Umatelsa: Chapter Three

Chapter 3

Flight





Furs sped through the village, hearing the pounding of feet right behind him. He knew the village was doomed. None too soon he had arrived, it seemed, for the bull-horns were already on their way with torches. They had not left on their black ship, as Leon expected. Lord Cihers was right to fear revenge. And, unfortunately for the small village, it was to be the first casualty of the inevitable war to come. The freckled lad who guarded the makeshift fence gaped in dumb terror, eyes wide and mouth hanging ajar slackly. “Run, you fool! Alert the others!” growled Furs at the stricken boy, and he blinked twice before regaining his senses. Throwing down his useless scythe, he raced away on his long, fleet legs, screaming murder at the top of his lungs. But the fisher-folk hardly needed the warning at all. Already, the sharp-eyed were crowding toward the side paths that led to the woods, and the cleverest headed for shore. The black ship was long gone, of course, and their tiny boats were now the best chance of escape.

Butting the door of the house open with his head, Furs screeched his warning to Dana and Rhond. But no one needed his shrill cry, for the bull-horns were already slaughtering to the fro, hacking limb from body and head from shoulders. The villagers screamed with fright as they grabbed bundles of belongings and fled before the onslaught. Soon, the streets were clogged with bodies and discarded items.

“Quick! We have to get away from here!” Furs yowled. Dana lost no time, and swiftly wrapped up a few pieces of bread, while clutching Rhond to her breast.

“Ride old Rose,” she ordered briskly. The three hurried to the stables. Dana had just settled Rhond into the saddle and secured him firmly there with rope, when they heard the bull-horns plunge into their house, shattering plates and breaking chairs. One of them growled and the other answered in their guttural language. Furs and Dana exchanged glances. The back door of the stables was the only savior now.

“Run, and may Ayas be with you.” Dana lit a branch, and faced the front door as a furious pounding erupted on the fragile frame. An axe-head tore through, but lodged in the wood, and they heard a frustrated curse.

“You’re not coming with us?” said Furs. At that moment, the desperate sorrow in Dana’s eyes seemed as the fading dusk.

“He died well?”

Furs knew well who she meant, and looked away, his own pain fresh in his mind. “As well as a man can desire.”

The door came crashing down as two bull-horns bashed through triumphantly. Old Rose gave a startled snort and lashed out her fore-hooves against the barred entrance of her stall in a panicked effort to escape. Rhond wailed atop her, little arms grappling for the warm reassurance of his mother.

“Come no further, or there will be nothing left of you but ashes,” Dana waved the torch before the bull-horns’ faces. The two dark-clad warriors seemed surprised and grunted to each other as if in amusement. They stepped forward menacingly, but Dana’s flaming torch forced them to a halt. “Run for it!” she signaled Furs, and with a free hand, unlatched the stall door.

“Are you mad?” snarled Furs. “We cannot leave you!”

“Go!” came the firm reply. One of the bull-horns lunged, straight for Dana’s throat. Furs leaped onto the donkey and delivered a harsh bite on its haunches. Braying in terror, Old Rose smashed through the back door as if it was nothing but air. Furs heard the crack as Dana's fiery brand struck on iron, and a bestial yelp of pain. Then they were out under the free sky, galloping, fleeing, to breathe and survive and see another day. Furs clung on desperately, digging his sharp claws into the frantic donkey.

A horn blew clear through the ruin, and the ferret dared a glance back. The stables were crackling in fire, and the houses were ablaze, roaring in the inferno. The Crawling Lobster was a grand funeral pyre, the tragic smoke roiling up in black, choking outpours. Screams could still be heard, and pitiful pleas and hopeless curses. By the shore, the boats still anchored faced their demise in the same lustful devouring of flame. Little vessels floated on the waves, the survivors on them witnessing the doom of their homeland.

“There goes everything we have ever known,” mumbled Furs to the whimpering babe.

And everything they had ever loved…

In the woods refuge was granted. The bull-horns did not care to bring their destruction within the circle of tangling branches. Their only goal had been to sack and pillage the village, if there was anything of value at all. With their task complete, the bull-horns were swift to hustle on their way, fearing retribution in this hostile land. A day after the massacre, the black ship appeared on the horizon, and within the hour the bull-horns had departed, leaving behind the grotesque corpses and simmering ash, still hot to touch. The fire burned a long time. And of the survivors who had fled into the forest, most hid like ghosts for weeks after, fearing their own shadow. Some moved on, to Diagre, the nearest city they hoped to reach, or inland, forsaking the sea that spawned them. Few ever returned to Shadun, even after help arrived and reconstruction began, so terrible were the memories.

To others, the Massacre of Shadun, as it became to be known, was a cause for war. In every city and town, from the lowliest tavern to the highest council meet, it was on the lips of every Tonorian. King Leon gathered his generals and called for the lords of each land. Suddenly, the city guard doubled in size and swarms more of new recruits patrolled the coastline. War, every mouth declared. War.

