“But—”

“How you manage to supply my request is your concern, not mine.” “I won’t steal for you,” Thum said in outrage. “My honor requires—how can you even ask—” “Then refuse my request,” Gavril said with a shrug, and put down his cup.  “Clearly you’re too much an uplander to be acceptable at court. My father will be interested to learn that the Maltie family sympathizes with old politics that should have been stamped out long before now.”

“You can’t accuse Geoffen du Maltie of supporting the division,” Thum said furiously. “You can’t! It isn’t true!”

“My observations are quite clear,” Gavril retorted. “I can say what I please, and my father the king will listen.”

“No,” Thum said, breathing hard. “No!”

“Then get out.”

“This is unfair!” Thum said. “You tell me I have offended you by speaking plainly, as I was told to do by the chevard. But I am to steal to regain your favor? What trap do you hold for me?”

“Careful, Maltie. Your tongue is digging a deeper hole for you.” Thum clamped his mouth shut and swung away from Gavril with a muted cry. Rigid and anguished, he lifted his clenched fists in the air. Gavril watched him, smiling to himself. Cardinal Noncire had taught him well how to manage the difficult ones. They always had a weakness. It was simply a question of finding out what that weakness was.

“Go,” Gavril said, his voice hard and merciless. “Kaltienne lacks your scruples.

He will be honored to serve me by bringing the map.” Thum’s shoulders sagged. He turned around as slowly as an old man, and Gavril’s chest swelled with satisfaction. Thum was beaten, he thought. He would now serve his prince as docilely as a lamb. Never again would he question orders. For once he took this risk on Gavril’s behalf, he would be bound to Gavril forever, bound by his own guilt.

Thum looked up. “I will not steal for you,” he said, his voice soft and wretched. “Though you be my prince and will one day be my liege and king, I cannot do this wrong.”

Fury swept through Gavril. He glared at Thum and reached to his side for the dagger that was no longer there. “You—” “But I will copy the map for you,” Thum said. “If that will please your highness.”

It took Gavril’s anger a moment to cool. He stared at Thum through narrowed eyes, realizing that this boy had not broken after all. He was still independent, still defiant. Had the map not been truly important to Gavril’s plans, he would have ordered Thum thrown out then and there.  Instead, he mastered his emotions and forced himself to think over the offer.

“Can you draw?” he asked.

“Yes, your highness.”

“Have you ink or parchment? You cannot write, you said.” “I can write a little,” Thum replied. “I can copy whatever is written on the map. You have ink and parchment, there.” He pointed at Gavril’s writing desk.  “Bring the map here and copy it,” Gavril said.

Thum looked alarmed. “I dare not take it from Lord Odfrey’s wardroom.” “He will only beat you,” Gavril said with a shrug. “But I have the power to destroy your family.”

“Thod is who my conscience must answer to,” Thum replied, revealing a bedrock faith for the first time.

That alone awakened grudging respect in Gavril. He stared at the other boy for a moment and relented. “Very well,” he said. “Take what you need from my desk.” Thum blinked, hesitated, then hurried to the desk and drew forth a sheet of stiff parchment and a pen.

“Take care!” Gavril said sharply enough to make him start. “And do the task quickly. I want the map in my hands tomorrow.”

“I have duties all morning, and in the afternoon we are to drill with the master-at-arms.”

Impatience filled Gavril. He wanted to choke Thum, or have Sir Los beat the knave for his impudence. Instead, he gave him a stony look and said, “Then you will have to copy it tonight.”

“But it’s past matins,” Thum said. “All lights are to be out. I can’t—” “You have little choice. It’s easier to enter Lord Odfrey’s wardroom now while the chevard is asleep than tomorrow, when you will be missed if you are absent from your duties. And no doubt Lord Odfrey will be going in and out of his wardroom throughout the day—” “All right!” Thum said. Sweat beaded along his hairline, making his red hair stick out. He drew in a ragged breath and would not meet Gavril’s eyes. “All right. Tonight.”

Gavril handed him a fat candle. “Work quickly. And make no mistakes. Put it in my hands by noontime.”

Thum looked up briefly, his hazel eyes swirling with a mix of resentment and dislike, then he headed toward the door.

