by Alon Shalev
“How do you think it went?” Seanchai asked. “Is there anything else I can do or say?”
“No. This pictorian decision now. Go, eat well.”
With that, Umnesilk turned his back on Seanchai. Sellia took Seanchai’s arm and guided him away. He noticed most pictorians filing out of the huge tent toward a big fireplace where meat was cooking. No one paid them much attention until they were sitting on a log in a semi-circle with about fifteen pictorians.
Most seemed content to just eat, but one began to talk loudly and pointed at Seanchai several times. He turned to Gruenisk, but Gruenisk had already begun arguing with the female pictorian who sat opposite him. Though Seanchai could not understand what either was saying, it was clear they were becoming increasingly agitated.
Finally, an old, bent, pictorian banged his staff on the ground. It had a metal base and made a loud thumping noise. Both pictorians stopped, and all looked at the elder.
“Torimisk here instructs me to translate what we before say,” Gruenisk said to Seanchai. “This one not happy you here. Pictorians live in these. . . these far away areas because we not grow. We–I know word–breed, we breed slow. When boars die in war, we more weak.
“In last three ten-years we see more pictorye because boars stay to breed. She say going to fight for Emperor lots wrong and she thinks going to fight for you lots wrong too. She blame Umnesilk. Say he too hot-blooded.”
Seanchai looked at the old female and nodded. “Gruenisk, please translate for me. Tell her that I understand her legitimate concerns. Tell her that she has every right to feel as she does, but I have a responsibility for all the races of Odessiya.”
He stopped while Gruenisk translated. When he had finished, Seanchai continued. “Pictorians are an honorable race with a rich heritage and culture, their noble past interwoven into the histories of Odessiya. Your time of isolation is past no matter what this council decides.
“The pictorians left the Empire during the battle of Hothengold, a battle that the Emperor lost. He will not forget the betrayal by your people, and he will come for you all, including your females and your pictorye.”
When Gruenisk translated, there was a hum around the circle, but Seanchai immediately raised his hand to indicate he hadn’t finished. “The question isn’t whether or not you fight in the struggle for the freedom of Odessiya at all; it is whether you fight and succeed with the other races, or stand and die alone. The days of pictorian isolation are already over. . . forever.”
A horn blew, and all put their plates down and returned to the Tent of the Elders. One old pictorian rose and spoke, her quiet voice carrying throughout the tent. The only other sound was Gruenisk whispering a translation into Seanchai’s ear. The leader spoke about how this day had been anticipated, how they knew the decision to side with the Emperor had effectively ended their isolation. She paused for a moment and took a deep breath.
“The council has decided. We set events in motion long before the Wycaan came. When we agreed to fight for the Emperor, the die was cast. We chose wrong, but now history affords us a second chance. We will once again stand with the elves and the dwarves, as we did in days of old. We will join the Alliance.”
There was a ripple of discontent around the room and a comment that included Umnesilk’s name. The First Boar rose sharply, his huge body looming over all, and the tent fell instantly silent. Gruenisk leaned closer to Seanchai to translate.
“Have we forgotten proud history? Once, pictorians members of the High Council of Odessiya. Once, we respected for principles, feared for strength, and admired for courage. We once warriors.
“It took elf on battlefield at Hothengold to remind what I forgot. We not hide in the mountains while others are enslaved. When Emperor came, we thought we joined side of right. We mistaken. Now we have chance to rectify mistake. Not only blood of pictorians been shed. We never flinch at spilt blood of our warriors or the warriors of foes. But we killed innocents. I slew little brother that made King’s Mail. He barely hold axe, yet he accepted his death. But combat with little craft brother not honorable. Now we right the wrong.”
The tent remained silent as Umnesilk sat down. Seanchai saw Sellia lean closer and, with his heightened elf hearing, heard her say: “A First Boar proves himself a leader not just on the battlefield.”