But Rhond and Furs did not think of these matters as they wandered, but rather of simple survival. The two rode for months aimlessly, not knowing where to go. Furs learned, to his dismay, how much milk a mere baby must consume. He knew not where to acquire it, and the four bottles Dana had prepared was sucked dry like magic. In despair, Furs killed a field mouse and tried to offered it, raw and uncooked, to the infant boy, and failed miserably. They were saved when they stumbled upon a clutter of houses in the forest, and the woodsfolk couple who lived there took little Rhond in and fed him. They loved him as their own child, and more than a year passed in tranquility. Furs dutifully hid the precious map of the Sword under a tree far in the bushes. Gradually, Rhond learned to scramble around on two legs, and his speech became more than slurred, single words. No longer did he rely fully on milk, but began to accept the gruel the woodsfolk offered him. The couple treated him like a treasure, for they were lonely and childless in the forest. But one day, the woodsman fell into a trap set for a wild boar, full of pointed stakes that penetrated him. And after he died, the woman soon sickened, and soon Rhond was an orphan again.

Furs dug out the map again. For more than a year the two companions wandered. Furs brought back meat, and Rhond ate them bloody and raw. They kept to the woods, or fields with tall grass that shielded, approaching roads and towns only when necessary. A peek they had of Diagre in the distance, but they turned from that way to wilder parts. Still they had no idea where to go, and Furs, though vaguely troubled by the upbringing of Rhond, was a ferret after all, and more concerned of their next meal than the future far ahead. So it was, that the days went on.

One day, the boy was lounging against a tree, trying to make a game out a few pebbles and bits of bone, when two strong arms grabbed him from behind. Now Rhond had a small, sharp knife, found on a doorstep on one of the nightly visits to town, and by this time he knew well its uses. He struck without hesitation, sinking the blade into flesh, and there was a grumble of pain, but he was not let free. Cloth was stuffed into his mouth to prevent him from crying out, and he was dragged roughly away into the undergrowth. Furs stepped out from the brushes, with a limp bird in his mouth, surprised to find his human charge not where he had left him. Suddenly, a net was cast over him, and he was bundled up, struggling wildly. Now the captors showed themselves, revealing three ugly, snickering faces. Each had a whip or a club, and one possessed a short sword tucked in his belt. They wore rustic, greasy jerkins supplemented by ragged cloaks stained and patched. The tall man who held onto Rhond roughly had a nasty scar down his face that seemed to split his nose in two.

“Brigands,” groaned Furs miserably. Rhond was wriggling, trying to unloose his bound hands. The tall man delivered a brisk cuff to the back of his head, and the boy was still for a moment. Rose was being led by one of the thugs, looking as glum as she always did. Fur glanced worriedly at the pack hanging on her side, which contained the secret map. But there was no time to fret before he was thrown into a cart with Rhond, and they whipped their poor, skeletal horse into a trot, hauling the braying Rose along.

“Where are you bringing us to?” Furs cried out.

“Ah, so it kin talk! That’ll make a fair price at the markets, I’ll be bound!” exclaimed the tall one, stretching out his mud-crusted legs out.

“What ‘bout ‘at boy o’er there?” laughed another, shifting to find a comfortable position.

“Boy goes to th’ dark masters, as said. Leave ‘em alone! Else they’d skin us like pigs! Said nothin’ ‘bout the ferret, they didn’t,” said the driver, whipping the horse to a trot, though it seemed half-dead just walking.

“He’d better pay us ‘nough silver coins for our load o’ work. Whas ‘is name again? Ramshak?” growled the second.

“You won’t dare speak like that in front o’ ‘im if they shove a coin up your arse! I sees you a-tremblin’ when he came, horrifyin’ and all in nis black bull skull helm,” scoffed the tall man, flashing a mocking grin. His teeth were yellow, but there was a golden one in his mouth, with a piece of what looked like cabbage clinging to it.

“Where are you taking us? What dark masters?” asked Furs, puzzled.

“Yer a meddlesome un. Teach you to keep yer mouth shut.” The tall one dealt him a nonchalant clout on his nose.

Furs did not know where they were headed, and where they would be sold off, or worse, separately auctioned. But the brigands understood well where they wanted to go, to these strange “dark masters” and collect their bounty. The thugs moved west along the coastline, then north into Dolith. It was a green, peaceful country of rolling fields and golden corn and sweet pastures, the Bread Basket of Umatelsa. The race that dwelt there were the Hunegs, in likeness to Men in every way, except they had long tails, and tufts of fur covered their faces and parts of the body. Their ears were long and flopped out to the side, alert and quick to react to sound. The younger ones of their kind could glide over short distances. But as they grew older and put on weight each year, this ability would become weaker. That is why there were youths in their army, serving as scouts and spies. How beneficial it was, to send boys to fly overhead an enemy encampment, and report all that was going on, safe from all except for arrows? But they were not a warlike race, their main occupation was farming, of course. Villages were scattered everywhere and it was rather hard to establish a sense of national wholeness among farmsteads that were self-providing and independent. The capital city was also the major fortress, though defensible towns sprawled across the land. Dolithian Huneg warriors were few but valiant, and had protected their people for many ages in the past.