“You need not act like a martyr, Maltie,” Gavril called after him. “I have offered you my mercy. You should be grateful for a second chance.” Thum paused and glanced back. His freckled face was stony, and not a dram of gratitude could be seen in it. He left without another word, carrying candle, parchment, and pen.

Sir Los closed the door behind him. “That’s one to watch, your highness,” he said gruffly. “Some of ‘em can’t be whipped. They’ve too much spirit for a heavy hand.”

Gavril glared at him. “And who asked for your opinion?” he said icily.  Sir Los shrugged. “My opinion matters, your highness, when I’ve got to keep someone’s dagger out of your back.”

“Don’t be absurd. He would never strike at me.”

Sir Los bowed. “As your highness says. If you are retiring now, I will bid you a pleasant sleep.”

“Where are you going?” Gavril asked him, still displeased by what he’d said.

“Why are you leaving?”

“Going to watch that boy a while,” Sir Los said, pulling his indigo cloak tighter around his heavy shoulders. “See if he goes where he’s been bid to go.” Gavril frowned.

“Call it my bad feeling,” Sir Los said. “Call it making sure. Good night, your highness. Someday perhaps you’ll learn not to be so cruel with his type.” “Cruel?” Gavril said in outrage. “I was putting him in his place. The cardinal taught me how to use all—” Sir Los smiled lopsidedly, clearly unconvinced.

Feeling a qualm of doubt, Gavril frowned. “You have not permission to question my actions,” he said haughtily. “Your opinion has not been asked for.” “No, your highness.”

“Thum du Maltie hasn’t the courage to cause me trouble,” Gavril said. “He’s smart enough to know better.”

“Aye, that’s right enough,” Sir Los agreed, taking the liberty allowed a protector. He seldom voiced an opinion, unlike his predecessor, who lectured Gavril constantly, but when Sir Los had something to say he was like a dog worrying a bone. He would not leave it. Sir Los looked at Gavril and tapped his thick, oft-broken nose. “But it might be better to mend your ways a bit and not try everything the cardinal has taught you. There’s going to come a day when I do fear your highness will run afoul of someone not smart like Maltie, not smart enough to know he’s licked. That’s when your highness will find trouble.” “Then you will have to make sure I don’t come to harm,” Gavril said with false sweetness. He smiled at his protector. “I have no intention of mending my ways.” Dain awakened with a start and sat up inside the burrow. He listened intently, trying to identify the sound that had awakened him.

Nothing.

It was time to go. He stretched hard enough to make his spine crack, then bent over Thia, touching her cold face in farewell. He had performed the rites as best he could, putting salt on her tongue and wrapping her tightly in the threadbare blanket. He left her pendant of bard crystal lying on her breast.  Even in the dim light provided by the glowstones, the faceted sides of the crystal glittered with muted fire. Her face lay in repose, no longer tormented with pain. Even death could not mar her beauty.

He kissed her cold cheek one last time, his eyes wet and stinging. He hated to leave her, but she was no longer here with him. She had gone into the third world, where her spirit would forever sing.

Wiping his face, Dain forced himself to go.

Emerging from the burrow, he popped his head out of the ground, blowing dirt from his nostrils, and gazed cautiously around. The clearing remained deserted in the cold, gray light of morning. It was raining softly in a light mist that stirred the forest scents of leafy mold, bark, and moss. The forest was silent.  Not even a bird chirped. There were no rustles, none of the usual activity among the furred denizens of the woods.

A ripple of unease passed through Dain. He pushed his shoulders through the hole and climbed out. Swiftly, keeping his senses alert, he replaced the lattice and soil over the hole, then covered everything with a layer of golden and russet leaves. He worked methodically to erase all evidence of his recent stay there.  When he was satisfied, he scratched out the rune mark of the Forlo Clan and drew another, signifying it was now a burial place.

Fresh tears stung his eyes. Fiercely he pushed himself away from there and melted into the undergrowth, leaving the clearing as fast as his legs would take him. He’d eaten the last of the food, and he needed to hunt if he was to have supper tonight. Beyond that, his future stretched empty and unknown before him.  His whole life had changed irrevocably in the past few days.  A distant whooping froze him in his tracks. He listened a moment to the yells, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. A war party, a victorious one from the sound, was coming his way.

At almost the same moment, the wind shifted, and he caught their scent. Dwarves . . . Bnen, probably. His mind caught something else—men-thoughts, awash with fear.