Seanchai thought he discerned the twitch of a smile from the huge leader. As the meeting closed, Umnesilk rose and led them from the Tent of the Elders. Three others, including Gruenisk, fell into step around them, and Seanchai noted their hands near their weapon hilts.
They walked in silence, and Seanchai was relieved when they were again soon out on the snowy tundra. They reached Umnesilk’s village by nightfall. Dinner was again communal as Gruenisk told everyone what had transpired. The First Boar sat in silence, eating and staring into the fire. Onywei sat next to him, an arm around his shoulder. Though he had won, Umnesilk seemed to take no satisfaction.
After dinner, Umnesilk growled something to Gruenisk and rose together with his mate. Seanchai glanced at the young pictorian.
“We join him soon. Onywei traveled far before they had pictorye. She has great knowledge of land here in north.”
“Maybe Umnesilk needs some time alone with her, too,” Sellia said. “That was a heavy decision to make.”
“No,” Gruenisk replied, his voice harder. “Our numbers not as small as you might think, but our peoples scattered, and when great horn blows, we shall hear how many will answer. Also, what is pictorian if he not connected with past, with his khundai, his warrior heart?”
The rest of the evening was spent in Umnesilk’s tent. Seanchai told Onywei where they were heading, and she drew a route that she became less sure about as it led farther away. An older pictorian came in with a knotted length of string and measured Seanchai. He fretted as he measured Sellia and shook his head.
“He look for clothes in pictorye supplies, but not hopeful,” Umnesilk chuckled gruffly. “Says you eat whole boar before tomorrow. Now you go bed. In morning, we have supplies ready.”
Seanchai rose and bowed. “Thank you, Umnesilk, and you, Onywei.”
Onywei answered and her mate translated. “Best for pictorians that you go fast and return soon. Onywei thinks mate most happy when fighting with you at side.”
“I’ll be as fast as I can,” Seanchai promised. But as he left their home, he wondered whether he would be fast enough or, when he returned, good enough.
These thoughts kept him awake. Just as he began to doze, a great horn blew. It was deep and vibrated through his body. Three times, it blew: long, drawn out notes. A few minutes later, a second horn blew from further away, and then a few minutes after that, a third, more distant again. This went on until Seanchai only heard the faintest of sounds. The horn blower blew again and the response came. Then a third time and once again came the response.
He rose and stepped outside to where a group of pictorians stood looking up to a pictorian on a hill with a huge horn. When they saw Seanchai, they parted so that he faced Umnesilk. The First Boar looked at him solemnly.
“Great horn sends message across snow plains. Pictorian nation called to war. We march to free Odessiya.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Umnesilk led Seanchai and Sellia out onto the tundra in the early morning dew. They followed a flat path that snaked between imposing mountains. The wind whipped up fine, icy dust, and all three covered their mouths and noses, exposing only their eyes. Seanchai was sure his eyelashes were going to freeze.
They walked for a long time in silence before Umnesilk called for a break in a small cave that gave some shelter from the wind. Onywei had stayed up deep into the night preparing their packs with wood, water, and other supplies. These were secured onto a sledge with furs that was being pulled by the horses.
Seanchai wondered whether the creatures could possibly survive the journey. They were to climb through a pass in the next day and then walk across a vast ice pack.
; Onywei believed this was the shortest and least obtrusive way into the west. They would encounter pictorian hamlets and, even though they had answered the call to war, Umnesilk was worried about their being able to pass through. He planned to take them as far as the ice flow.
“When at ice, try to ride horses,” he said. “Not know how long they live, so ride hard and feast on them when die.”
Seanchai made a face and then looked as Sellia. When he had rescued her from the wolfheids, the beasts had killed her horse, and the elves had eaten its remains in tribute and as a good source of food.
“Sleigh can be pulled by pictorian,” Umnesilk continued. “Maybe you pull for while, too. Less supplies, less heavy.”
“What about you?” Sellia asked. “You will return to what?”