So the days rolled on, and they journeyed almost to the northern borders of Dolith, into Hrodrim, where the Dark Masters awaited. They avoided the villages, for if good-hearted Huneg farmers saw the thugs’ prisoners, they would certainly try to free them. A whole village of infuriated Hunegs was the last thing the thugs wanted to deal with. Though the captors may not care about their captives, they cared about the money they were to make out of them, and did not want them dead when presented to the Dark Masters. Therefore, food and blankets were provided for the prisoners.

Hrodrim was territory of a race of tall black Men. Brilliant warriors, strong and swift of foot, they seldom used horses for any purpose. Mail was sent by messengers on foot, and so were dire tidings from one city to another. It was said that under circumstances, they could indeed outrun a fast charger. Hrodrim’s cities were built close together in the center of the land, and around them many fortresses to defend the cities. But outside their ring of strongholds, only the wild things prowled. Hrodrimers rarely farmed, and only traded for grain and vegetables from Dolith. For ages, the two kingdoms had been staunch allies, and the farmers relied on Hrodrim in times of peril. Cattle-breeders and goat-herders, they prospered from meat, milk and hide. At this time, the bull-horns had begun to sneak into the land on secret dealings, but the Hrodrimers paid little heed to anything outside their settled lands unless it disturbed them.

The thick, lofty grass made it really hard to see in front of them, and the stingy stems cut through the bandits’ flesh.

“They should rip all these wretched plants down!” growled the driver, waving his whip to ward off the tangling grass.

“Let’s rest fer the night,” another suggested.

“Useless maggots! How’re you gonna sleep on this piece of stinkin’ earth?” said the tall man, but the driver stopped and they all clambered down anyhow. The tall man set about clearing the area, piling the grass into prickly beds where they could rest. The others worked on preparing a fire to cook their meal. Rhond and Furs were left wriggling in the cart. With a great yawn, the tall man reclined onto the grass pallet, shifting, swearing under his breath about accursed bugs, and scratching insistently.

“Take th’ grub out and…” he called out to the others, but did not have the chance to finish his sentence. Those were the last few words he could say in his life. Rhond watched in horror as the man’s eyes widened in disbelief, and a moment later, the light in them clouded. An arrow had pierced his chest. Drawing out their weapons, the remaining two thugs huddled close, sweat breaking out on their foreheads.

“Come out! Wha business have you w’ us?” one challenged, his feigned bravado cracking as his voice quivered. His answer was another volley of arrows, sending them scrambling and yelping behind the cart. The poor horse reared, screaming, but before it could bolt, one of the brigands caught its reins, and cutting it loosed from the cart, swung onto its back. The remaining man, seeing his comrade’s intention, lunged to seize the horse. The mounted brigand kicked out at the pursuer, catching him in the face.

But before he could make good his escape, an arrow thudded into his throat and he toppled back onto ground with a choked groan. The other broke away with a marred face, stumbling as the grass tangled his feet, but somehow managed to flee.

Two Wild Elves stepped out. They were strong yet slender as most of their kind were. Both were girdled in traveling gear, wearing brown tunics and light cloaks. The curved, powerful bows in their skilled fingers and the arrows slung on their backs, however, suggested more than met the eye. The arms of the first were white and sinuous, bared from the shoulder, each bearing silver and jeweled arm rings that glittered in the light. The elaborate tattoo on his left arm showed the howling wolf and moon, marking him as a warrior from the White Wolf Tribe. The second wore what seemed like a layer of bark, soft though it looked, around his arms, and he had an impressive sword tucked in his belt. In the Great North, there were six major tribes, three in the White Order; the White Wolf, the White Eagle, the White Leopard, and three in the Blue Order; the Blue Whale, the Blue Ox, and the Blue Deer. The White Wolf was one of the strongest among them.

“Haka, merno,” greeted the first elf in his language, and then switched to the Common Speech when Furs and Rhond both looked evidently confused. “ Greetings, friends. And well met.”

“Well met indeed!” snapped Furs. “Will you shoot us too or will you hurry up and chase that runaway bastard down? He could not have gotten far, if you have a mind to give chase.”

“Fiery you are, master ferret!” the elf burst into laughter. “But it is not always good to kill to the last. He is gone, and you are saved. That was the main goal, was is not? To rescue you? Live and let live.” They cut their bonds.

“They surely did not let us live,” muttered Furs.

“True,” the other elf said, smiling. “But we must be on our way, with little time to spare in slaughter. Where come you, may we ask?” He looked pointedly at Rhond.

The little boy was genuinely confused. Where he and Furs had traveled from was not a clear definition in his head. What little he remembered of Shadun was of fire, and all else was of the trees and the bushes. “The woods,” he replied vaguely, staring at the second elf’s sword in wonder.