Dain turned about slowly, absorbing sounds, scents, and that wailing panic from human minds. It was time for him to get out of here.

But he did not run. Instead, he waited to make sure he understood from where they were approaching and how many there might be. Dwarves tended to travel in tight clusters of about half their fighting force, with the rest scattered out ahead, parallel with, or behind the pack. If he wasn’t careful, he could cross paths with some of the scouts. Unarmed, he had no chance of surviving any such encounter.

They yelled again, chanting their gruff war songs, and a drum began to beat, close and loud. Dain darted undercover and crouched low, making himself as still and small as possible, hoping his clothing would blend into the colors of the thicket.

A scout passed him, gnarled and short, his powerful shoulders supporting a bloodstained war axe, his cap pulled low upon his craggy forehead, his eyes reddened and glaring.

Seconds later, another scout appeared, only to vanish almost immediately back into the undergrowth.

When a third and fourth scout showed themselves, Dain realized they were converging on the clearing where Thia’s burrow was. They had camped there yesterday before going on their night raid. Now, in the cold early morning, they were returning, fierce and satisfied, splattered with blood and gore, many of them bearing loot.

At first Dain was puzzled. There were no clans living this close to the forest’s edge. Who had the Bnen attacked?

As soon as the question crossed his mind, he knew. They had raided the Mandrian villages across the marsh. Dain did not understand what had driven them to provoke war, and he did not really care. What mattered right now was that he get himself as far away from here as he could, before they caught him, crushed his skull, and drank his blood in celebration.

But he saw the main pack coming, marching along, singing to the beat of their drums. Their number surprised him. Several war parties had obviously banded together, for there were perhaps a hundred or more dwarves marching in close ranks. Most dwarf clans fought in small groups, making surprise attacks of great fierceness, then retreating quickly with whatever loot they could grab on the way. Seldom did they join forces in any kind of army, for they were too fierce, independent, and hot-tempered to work together for long.  All the same, as Dain watched them march past his hiding place, he couldn’t help thinking of the old tales Jorb used to spin in the evenings when the day’s work was done. Tales of the great dwarf armies in the time before men, when enormous battles had shook the ground, forming the mountains, when the sounds of dying lifted to the skies and created clouds, when blood ran as rivers, making channels for water to flow thereafter. And it hadn’t only been the dwarves who’d fought in antiquity, but also trolk and dire creatures spawned in darkness.  One of the most ferocious of these ancient battles had been the last, when the creatures of darkness were at last driven by the dwarves into the wasteland of what was now Gant. This battle had required all the dwarves to band together. It had taken place in what was now the fabled Field of Skulls. It had been a battle so terrible and long, in which so many had been slain and spilled their blood, that the battleground itself grew saturated and became barren. No trees or grass or any living thing would grow on the site. The bones of the dead were said to be piled so high and so thickly that even long centuries later they made the ground look white. No one who found the place could take a single step without walking on the remains of the dead. Power still resonated on this battlefield, a power too strong for time to dispel. It was said to permeate the bones lying there, and if a visitor took away even a fragment with him, the power residing in that piece of bone would bring him either great luck or terrible misfortune.  The blood from this battle had flowed so heavily that it was said to be the origin of the mighty Charva River. Whether or not that was true, few dwarves living today would consider wetting themselves in the Charva, for many believed dead souls were still trapped in the waters of the river. Other legends said that Thod had struck the ground with a mighty blow, thus creating a lake from which the Charva flowed as a natural barrier between Nonkind and the warrior dwarves of Nold.

Dain shook off these thoughts. The ancient days were over. These dwarves marching past him now were only Bnen, murderers of his guardian and sister. He curled himself tighter under the bush, aching with rage and grief. He wanted to jump forth and attack them with his bare hands. He wanted to hurt them, defeat them, kill them.

But he was one against too many. If he tried, he would waste his life for no purpose and they would not pay for their crimes. Somehow, he must find a way of revenge.

That was when he saw the prisoners. Bound and bleeding from wounds, they were pushed along at the end of the pack and guarded by tormenters who jabbed them with dagger points, laughing and jeering at them in the hoarse dwarf tongue.  Three men, wearing dark green tunics that marked them as being in Lord Odfrey’s service. One of them had a horn slung across his shoulder by a leather cord.  Dain recognized him as the huntsman whom Lord Odfrey had ordered into the forest to recover the stag carcass.