“Other tribes have three days to gather food and weapons. Then must come before elders and march. Will head for Ulster as you ask.”
“Will anyone challenge you as First Boar? It didn’t seem that everyone was in agreement.”
Umnesilk shrugged. “Maybe young boar, but if so, soon dead boar.”
It was after midday, judging by the position of the sun, when they came through the mountains and to the edge of the ice plains. Seanchai stared ahead at a flat, white sheet that appeared to go on forever.
“Close your mouth,” Sellia suggested. “We part here from Umnesilk.”
Seanchai turned to the pictorian. “You have done me a great service. Thank you, First Boar Umnesilk.”
Umnesilk shook his head. “No, Wycaan. It is you who done great favor. Help me find khundai, heart of pictorian. Help remind people of great past so we have great future. I thank you, Seanchai of the Wycaan.”
I am a wood elf, Seanchai thought to himself. What am I doing here? His feet crunched on the ice, one foot and then the other. He was thankful for the nailed soles that gripped the ice. He looked around. Nothing but white under blue. The land was flat and cold and empty.
One of the horses nickered behind him. They shared his fear, he was sure. Seanchai tried not to think that he was leading them to their death, but he felt that they knew it anyway. There was straw on the sleigh, and the pictorians had covered the hooves of the horses with cloth for protection.
When they camped at night, they tethered the horses and kept them close to the fire, but still, in the morning, they were stiff, and the elves spent time massaging their legs. Seanchai tried to transfer some energy through his ryku training, but it was draining on him, and he felt cold and spent each time. Sellia told him to stop and save it as a last resort.
The first horse fell on the fifth day. It rose and continued for a few hours, but as dusk approached, Sellia told Seanchai to lead the other three on and camp once she was out of sight. She remained behind with the fallen horse, her bow and arrows, and a burlap sack for the meat.
They ate well that night, though neither elf took any joy in the horse’s final sacrifice. It didn’t help that Seanchai felt convinced the other three horses were glaring at him.
“Sellia, do you think we made a mistake coming this way?”
“No,” she replied. “We need to maintain as much secrecy as possible for as long as we can. Once the Emperor realizes you’re heading into the west, he’ll make life very difficult.
“He’ll not only send armies to stop you from getting through the pass, but also might decide he must crush any uprising before you return with a free Elven army.”
They both went quiet for a while.
“Do they exist?” Seanchai asked.
“I hope so,” she replied. “For you, for the land of Odessiya, and for myself.”
“You?”
“Have you noticed I look different than the rest of you?” she laughed. “I’m the only dark-skinned elf I know.”
“I have seen pictures of them,” Seanchai replied.
“So? Am I the last of my kind? If not, where are my people?”
“We are your people, Sellia. An elf is an elf. Skin color doesn’t make you any different.”
“I need to know,” she said.
“And you hope the Elves of the West can tell you?”
She shrugged. “Let’s just find them, huh?”
“Find them and persuade them to train me. And then expect them to give up the peace they have protected and march into Odessiya.”
“I think my skin color might not be our highest priority,” Sellia replied, smiling.
Seanchai rose and went to her. He drew her close. “After we topple the Emperor and bring peace, you and I will go looking for an answer. We’ll take Rhoddan and Shayth and search until we find one.”
She laughed. “And who will lead the new, free Odessiya? The people will need a strong leader–one with morals, and principles, and a vision.”
“That’s not me, Sellia. I’m just a wood elf. I want to learn healing as my mother did and live among trees. Maybe I can train at a Wycaan school like the one Mhari described.”
“I wasn’t thinking of you, Seanchai. The people need a king or emperor.”
Seanchai stared at her. “Shayth?”
“He was born to rule, and the more I get to know him, the more convinced I become.”
Seanchai realized he was not blinking or breathing. “Are you serious? Shayth?”