“Shadun of Tonor,” clarified Furs.

“Tonor?” the first elf seemed surprised. “Then the bandits have taken you a long way. And Shadun was burned, we heard. You have a tale tell, and a sad one as well, I deem. But that must await. Do you have any plans?”

“No,” replied Furs, a little crushed. “We have been wandering for a long time. The cub’s parents were killed, unfortunately, and I do not know how to raise him.”

“Ah, my condolences,” the first elf said to Rhond. “You are so young, to lose your family. Come with us to our homeland, the Great North, where we could at least try to settle you. Yellow Deer of the White Wolf am I, and my companion is Owl Leaf, son of Owl Tree.” Owl Leaf frowned, glancing at Rhond, and questioned his friend in Elvish.

“Is this wise, Yellow Deer? Take him? He is a human, by the Wolf’s Eye! The tribe will never accept him.”

“I have a feeling that it will be a great good that I take him. And, as you know, such instincts are not to be ignored,” said Yellow Deer.

“He will not be allowed to live with us! A human, my friend, not one of us!” reminded Owl Leaf. “If you wish to be kind, as I would, bring him to his own kind. A town in Soloi, say, where there are Men. Foster him with a family.”

“My mind is set. Do not attempt to dissuade me in this. If it eases your heart, I promise to send him back, as you suggest, if he is rejected by the Grandfather.”

Owl Leaf subsided, still troubled. Yellow Deer beckoned to Furs and Rhond, who had been watching them converse in their strange tongue. They had no choice but to follow. “But Old Rose—” said Furs, remembering the donkey with the map still on her. The donkey had broken from its rope and fled wisely as soon as the commotion began. But at this moment, as if in response to her name, she reappeared, snorting and stopping before Yellow Deer, a half-chewed stem of grass dangling from her mouth. Even though she was one of the animals who didn’t speak the human language, the wild elves knew her tongue and Rose seemed to understand them. The small company traveled through the wild lands of Hrodrim, and they could see wafts of black smoke rising from the horizon.

“The smoke is rising. Soon even Achuma shall be in peril,” said Owl Leaf gravely. “I hope the Hrodrimers will win a swift victory.” Unbeknownst to Rhond and Furs until now, Kermokren had already struck. But his target was a surprise to whole Umatelsa, not attacking Tonor as expected to avenge his grievance, but Hrodrim, a country that had neither wronged nor offended him. Many of the seaside defenses were already taken, for Hrodrim had been assaulted at unawares. Rumors had that the black fleet was vast, a hundred ships at least, and the soldiers were beastlike monsters who drank blood and devoured the flesh of the slain. But rumors were rumors. The war was yet a distant whiff of smoke in the air for most, and few expected the conflict to last long. The Hrodrimers would take back their own soon enough, once their blood was awakened, everyone said. Tonor had deployed a company to aid the Hrodrimers, some reported, but whether that was true was not clear. Hrodrim and Tonor had always been at odds, their feud going back a hundred years.

What the commoners did not know was that King Leon had indeed sent his troops, joining with a few Dolithian platoons sent by the Hunegs, but they had all been slaughtered without exception. There were indeed about a hundred ships of Malconde in the beginning, but that was before a hundred and fifty more arrived at the east coast. Now the black army was shoving its way inland, even nearing Achuma, the capital of Hrodrim, and Tlymerf the Chief was desperate for more assistance. But after losing a whole company, Leon was reluctant to suffer more casualties. Dolith doubled its fortifications on its eastern frontier, lest Hrodrim fall and they were next. They, facing imminent danger, were the only ones who made an effort to help Hrodrim, sending soldiers and supplies. But with the incoming harvest, the force they could spare was meager. The other countries were content to watch the unfolding play, with no interest in participating.

“The flames will not fade away here,” said Yellow Deer portentously. “ I have a feeling this war will last a long time. A very long time. It shall spread across all of Umatelsa.” The invasion of Kermokren was the very reason Yellow Deer and his companion were scouting in Hrodrim, so far away from home. The Grandfather, tribe leader of the White Wolf, had sent them to gather intelligence of the distant strife that reached the isolated north but dimly. They had found a taint of anxiety in Dolith, but the preparation of harvest and the Fall Festival went on nevertheless. Soloi was full of grumbling merchants and seemed only troubled by the disruption of trade. Hrodrim, however, was a different matter, with families fleeing inland with their cattle, slaughtering the livestock they could not bring along instead of letting the enemy take them.

Leading Old Rose with Rhond and Furs atop, the wild elves headed back north for two months. Only rarely did they venture into populated towns, and mostly sheltered under trees or in caves. Instead of hunting, the wild elves showed Rhond how to gather roots and berries, and distinguish between poisonous and edible mushrooms. The herbs they brewed for tea were a new curiosity to Rhond, and so were the sweet biscuits they produced from their packs. The wild elves themselves touched no meat, but kept silent when Furs brought the boy prey. They did instruct Rhond on the use of fire, and he used it, delighting in roasted meat.