The huntsman was weeping in fear, his craggy face contorted. He limped along on a leg which oozed blood with every step, and his captors seemed to delight in shoving him faster.

When the prisoners stumbled past Dain, their fear washed over him with such force he felt stunned in their wake:

Dead/dead/dead/dead.

With an effort, he shut their panic away and knelt there on the damp ground, still watching as the pack marched toward the clearing. He cared nothing about those men or their fate, except that no one deserved to die at the hands of the Bnen. For Thia’s sake, for Jorb’s, he had to try to help them.  He waited for the rear scouts to straggle in, and when at last he thought it was safe, when he could hear the shouting and jubilation as camp was made, Dain followed them, pausing only to pick up the huntsman’s cap which had fallen on the ground.

By the time Dain crept up to the edge of the clearing, the dwarves had chopped down three pairs of saplings and were busy stripping them of their branches. A large bonfire had been built in the center of the clearing. Five dwarves with runes painted in blood on their faces and the fronts of their tunics surrounded the fire, which was crackling and throwing sparks toward the sky. Chanting to the beat of the drums, the five circled the fire, now and then throwing something into it which made fearsome green flashes followed by puffs of white smoke.

Dain froze at the sight of wise-sayers. All the clans of the dwarves had them.

But never before had he seen five together. They were working a powerful spell.  He could feel the strength of it tingling along his face and the backs of his hands.

Yet dwarf magic could not affect him seriously. He had too much eld blood in his veins. Something inside him stirred, brought to life by their incantations, yet not part of it. He frowned, keeping one eye on the wise-sayers as they chanted and marched, and the other eye on the prisoners, who knelt with their hands bound behind them.

By now the saplings were stripped of their branches, creating six long poles.

Each prisoner was jerked to his feet, then two poles were lashed to his back.  Dain had never seen this before, but he believed the Bnen were about to commit kreg n ‘durgm, a terrible, ritualistic torture that supported their darkest magic.

Uneasiness prickled harder inside him. He stared, trying to figure out what they sought to conjure forth from the second world. It had to be terrible indeed, if they were creating such a potent spell to control it.

Whatever it might be, he had no desire to witness it.

Dain felt the temptation to turn aside and flee from this evil, but he did not.  His heart stirred with pity for the prisoners, who had stopped pleading for mercy now and stood silent, their eyes huge with fear. But more than pity, he felt anger, felt it growing to a terrible heat that burned his core and spread along his limbs. His heart pounded hard with it, and his breathing deepened and grew harsh in his throat.

How dare they desecrate Thia’s burial place with their dark spells. It was not enough to shoot her down as she ran defenseless from her burning home, but now they would defile her burial place with their tainted works.  His anger burned hotter, and Dain gripped the branches of the bush before him so hard the twigs cut into his palms. He noticed no discomfort, however. From his heart a summons was cast forth, a summons such as he had never created before.  He hardly knew what he was about; he knew only that this must be stopped.

Come/come/come/come!

His mind spread through the forest, gathering all that was living and calling it to him.

The birds responded first—large, black keebacks and tiny brown sparouns, the blue-gray rackens, and the fierce, crested tiftiks. Circling and swooping from the sky, they flew above the clearing, avoiding the billows of white smoke. Ever more of them converged, crowding the sky overhead, shrieking and cawing and chirping and trilling until the noise was almost deafening.  The drumbeat faltered, and the wise-sayers paused in their incantation to stare upward.

“It comes!” one of them said. “It is a sign. We are heard.” The birds descended to the treetops, jostling and crowding each other for perches, some of them beating each other with their wings and pecking viciously.  And still more birds flew in.

“This portent is not of our working,” another wise-sayer said. “Oglan! Set a watch. You, Targ, keep the beat going.”

The drumbeat resumed, pounding beneath the squawking noise of the birds, but it was not as steady a beat as it had been before.

More birds came, darkening the sky overhead and filling the trees with a rustling, jostling, fluttering cacophony.

Dain closed his eyes, filling himself with his anger, letting it burn forth in his summons, which spread ever wider: Come/come/come/come.  “Look!” someone shouted.