Sellia met his stare, and her intensity left no doubt. “Yes,” she replied. “Shayth Shindell, once Crown Prince of Odessiya.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Get them out of here,” Shayth yelled.
He and three dwarves had been leading an army patrol toward an ambush. They had run through a small clump of trees and over a ridge. The soldiers chased them as they scrambled down the other side, but a small group of refugees–about twenty dwarves, young, old, and shorn of their fighters–were making their way on the road below. Shayth needed to cross the road and draw the soldiers onto the incline on the other side.
“No, wait. This way.” He ran to his left, moving in front of the refugees, who had stopped in their tracks. “Don’t move,” he yelled at them.
“Shayth! Yeh’re moving away from the am–” Callestar, the oldest of his companions, cried out.
“We can’t run through them. The soldiers will cut them down as they pass.”
“We’re dwarves,” he shot back. “The soldiers’ll catch us on flat ground. Yeh head for the ambush point. Bring them through here as we planned.”
“But then you’re just three of you against eighteen of them.”
“Better us than old women and children.”
“One of you go. I might be able to–”
“No. Ballendir told us to guard yeh,” another dwarf interrupted.
Shayth spun round. “What?”
The three dwarves all stood with their hands on their knees, panting. Dwarves were tough, but not cut for running fast over long distances. They all looked at him with trepidation in their eyes. Shayth glared at Callestar.
“He did, Shayth,” Callestar said. “It’s true. He also told us not to tell yeh.”
The soldiers appeared on the ridge. Shayth watched them look from him to the refugees.
“Go hide among the refugees, and then head for the rendezvous. Tell Ballendir that I will bring the soldiers round to you in the canyon. Then tell him I’ll want a word with him.” Shayth glared at them. “Several words.”
He ran well ahead of the refugees to divert the soldiers. As he did, he loosened his bow. The first soldier to reach the flat ground was rewarded with an arrow through his throat. The second fell, clutching the arrow that pierced his heart. Then Shayth ran north into the wood.
He heard a shout directing the sixers to follow him, and hoped the entire troop was on his heels. He ran through the trees, trying to keep track of where he should turn east toward the ambush. He couldn’t stop to see if they had indeed left the refugees alone.
A few minutes later, he came to a brook and began to run alongside it upstream. He could hear his pursuers, but they were not getting any closer
. The terrain began to ascend, and he scrambled to get up to the top. If he couldn’t find his way to the rendezvous point, then he would need to lose his pursuers.
He didn’t like the idea of jumpy soldiers wondering around these parts. The area was home to many wandering dwarves who had fled their villages.
Shayth flew down the other side of the ridge, but in his haste, his foot caught a tree root and he tripped, rolling head over heels. He faintly remembered cold spring water as his head crashed against a rock and everything went dark.
Shayth’s head was pounding, and he felt close to throwing up. Two hushed voices spoke close by. He moved his hands very slowly and determined he was not bound.
He heard a third arrive, skidding on the ground. “I have his arrows–all that I could grab.” The voice was very young, and either elf or human. “But there might be more. They’re black feathered and easy to find, I fear.”
“Nothing we can do about it now,” a female, also young-sounding, whispered. “They’re out there looking. Hiding the tracks while dragging him here was the best we. . .”
There were shouts getting closer and boots crunching the ground.
“So what if ‘e fell,” came a soldier’s voice nearby. “Prob’ly got up and kept running. Ain’t got no brains, them scum.”
“This one ‘as, Jocknan. ‘e’s from the Emperor’s family. Must be brainy if ‘e’s royalty. Them all ‘ave babies among ‘emselves to keep the brains.”
“We’re the ones wifout brains if we keep ‘aving to look ‘ere.”
“Yeah? An’ if we go back empty ‘anded, it’s our brains they’ll stew.”
Three men’s laughter faded as they moved away. Shayth lifted his head and turned slowly, but a hand went over his mouth and a knife to his throat. The knife worried him because the hand holding it was shaking.