“None of you eat meat? Not ever?” asked Rhond in wonder one night, huddled beside the fire.

“No. Herbivore,” replied Owl Leaf, pointing to himself. “No claws, no sharp teeth. I do not find a kill attractive, nor do I find vegetables repulsive, as a predator does. I will eat an animal only when survival demands it. Other than that, I find no need. The Circle decrees, and we abide.”

“The Circle?” Rhond said, wide-eyed.

“The Circle,” repeated Yellow Deer, as if contemplating how to explain such a subject to a three year old. He waved a hand around him, taking in the whole world in his gesture. “Sky, earth, sea. Sun and moon and the stars. Mountains, forests, plains. Bird, Beast, Man, Elf, Dwarf, Huneg and every race. Silence and noise, war and peace, death and birth and life. It is a cycle, again and again. The Circle.”

Rhond did not understand. “And me too?”

“Yes, you as well,” laughed the two elves together cheerfully. Rhond shivered despite the fire, and a great sneeze burst from him. It was getting colder, as they journeyed nearer to the Great North, and the merciless wind swiped their faces fiercely. Luckily, the wild elves brought extra wool blankets. Yellow Deer wrapped another one around Rhond, who drifted into sleep as Owl Leaf sang a sad lay of a man who loved a winged unicorn.

Day by day, they trudged through the snow, now in abundance, and the trees seemed to change as well. The tall pines whispered to each other in wind, and often the elves would pause and listen for a moment, as if for warnings or news. Yellow Deer’s arms remained bare as if resilient to the cold, and he walked light and unencumbered through the snow. The arm wrappings of Owl Leaf were changed to soft, cotton ones. Both now wore heavy cloaks of thick, white Horno wool, with a strong musky odor clinging to them. Hornos were gigantic creatures that roamed the northern wastes, covered in tons of wool that hid their small eyes. It is a myth that they had no eyes at all, but that is false, though it is true that they had no nose and were entirely bereft of smell. They had a set of spiked, formidable tusks and the crushing feet of elephants that could grind a whole forest into sand. Each were gifted with three slim, agile tails that swung hither and thither, feeling their surroundings to atone for their lack of smelling. Their newborn calves had wool sleek and white, as pure and beautiful as dove feathers. A year later they would shed their coats in summer, and attain the bold brown coloring of their parents. The hordes of fallen wool would be lying around untouched, and each year the wild elves would gather them up and weave and stitch to their hearts desire. What surplus they had would be sold to the trading caravans.

Rhond and Furs were guided smoothly through the dense forest of the Great North, until at last they were on the borders of the White Wolf’s realm. It seemed no different to the two newcomers, but the wild elves began looking around expectantly. When they reached a particularly thick part of the woods, the elves stopped suddenly, bodies tense, pointed ears pricking slightly at what only they could hear. Rhond and Furs held their breaths, nervously waiting for some doom to descend, but their guardians relaxed, signaling them forward. But when they proceeded to move on, a startling voice rang out.

“Ekati!” An arrow shot out from the trees, onto the ground inches in front of them. “Halt!”

“Merno! Merno caszr!” Yellow Deer answered quickly.

“Vi Nuumba,” came the voice, sounding as if amused. A wild elf leaped out from a tree, lowering his bow. “What tidings, Yellow Deer, Owl Leaf?” he asked, saluting them.

“Evil news, of war and death,” said Yellow Deer gravely.

“Ah.” The sentry nodded, but questioned no more. The time for discussion would be later.

“What were you thinking, Blue-stone, with that arrow?” reproached Owl Leaf, gesturing the arrow on the ground, quivering gently in the breeze.

“A jest only,” smiled Blue-stone wickedly.

“Hmmph,” said Owl Leaf, but let it go.

“May you be kind enough to introduce your guests?” Blue-stone looked suspiciously at Rhond and Furs. “You know there are strict orders forbidding us to bring strangers into our land, especially humans.”

“I will explain later, Blue Stone,” said Yellow Deer firmly.

“Very well, but you better have an acceptable excuse when we see the Grandfather,” sighed Blue Stone, not in the mood to argue. “They must be blind-folded as we enter the Tree Ring.”

Rhond and Furs were led smoothly all the way through the tangled brushes, with eyes covered. Birds chirped and piped merrily in the trees, and the wild elves would occasionally twitter out to them in return.

“Here it is!” Blue Stone untied the cloths binding Rhond’s and Furs’s eyes. “The village of the White Wolf!”