And now a vixlet darted across the clearing, her russet fur and banded brush glinting in the firelight. She ran straight toward the bonfire, then stopped just short of it and glanced around. Her dark mask of fur banded her narrow face, and she parted her jaws to reveal long rows of sharp, gleaming teeth. Then she darted away.

Mice scurried out from under leaves, running here and there. Hares appeared, and stags and more vixlets, some mated and running in pairs. Rats came, red-eyed and dangerous, their long whiskers quivering as they sat up on their hindquarters and tested the wind. A muted cough warned of the arrival of a tawny canar, muscles rippling beneath its hide, its sinuous neck turning from side to side as it bared its long fangs and snarled.

Crying out, the dwarves fell back from it, abandoning their prisoners, who began to wail their prayers aloud in terrified voices.

The canar, crouching, came running the rest of the way into the clearing, and the smaller animals that were normally its prey scattered. It moved like silk, its long, lithe body tightly wound and ready to pounce. Snarling, it approached the bonfire, sending the wise-sayers backing away, but it did not go too near the blaze.

A roar on the opposite side of the clearing sent the stag leaping into the air, and the smaller animals darted here and there in fresh panic. A beyar, massive and old, gray hairs glinting in its shaggy black pelt, shuffled into sight. It reared up on its hind legs, massive paws swatting at the air, and roared again.  The canar squalled a challenge, and the two master predators of the forest glared at each other across the clearing.

Murmuring, the dwarves clustered to one side, shaking their heads and looking alarmed. As fierce as the Bnen were, even they did not want to be caught in the middle of this battle.

In the distance, wolves set up a chorus, their eerie cries echoing far through the trees. The canar and beyar ignored them, but the other animals shifted uneasily. A vixlet pounced on a hare, killing it with a swift snap of her jaws.  The scent of blood filled the air, and the stag broke loose of Dain’s control and bounded wildly across the center of the clearing.  The canar, unable to resist such prey, swung about to leap at the stag’s shoulder. The animal, caught in mid-bound, bleated and fell heavily, the canar atop its back. Then, with a roar, the beyar charged, knocking the canar off the stag and sending it rolling into the edge of the fire.

The canar screamed with pain, and the scent of burning fur overwhelmed the scent of blood. Squalling and twisting frantically, the canar rolled itself out of the fire and jumped up, singed and furious, to join battle with the beyar.  The dwarves scattered in all directions, while the wise-sayers shouted at them to come back.

Four of the wise-sayers shouted and argued with each other, but the fifth, the tallest of them, with a long, gray beard and eyes as yellow as the canar’s, stood apart, silent as he quested the air with his senses.  “It is the shapeshifters!” shouted one of the other wise-sayers, dodging as the battle came in his direction. “They have come to us like this—” “No,” said the bearded one. He dropped his gaze from the skies above and began to look hard at the forest around him. “We have not reached the dark ones. This is magic not of ours. Someone interferes with us.”

As he spoke, he reached into a pouch tied at his belt and drew forth what looked like a black stone, except that it smoked in his hand and seemed on the verge of bursting into flames.

He hurled it straight at the bush which concealed Dain, and struck him hard on the shoulder.

The pain of it broke Dain’s concentration, and his mastery over the animals fell. They ran in all directions, heedless of the battle between beyar and canar. Some leaped over the dead stag; others bounded back and forth in wild zigzags, the chaos so complete and unbridled the wise-sayers were forced to flee into the forest with the other dwarves.

Knowing this was his chance, Dain ran into the clearing. A vixlet darted between his legs, tripping him. He staggered to keep his balance, and dodged the rats scuttling purposefully toward the food abandoned along with the other loot.  Something bit him, and Dain swore and jumped aside.  A few more strides and he reached the prisoners. Picking up a dagger someone had dropped, he sliced through their bonds, ignoring their cries and pleas for deliverance.

“Quiet,” he said, cutting the last of the cords. “Run that way. Run for your lives. Go!”

Pointing, he slapped their shoulders, and they set off in as great a panic as the animals. Above them, the birds rose up in a terrible flock, filling the air with the sound of beating wings. Dain ran too, hearing someone shout behind him and knowing they had only scant moments to reach whatever cover they could find beyond the clearing. In minutes, the dwarves would come after them. Dain knew he could outrun them. But the prisoners were stumbling and blundering along, wasting precious moments glancing back.

“Run!” he called to them. “Run!”

