesti warriors killed several of these, the others rushed headlong into the clusters of lodges, brutally cutting down those elves who tried to scramble out the low-arching doors. Ber- riama, she who was to marry Kawllaph, ran screaming toward the slain body of her beloved-then she, too, fell dead, pierced by a legionnaire horseman's lance.
Whooping madly, Tarrapin raised his sword and charged the line of footmen. His blade clanged off the armored shoulder of a human, and in the next instant the chief's body was pierced by numerous lstarian blades.
A number of elders sought shelter in the woods, but as the wild elves hobbled toward the trees many silvery missiles sparkled in the sun-steel-shafted arrows! A deadly volley slashed out, missiles ripping through many a frail and weathered body. A second volley rattled, and dozens of Kagonesti lay on the ground, dead or rapidly dying. More legionnaires charged from the trees there, and Iydahoe saw that they bore the crossbows that had launched the lethal volleys. Now the men slung the missile weapons over their shoulders, drew short swords, and charged with lusty yells. Iydahoe saw that many of them grinned broadly, relishing the prospects of close-in butchery.
Puiquill and a cluster of girls huddled behind the wreckage of their tanning racks, which had been knocked over in the chaos. Bakall and the boys of the fishing expedition charged in a knot, courageously raising their light, three- pronged spears. One fell to a legionnaire's sword, but the others knocked the man to the ground and pierced him.
"Bakall!" shouted Iydahoe, pointing toward the cowering elves at the tanning rack. "There! Help the girls!"
Staring wildly, either from madness or shock, Bakall saw a legionnaire rushing toward the Kagonesti females. With a shrill cry, the boys flew at the man, bearing him to the ground, then ruthlessly piercing him with their spears. Bakall himself picked up the fellow's sword, holding it over his head with a whooping cry.
Iydahoe heard a scream and twisted to see Moxilli running from her lodge, where two bearded humans had just chopped down another elf and were busy casting glowing brands onto the loose thatch of the roof.
"This way!" the young brave shouted, and the terrified maiden met his eyes with a look of frantic pleading.
In the next instant he heard the sound of a heavy crossbow. The bolt caught the young Kagonesti woman in the side, tearing through her chest, the bloody tip erupting from her rib cage. Flung off her feet by the force of the shot, Moxilli was cast to the ground where she lay motionless in a growing pool of blood.
Iydahoe wailed his fury, striking down a nearby human with the keen edge of his knife. Villagers ran toward him, toward the path to the marsh, and he remembered the horsemen pounding up the trail behind him.
"Not here. More humans come from the marsh! Into the woods!" he cried, desperately waving his arms.
Abruptly horses surged into the village and Iydahoe was knocked to the ground by a blow to his head. Stunned, he tried to rise to his knees, watching the riders swirl through the dust and smoke while the phalanx of footmen continued to press the survivors into a small pack in the center. Despite pleas for mercy and the fact that many of the elves bore no weapons, the Kingpriest's killers continued to hack at the remaining members of the tribe.
Bleak with despair, his skull ringing from the force of the blow, Iydahoe lumbered groggily to his feet and shook his head to clear the sudden fog. He looked toward the drying racks to see Puiquill stand courageously as a man charged forward. The fellow cut her down with a single blow, kicking her corpse to the side as he turned toward the huddling children. Bakali, with a shriek of rage, stabbed upward, but the man knocked the youth aside with a contemptuous laugh. Grinning cruelly, the fellow raised his gory sword for another fatal blow.
Somehow Iydahoe's feet obeyed his mind, and he sprang toward the drying rack, raising his knife in time to deflect the man's powerful blow. With a grunt of surprise, the legionnaire looked at the warrior, his red eyes gleaming with fury and hatred, but before he could raise his sword, Iydahoe had cut him down with a slashing blow to the neck.
More men turned toward the tiny knot of young Kagonesti, while horsemen continued to pour into the camp from the marsh trail. Behind the drying racks plunged a narrow draw leading down to the water, and though normally the ravine was too tangled for anyone to think of going there, now it seemed the only chance.
"Fly!" hissed the brave, urging the sobbing children into the shadowy depression. A girl, Ambra, clutched Iydahoe's leg, and he pushed her away, relieved when Dallatar helped her toward the underbrush. Several of the boys led the way, while Bakall stood beside Iydahoe, driving the first of the pursuers back. When the young elves had slipped out of sight, the warrior pushed Bakall after them, then dove into the brambles himself, Istarian swords slashing at his heels.
For desperate minutes the tiny band of survivors struggled down the tangled gully. The young elves, fortunately, were so small that they could wriggle under the worst of the tangle, and Iydah
oe ignored the cuts on his own skin. Finally the group of terrified, weary elves collapsed, gasping for breath, in a deep forest grove. When Iydahoe backtracked to check for pursuit, he could hear nothing.
"We're safe, at least for the moment," he said, creeping back to the little band. He counted ten boys and an equal number of girls there and realized with a sickening sense of responsibility that he-who had been a warrior for less than a full season-was perhaps the senior surviving member of the tribe.
"Are we the only ones left?" asked Tiffli, a wisp of a girl who struggled bravely against an urge to cry.
"Is my mummy killed?" asked another waif, whose name Iydahoe didn't know. That lack of knowledge brought him a pang of guilt, and he wished he could give her a hopeful answer.
He remembered Moxilli, felled by the cruel steel bolt, and all the other elves who had been hacked to death by the swords of the human butchers.
"If we are all that are left," Bakall stated, the boldness of his tone not quite denying the quaver in his voice, "then we shall be the tribe. I am ready to be a warrior!"
"And I," declared Dallatar, looking much older than he had when he'd earlier asked Iydahoe to take them fishing.
Iydahoe nodded absently, despair rising in a wave within him. How could he be mother and father to these elves? He could teach them a few things, but so many things he wouldn't know. Would he have to do it alone?
Then the branches parted beside them and Iydahoe looked into the reddened, horrified eyes of his father, Hawkan. The elder Kagonesti stumbled into the little group, shaking his head in horror.
"On the mountaintop I saw a portent of evil-I returned at once, but never could I imagine anything like…" His words trailed off, and he looked at his son seriously. "I am glad you have saved some of the tribe."
"For what?" demanded the young warrior. "To die in the winter, or to hide from the legionnaire butchers? How can this be a tribe-?"
Kagonesti lh-1 Page 21