There among the soaring trees nestled the delightful, bustling settlement. The gate was little more than a fence of vines intertwining between two proud trunks, and the walls were trimmed bushes coaxed to a man’s height. They had almost no need of stouter protection since none had ever been able to find their secluded dwelling. Upon the strong branches of the mighty, vigorous pine trees, stood wooden houses with stairs convolving around the trunks and spiraling to the top. Some were large, stretching from limb to limb, or even tree to tree, a network of log bridge-ways linking them together. Wild Elves were climbing up and down busying about their daily duties, and some ducked through the entrances in the roots to reach the underground levels. Children laughed merrily as they stumbled and chased each other in unchallenged freedom. Older youths swung their wooden swords in practice, as their drill-masters hovered close by, keeping a close eye on them. A couple of Elf women were contesting in an archery match, causing the old folk who were weaving baskets to cheer when an arrow hit its mark. Mounds of berries, nuts and fruit were laid out to dry, rustling seductively in the gentle wind. Soldiers in dark green cloaks were scattered in the shadows, only barely visible, watching warily for signs of disturbance.

All this Rhond watched, eyes gleaming in wonder, absorbing the colors of life. The overpowering pine needles and the devious sun rivaled, dappling the settlement in patches of shadow and light. The voices of the children, the clashing blades, the thud of arrows, the rustle of the brush, and the trees stirring in the breeze; they all wove together into a single flow. It was a place of music, of rhythm, and wholeness. He did not realize he was standing dumbstruck blocking the gate until Yellow Deer nudged him gently on the back. Obediently, he shuffled forward, staring at his toes as he felt the eyes on him. The old elves looked up from their baskets, and the archers prodded each other, exchanging glances. Two sparring youths examined him sideways, receiving a remonstrating clout on their ribs by their trainer. A few guards watched warily, but seeing the escort of their own, did not move to intercept them. The music of their merry lives seemed hushed, broken by an alien presence. Rhond blushed, his head even lower. But as they passed the normal tasks resumed, the harmonious strands were picked up and woven back into the pattern.

In the center of the village, stood the oldest cedar, the heart of the people who dwelt under the protection of the forest. Rhond gazed up, but could not see the summit of its height. The main wooden structure, supported by thick, outreaching branches, was built above them around the trunk, with the rest of the soaring tree flourishing up through the middle unencumbered. Other huts peered out from the curtain of needles. Bridge-ways rose to meet each of them, disappearing from their view to higher peaks.

“This, is the dwelling of the Grandfather.” Yellow Deer pointed to the grandest lodging, that Rhond was sure was the majestic palace he had ever laid sight upon. “We are taking you to meet him.”

They climbed the circling stairs, Rhond stepping up uncertainly, supported by the firm hand of Yellow Deer. Owl Leaf and Blue-stone stayed below, exchanging some grim conversation with each other. Furs had leaped ahead, only a white fleck darting from side to side above them, but he was clearly headed for a squirrel, not the house.

When at last they stood before the whitewood door of the immense structure, Rhond’s breath was already labored. Yellow Deer knocked gingerly on it, giving the petrified boy a kindly smile.

“Perk up, boy,” he said, and at an utter of admittance from the inside, turned the handle and stepped inside. What greeted them was overwhelming warmth, wrapping their bodies and relaxing their stiff limbs. The hall was airy but not lavishly huge, furnished with all the sweet comforts of a home. A great fire roared before the hearth, cheerful and vigorous. Facing it was an enormous chair, covered with layers of horno wool, overlapping brown and white. At its foot spread a soft mass of rugs, barring the winter chill from seeping through the floor. Shields lined the walls, massive, bright shields rich with paint and images, and Rhond stared at them, sorting out the stories in each vivid picture.

“Do you like them, boy?” The voice was deep and calm, and Rhond snapped his attention back to the chair. The wild elf who reclined in it had turned his head, and was watching him thoughtfully. His eyes were a soft yet penetrating blue, and as he smiled, the wrinkles on their edges showed like cracking earth. White hair flowed down to his shoulders, while Yellow Deer’s were silver and tied back in a warrior’s tail.

“Yes,” said Rhond.

“And our village?” His eyes were unfathomable, and he beckoned with a gnarled hand. “Come, come before me, child.”

“It is beautiful,” Rhond admitted, stepping in front of the huge chair, suddenly enthusiastic as he remembered the lively place.

The Grandfather smiled, and it was welcoming and gentle, soothing the tenseness in the boy. “Anything in particular that has taken your interest? I would love to show you around.”

“Everything together. Like music,” said Rhond, trying to make sense of it to himself as well as to the Grandfather.

The tribe leader’s lit up for a moment, clearly pleased. “Where did you find this one, Yellow Deer?” he asked the elf standing by respectfully. “A human who can hear the music of the Circle?”

So Yellow Deer told the tale of his rescue, and the Grandfather listened intently. “I took the liberty to bring him, for he had no where to go and in him I sensed some potential. The son of the Red Dragon, he is. The Dark One, who comes now to harry the shores of Hrodrim seems to want him. It seemed wise to bring him. If I was wrong to do so, I will send him back,” he finished.

“The Elders will not be easily swayed,” mused the Grandfather. “It has never been done. A human fosterling among us.”

“I regret, if I have done wrong,” said Yellow Deer sincerely, bowing his head.