The huntsman cried out and fell. Dain went back to pull him upright. The man’s face was the color of a grub. He swayed, and the others grabbed his arms and helped him forward.

Dain started to follow, but something snagged him from behind and pulled him back.

At first he believed he’d been gripped by the back of his tunic. Shouting, he twisted around to strike with the dagger he’d picked up, but there was nothing there.

Astonished, he barely had time to realize this before his arms slammed down against his sides and froze there. He struggled with all his might, trying to break free against his invisible bonds, but his feet were yanked out from beneath him. He fell heavily on his side, and grunted at the impact.  In the distance, he saw the bearded wise-sayer pointing at him, shouting some kind of spell in the dwarf tongue.

Dain stopped his struggles at once, knowing that physical resistance only strengthened the spell. Dwarf magic rarely worked on those of eldin blood.  Dain’s arms and feet were bound with an invisible rope of power, but it could not hold him for long. He saw the pack of dwarves running toward him, and knew he had only moments to avoid capture.

“Fire!” he said aloud, gathering the energy in his mind. He envisioned tongues of flame burning through the rope of power, and seconds later the spell was broken.

Dain scrambled upright and fled.

Half of the dwarves veered to follow him; the rest continued in pursuit of the Mandrians.

With the huntsman’s wounded leg hampering them, the men could not hope to outrun their pursuers. Dain ducked into a heavy stand of harlberries, taking care to crush some of the purplish-green stems. A pungent, unpleasant scent rose into the air. Dain smeared some of the pale sap up and down his arms and across the front of his tunic. The scent would mask his own.

Ducking low, he scuttled behind a log, paused a moment, then doubled back, eluding his pursuers. As fast as he could, he headed after the Mandrians.  They were making too much noise. Even a blind dwarf could follow them without trouble. Their scent hung in the air, mingled with fear and fresh blood. Dain angled to one side of the dwarf pack, well under cover, but as fleet-footed as a young stag. He leaped over a fallen log, ducked beneath a low-hanging vine of muscaug with leaves like burnished copper, and tackled the fleeing men from the side.

He knocked them bodily into a gully that cut beneath a stand of shtac, sending them tumbling with muffled grunts and little cries of pain. Breathless and winded, they all landed in the bottom among drifts of fallen leaves.  Dain sat up first, his ears alert for any indication that they’d been seen. No outcry rose up, but the dwarves were still coming, tracking by scent.  Jerking his tattered sleeve free of the briars which snagged it, Dain clutched one man’s arm and clapped a dirty hand across another’s mouth before they could speak.

“Hush. Hush!” he whispered fiercely, glaring at each of them in turn. The huntsman lay facedown in the leaves, not moving. Dain gripped his arm and felt the life still coursing through him. “Make no sound,” he said softly. “As you value your lives, do exactly as I say.”

Big-eyed and afraid, they stared at him.

He listened again, his senses filtering all sounds and movement beyond their poor hiding place. There was little time. He could think of only one thing to do, and he wasn’t sure it would work. His sister had been the spellcaster, not he.

But he was determined to try.

“Pay heed,” he said to them, struggling to find the Mandrian words he wanted. “I will hide you and go for help, but you must not move. You must not speak.” “Gods above,” one of the men said, the words bursting from him as though he could dam them no longer. “We can’t hide here. They’re almost upon us.” His companion tried to struggle to his feet, but Dain pulled him down. “Listen!” he said fiercely. “I am eld. I can help you, but only if you work with me. No matter how close they come, they will not see you if you do not move and do not speak. Swear you will do this, and I will help you.”

The two men, streaked with mud and dried blood, their hair in tangles, their eyes wide and desperate, exchanged a look, then nodded.  Dain pointed at the unconscious huntsman. “Keep him quiet too.”

“Done,” said one of the men. “But hurry.”

Dain drew his bard crystal pendant from beneath his tunic and held it up. It swung on its cord, glittering with inner fire. Dain forced himself to forget how time was running out, how close the dwarves were. He concentrated all his thought and being on trees, ivy-wreathed trees. He thought of their sturdy trunks, their strong bark, their outstretched branches. He thought of their crowns of gold and russet leaves, their deep roots that secured them to the soil. He thought of the shelter they gave to living things. He thought of how they reached tall to the sky, how they swayed in the wind but did not break, how they cast shade in the heat of summer and rattled bare-limbed in the cruel storms of winter.