“This will create a stir,” continued the Grandfather, shifting in the layers of wool. “They will not like it, many of them. They have nearly no dealings with humans, and reasons to distrust them. The Elders would want him gone.”

“But you, Grandfather? Do you, as well?” Yellow Deer was hopeful.

The old elf wrinkled his brow, then let out a long sigh. “No, indeed. But I alone would not account for everything. This is a matter that must be decided at a Stone Casting.”

“Ah,” said Yellow Deer, and he seemed not as optimistic as before.

“It will increase his chances, at least, compared to a hearing with the Elders. I expect the majority of the people to be more sympathetic,” explained the Grandfather.

“Shall I blow the Summoning Horn? For tonight?” asked Yellow Deer.

“Yes, do that, and—” the Grandfather paused, pondering. “Inform the Elders of a private meeting with me here, when the sun reaches its zenith. You will be present, and Owl Leaf, of course, to report all you have seen in the south. After all, you had more to do than save little wild strays.” He chuckled.

“And Mage Blue-wing?” inquired Yellow Deer, still serious.

“Hmm, I doubt you will find him.” The Grandfather gave another exaggerating sigh. “He will appear, I suppose, when our need is dire enough.”

“Then, by your leave, I will go run these errands,” said Yellow Deer.

“Wait. Does the boy have anything of his own?”

“Aye, a donkey carrying a few possessions. Not much to speak of. And Furs, a ferret who is his companion, no, protector, I would say.”

“Let the donkey roam as it will. Bring the things here. The boy will lodge with me tonight, as there are no free houses. Whatever the outcome of the Stone Casting, he must sleep here for a day or two. And the ferret is welcome, if it will approach.”

Bowing, Yellow Deer retreated from the Grandfather’s hall, leaving Rhond by the blazing fire.





“Who gave you the right to bring a stranger, a human, within our realm?” The wild elf, an Elder, stood in the circle ringed by stones, shaking his head in disbelief. Across from him, separated from the vehemence only by the crackling bonfire, was Yellow Deer, holding firm against the onslaught.

“An orphan, with no where to go,” he said patiently. “We have raised lost fawns and nursed wounded wolf pups. I see not why this should be any different.” The flames revealed the grim faces of the other Elders, seated cross-legged around the ring, and beyond them the people gathered.

“A human! No gentle cub is this. Most of you,” the Elder’s glance raked the crowd. “Most of you have seen what his kind are capable of. Do you remember the destruction of the trees and the Years of Darkness? Would you keep one of theirs among us, a snake among mice?”

The last war fought upon the grand scale of all Umatelsa had been with invaders from the western seas, human raiders suddenly keen to settle. They had burned down many forests of the Great North, near destroying the tribes, and it was no wonder the wild elves had no love for humans, even one from the noble race of Tonorians who had nothing in common with the raiders. A hundred years ago it was, but wild elves lived a long time, and many were already warriors during the devastating period. Those too young to have seen the battles or the years of chaos and distrust that followed looked to the veterans.

“Snake? Indeed! Here, look—” Yellow Deer drew a bewildered Rhond forward into the glow of the fire, turning him for all to examine. “This scrawny, three or four year old pup is a threat to our existence!” Someone muffled a laugh, and a few murmured amongst themselves, but most held their silence, weighing their judgment carefully.

“Harmless it may seem, as of now, but what happens when the cub grows claws?” The Elder folded his arms, frowning intently at Rhond, making him squirm under the scrutiny.

The Grandfather cleared his throat and began to speak in his calm, and measured tone, compelling the attention of every ear.

“The more reason to raise him here, in the ways of the North, and nurture him in our lore. For he is the son of the Red Dragon, whose fame even we had heard of. Such a one fostered among us will do only good for both races, and perhaps in time, increase our understanding of each other.” The words felt like sound wisdom, and many nodded, their doubt and worries eased if not vanquished. The Elders around the fire sat silently, seething at their disadvantage. Their spokesperson opened his mouth as if to argue more, but the Grandfather held up his hand, and the mouth clamped shut again.

“Enough.” The instant authority brought a halt to all the murmured discussions. “It is late, and we must resolve this matter. Kinsmen, the time has come to cast your stones.”

Two Counters stepped into the ring swiftly and set down two large iron pots, one on each side of the fire. The one on the right was painted white, while the other on the left was naturally black as coal. Sternly, they guarded them, awaiting the orderly files now shuffling forth to make their decision. Every wild elf had two stones, one white for acceptance, and the other black for rejection. The Elders came forward, resolutely dropping their black stones into the gaping mouth of the pot. One shot a glance at Rhond that was neither sour nor venomous, only deeply troubled, and returned stiffly to his seat. Then those younger and less cautious strode into the circle, brave and confident, and threw their stones into the pots. Some gave Rhond a benevolent grin or wink, but others edged by him suspiciously. The older, experienced generations held back, hesitating and considering their choices. Slowly, they began to rise, placing their stones carefully, often eyeing the boy critically. Patting Rhond encouragingly on his back, Yellow Deer went and cast his white stone, looking defiantly at a few who were toying with their black stones. Owl Leaf had the chance to nod at Rhond briefly before the white pot, then returned to the crowd.

The Grandfather rose, walked regally into the circle and held high his white stone for all to see, then tossed it in. His knowing gaze swept the gathering, and a few flinched from his eyes as they chose their black stones.

At last only the two Counters remained. They exchanged a somber glance, and some message seemed to be conveyed, for one shrugged with a faint sigh. The stones they both raised for the wild elves to see were black.

With an apologetic look in the Grandfather’s direction, they added them to the pot, almost filled to the brink.

“The Choice has been made. May the Wolf’s Eye shine down upon us and witness the judgment of the Stones.” The Grandfather’s voice was still even and precise, his face serene. Only the most observant would have noticed the tightness in his clenched jaw. Bowing, the two Counters placed their palms over the mouths of their pots and closed their eyes.

Rhond was curious, straining to hear the mumbled incantations that were streaming from the Counters. With a mixture of alarm and fascination, he watched the palms of the two elves start to glow.

“The pot that bursts into fire is the one that has more stones. This is it, little one. I rather like you, even though you are a human. I hope you can stay,” said Yellow Deer, firm hands on the boy's shoulder. Rhond was not sure he knew what was happening, only that it was something about him. He felt more like sleeping instead of standing shivering among solemn strangers.

At that moment, a spout of flame sent a hot gust into their faces. They heard the abrupt intake of breath around the ring as all beheld the decision. Rhond gawked in delight at the flaring pot. It was black. He had the impression that it meant ill, but he was too absorbed with the magic to take heed at the moment. Yellow Deer, however, tightened his grip on Rhond and looked toward the Grandfather for guidance. The tribe-leader did not notice him, but was instead glared fixedly at the pots. The Elders nodded sagely to each other, well pleased that their verdict was upheld as usual.

But before they could finish their congratulations, another flame gushed from the white pot. Immediately, confused, roaring voices engulfed the gathering. Both pots boasted fire. Therefore, both had the most number of stones.

It took the Grandfather three calls to quell the commotion.

“In a hundred years, this has not occurred. It is rare, a sign from the Wolf’s Eye that we may not pass judgment so lightly and rashly,” concluded the Grandfather. But what seemed like salvation did not bode well. For the matters that could not be resolved by the people, as in this instance, would be decided by the ring of Elders. The astonishment on the Elders’ faces began to subside as they realized this, and again they nodded to themselves, content.

“Are there yet any who have not cast their votes but wish to do so?” asked the Grandfather. “You may now come forth, if you will.”

Beyond the boundaries of the fire’s light, leaves rustled insolently and a howl pierced the chill deep in the forest. But no one moved.

“Very well.” Again the Grandfather rose slowly, and in reverence the people scrambled to their feet, expecting to be dismissed. “The Stones have spoken. You may receive blessing for your presence, and return now to warm beds. May the White Wolf ward your dreams.”

“And bring you courage for the new day,” they responded, bowing low, then in quieter voices, took leave of friends and relatives around them. To some, the result of the night was unsatisfactory, but all were silent as they dispersed to their lodgings.

“Will the Grandfather propose the time to convene the Elders tomorrow?” asked an old elf with deference, but he could not hide the fact that he was well pleased with how events had played right into their hands.

“As soon as the sun rises. We shall break our fast together, in my house,” commanded the Grandfather, but he knew that he had lost the battle. The council that would follow was but a necessary display. There need be no discussions at all.

“There is one stone to cast yet,” said a voice, cool and quiet, yet carrying forcefully across.

The disbanding cluster of elves parted respectfully, offering traditional greetings with right hands over their hearts. Many paused to watch as the newcomer glided into the ring. Rhond watched in curiosity the trail of silver snow as the stranger passed him, cloaked in ruffles of white.

“Blue-wing,” said the Grandfather neutrally, but could not quite hide the beam of his victorious smile. “You come late.”

Blue-wing nodded but did not answer, and strode silently over to the white pot, observing the spouting fumes.

“The Stones have chosen. It cannot be changed.” An Elder stepped forward defensively as if to thwart his way.

Blue-wing turned his way, but the hood hid his features and Rhond could not see his expression. He did see, in fascination, that the Elder recoiling instantly, as if pierced by a shaft. The other Elders stood grimly, glaring but beaten.

The white stone dropped in with a plunk, and the white pot roared with renewed vigor while the black one sputtered and died. The course of Rhond’s life shifted into a new track, and perhaps it was the will of Fate.

But he did not understand then, being a little boy standing cold and hungry and rather sleepy in the snow. All he saw was the Grandfather’s fond smile that wrinkled the skin and the warmth of Yellow Deer as he wrapped him in his arms to carry him off to bed.

And beyond the bright burning circle, the trees loomed in impenetrable shadow, and between the branches the stars danced in the heavens. But Blue-wing was gone, vanished as if he had never come.