Still swinging the bard crystal back and forth so that it began to vibrate with melody, Dain listened to the circulation of sap within the trees around him, listened to the steady rustle of their leaves, listened to the digging and searching of their roots within the ground. He opened his mouth and sang, low and soft, the song of trees.

Somber and muted, the notes of his song filled the gully. The men beside him remained still as he had instructed. Dain opened his eyes and saw them no longer. Instead, two saplings grew in the bottom of this shallow gully, with a fallen log beside them.

Dain lowered his bard crystal and tucked it back beneath his clothing. He sang a few more notes to finish the spell, and felt pleased with his results.  “Stay until I return with help,” he whispered. “You are safe here.” One of the saplings shuddered and seemed to bend toward him. The image shivered, and Dain saw the man within the spell again.

“Do not move!” he ordered.

The man froze, and the image of the spell became again a young tree. Dain glared at them. “The spell is weak. Do not destroy it.”

They made him no answer, but he could feel their fear and desperation. “I will come back,” he promised.

There was no more time to give them additional reassurances. The dwarves had arrived.

Dain swore under his breath and ducked beneath a bush, knowing he should have already fled.

The dwarves tramped past the gully, grumbling to each other in vile humor.

“Gonna rip off their heads,” one muttered.

“Stab ‘em. Stab their guts,” said another.

“Make ‘em scream long and hard this time. Went too easy on ’em before.” Dain kept his head down while they went by, barely letting himself breathe and trusting that his clothing would blend into the colors of the perlimon bushes and the shtac. The briars choked the rest of the gully, giving him no place of egress except straight up the side.

He waited until the dwarves were gone. Ever mindful of scouts trailing well behind, he waited longer. Then, cautiously, he emerged from his hiding place and slapped the leaves and bits of bark from the back of his neck.  “Stay still,” he warned the Mandrians one last time, and left them.  By the time Dain reached the river, he was panting hard and his legs burned with fatigue. He had stopped only twice to catch his wind. His mouth was drawn with thirst, and despite the cold he was sweating.

Leaving the cover of the forest made him uneasy. He had to force himself to venture out into the open. The road made him suspicious. It was too broad, too open, too exposed. He wondered why such flat, smooth stones had been laid to create its surface, yet as soon as he stepped foot on it he understood. Walking on it was wondrous easy. He had no mud to drag his feet, no ruts to stumble over. When the road curved up onto the top of the levee that held back the marsh, Dain could see far in all directions.

Smoke, too much of it, and too dark for common cook fires, rose above the treetops on the other side of the river. Dain suspected the raided villages must be there. Bells were ringing, at least three of them, from three separate directions, tolling a warning across the land.

Ahead of him loomed the stone bulwarks of the bridge that spanned the river. A gatehouse blocked the road, and the armed guards there watched Dain’s approach.  He hesitated, unsure that they would let a pagan such as himself cross into their land. It was certain the Bnen dwarves had not used this road, but he did not have time to hunt a ford across the river.

Stopping, Dain dared not venture into arrow range. He veered off the road and slid down the levee’s steep bank to the water’s edge. The gray water swept past him, swift and deep.

“You there!” called a stern voice from above.

Dain looked up and saw one of the guards peering down at him from the wall of the bridge.

“Get away!” the guard yelled at him.

Dain ignored him, and returned his attention to the river.

In the next instant an arrow whizzed past him, close enough to be a warning.

Dain stumbled to one side, his heart knocking his ribs.

“Get away!” he was told. “Get back where you belong.”

“Aye!” called another. “The souls of our dead are not for the likes of you.”

“I’m no soultaker!” Dain shouted back.

He saw one of the guards nock another arrow to his bowstring. Dain backed away hastily, but before the man could shoot, hoofbeats thundered and echoed across the water.

Squinting westward, Dain saw an army of riders crossing the bridge. They rode two abreast. Their war chargers were shod with iron, and sparks flew off the paving stones of the road as they came. The men were clad in hauberks and steel helmets. Most were armed with broadswords, spears, and war axes. Pennants flew in long streamers of color, and a horn blared stridently.  The guards ran to open the gates for Lord Odfrey’s army. Clearly they were riding forth to deal retaliation for the Bnen attack. Dain ran up the bank to the road and reached the top just as the wooden gates across the bridge were flung wide and the army cantered through.

The figure at the head of this column wore a shining helmet and breastplate.  With his visor down, his face could not be seen, but his surcoat was dark green with a yellow crest of rearing stags, and his cloak was chevroned in strips of dark and pale fur. Lord Odfrey himself rode this day, his figure grim and erect in the saddle, his broadsword hanging at his side.

Dain ran onto the road in front of him. Lifting his arms, he shouted, “Stop! In the name of mercy, Lord Odfrey, stop!”

The chevard drew rein, but even as he slowed, lifting his arm in a signal to the riders behind him, another knight spurred his mount forward, straight at Dain.  This man was not as large as Lord Odfrey. He wore a simple hauberk beneath his surcoat of green. A crest of crossed axes adorned the front of it, and his cloak was made of dark, serviceable wool.

Disbelieving that this man would ride him down, much less attack, Dain held his ground as the charger, wearing its head plate and armored saddlecloth, galloped straight at him. When the man drew his sword and shouted an oath in Mandrian, Dain realized he was serious.

At the last second, Dain dodged, but he was too late. The knight protector swatted him with the flat side of his broadsword and knocked him head over heels down the bank of the levee. Unable to stop his impetus, Dain tumbled over and over until he landed with a splash in the marsh water.  The icy shock of the water brought him upright, dripping and sputtering. “Lord Odfrey!” he shouted.

But the men were riding on, heedless of his call. “Lord Odfrey!” Dain shouted with all his might. His voice was drowned out in the thunder of the hoofbeats, the clanking and jingling of armor, saddles, spurs, and bridle bits. None of them spared him a glance. Their blood beat hot, and their minds were on war.  He could sense it rolling off them like a stench. Desperate, Dain climbed halfway up the slippery bank, and cast his mind at Lord Odfrey’s:

Halt/halt/halt/halt.

Again the chevard reined up, signaling for the column to pause. Dain ran the rest of the way to the top of the bank.

“Lord Odfrey, your huntsman is in mortal danger!” he called, jumping and waving in an attempt to be seen in the midst of the horsemen. “Lord Odfrey!” “Let him through,” someone commanded. The riders parted, reining their mounts aside, and Dain trotted through their midst straight to Lord Odfrey. Staring at Dain through the narrow eye slits of his helmet, the chevard sat there on his war charger, which pawed the ground and champed its bit with much head-tossing.  Breathlessly, Dain stumbled to a halt before him. “Lord,” he said, gasping between words, “your huntsman and two others were prisoners of the Bnen. I set them free, but they are still in danger. The Bnen are hunting them even now, and the huntsman is wounded.”

“M’lord,” protested the knight who had knocked Dain off the road only moments before, “have done with this brat. We’ve a whole village to avenge.” Lord Odfrey raised his visor, revealing a weathered face both stony and hostile.

He kicked his mount forward to meet Dain, who reached out for his bridle.  The chevard circled his horse, and as he passed Dain he drew his spurred foot from the stirrup and kicked him in the stomach.

All the wind left Dain in a whoosh of pain. He doubled over, sinking to his knees, wanting to vomit.

The chevard rode around him in a circle so tight, Dain feared the war charger might trample him. “Never seek to command my wits again,” Lord Odfrey thundered at him. “Keep your pagan ways to yourself, boy!”

Clutching his aching stomach, Dain struggled to draw breath. He held up the huntsman’s cap mutely.

“What is that?” the chevard asked, but Dain could not speak.

The knight protector rode forward and plucked the cap from Dain’s hand.

“What is that, Sir Roye?” Lord Odfrey asked the man.  “Nothing,” the protector answered. He flung the cap on the ground. “A piece of cloth.”

“That belongs to your huntsman,” Dain said, finding breath and strength enough to regain his feet at the same time. “He cannot hide in safety long. You must ride to his aid.”

“This is mindless babbling,” Sir Roye said impatiently. “Let us ride on, m’lord.”

“I owe you my life, lord,” Dain called out. “Why should I lie?” Lord Odfrey frowned. With visible reluctance he beckoned to Dain, who approached him warily and stopped out of reach this time. “You are the eld I saw yesterday.”

“Yes,” Dain said.

“I sent you back into the forest from whence you came. What do you here and now?