“Now what am I going to do,” he muttered to himself, not expecting to be heard.
“You will do what you have to,” came a reply from the dark.
Anson spun toward the sound of this voice and immediately recognized its source.
“You have a way of showing up in the midst of apparent trouble, Hillister.”
“I would disagree, Anson. What most see as troublesome is often less than mere appearance,” said the slender man now standing only a few feet away. He was still dressed in the same tan robe belted at the waist with a white rope, the ends hanging down to about knee height.
“Surely you know that I seek to cross the river, yet you imply it is only an apparent problem. I cannot walk on the water or fly across.”
“True, you can do neither of those things, but you do have powers. You know what must be done, yet you have not given enough thought to the means at your disposal. You and your companions have powers to solve such problems. Use them.” Hillister turned to head back into shadow, but stopped to give Anson a friendly nod that seemed to convey encouragement.
Anson said, “Wait, Hillister! I am just a simple mage. I have no high powers...” Anson took a step, but the man moved completely into the dark.
Not sure whether to fear this mysterious figure or deny their conversation even took place, Anson sighed deeply. He dismissed fear, sensing that Hillister sympathized with their intentions to stop the war between Antrim and Gilsum. But for some unknown reason, Hillister was restrained in what he would say and what help he could provide.
Somewhat annoyed at the enigma surrounding Hillister’s words, Anson brought both hands to his hips. If he was supposed to have the requisite powers to do something about his situation, as Hillister said, what could he do? He could not fly across nor manage a boat in the swift water. The only calmness to this river was above the water. That must be it! The mage from Huxley was struck with an idea: He could try to levitate the boat and travel over the water.
Anson concentrated his mindpower and searched his memory to recall the words for levitation, a delicate spell he used with small objects. Anson had no experience trying to levitate something as large as an oar, let alone an entire rowboat. After searching his memory for the words, it took several failed iterations before he got the words in the right sequence. Finally, the boat began to quiver. He repeated the words and increased his concentration. The boat began to rise—and rise—until it reached the height of a tree, fell weakly into the water and floated away with the current.
What happened! Anson stood dumbfounded at his success at levitating the boat. What have I done wrong? He remembered something Nevin said about directing the action of a spell. What did Nevin call those spell elements? “Coordinates?” Something about position in space and framing the object of the spell.
The boat was hopelessly unavailable, so the mage looked around for something else to aid him. There were several discarded tree limbs lying nearby, apparently too small to be used for the rafts. He did not have the time or materials to build a proper raft himself, but another idea occurred to him. Anson concentrated again, this time with attention to desired position in space, and cast quick levitation spells to raise three limbs till they were about waist height off the ground. He moved them while suspended until they were side by side, and then tied them together with anchor rope from the boat. Once bound, and with his mental energy properly focused, he pushed the makeshift raft over to the river’s edge, still hovering securely in the air. Once he climbed aboard the suspended raft, he made a silent acknowledgment to Nevin for his insight about “coordinates.”
Anson could sense that his focus on the levitation spell was limited, more so than less demanding spellwork like indifference. He guessed he had a matter of minutes before the spell wore off and the makeshift raft would fall. He also realized he had no way to propel the raft over the water. Chastising himself again for poor planning, he looked about for a paddle but there was nothing that would serve. Anxious to get moving before dawn broke, he reasoned that he might be able to propel the raft by using his feet. He laid face down on the raft and let his legs dangle over the side. By stretching his feet, he could push off against the bank at the water’s edge. Doing so, the raft coasted forward several feet, now hovering over open water. Stretching further, the mage discovered he could get some propulsion by frog-kicking his dangling feet against the water, especially where he could gain purchase on exposed rocks. Lunge by lunge, he gradually edged farther out across the river. This method of propulsion worked steadily until he eventually neared the far shore, but it only worked because he maintained levitation just above the surface of the water.
Dawn was approaching and Anson knew he must not be seen carrying out an act of magery. When he was a dozen feet from the shore, he felt his makeshift raft quiver slightly. Despite his mounting fatigue, he furiously kicked his outstretched feet to propel the final distance. As he closed in on the far bank, the quivering increased to a wobble and the raft fell into the water as the spell expired. Anson thrashed about and managed the last few feet to safety. Once the wet mage was on dry land, he dropped to his knees, exhausted. Too fatigued to move on, he lay on his back to recover his strength. After a few minutes, he laughed aloud at the odd sight this must have been.
Chapter 7
A bond grows
“Is the droll dead?”
“He’s not dead, but he’s unconscious and I can’t rouse him.”
“Where is Anson?”
“I don’t know. When I woke up, he was missing.”
A short distance from their camp, Zael and a few others had gathered around Corissa and Nevin. The two humans were kneeling over Gren, who was flat on his back. It was just past sunrise when they discovered the droll. In the weak light of dawn, Nevin could not tell what had happened to Gren but there was no indication of injury.
“Maybe he was attacked by Gilsum soldiers, perhaps some advance scouts.”
“Could it be injuries he suffered from his fight with the troll?”
Zael knelt down for a closer look. “The droll has been slept,” he said.
“Slept?”
“A sleeping spell was put on him,” Zael answered. “Anson must have done it, and recently from its effect. That is why it is so difficult to wake him, Sir Nevin. He will recover without harm before long.”
One of the elves whispered something privately to Zael, who nodded but said nothing until a look from Nevin indicated the need. “Brune asks whether Anson has gone to warn the Red Shirts of our presence.”
“That’s ridiculous! Anson would not give us away!” Nevin snapped, rising to his feet and towering over everyone present. “That’s absolutely crazy and you should know it!”
“Brune thinks your mage friend might warn them to prevent the loss of so many human lives.”
Nevin shook his head to deny the allegation; he paced off a few steps to sort things out. Even an amateur psychologist should be able to figure out what happened here, he thought. There aren’t that many variables. He scratched his growing stubble of a beard. A moment later he threw his head back and snapped his fingers, startling most of the elves gathered about them. “I get it now. I think I see what he has done.”
“What do you mean, Nevin?” asked Corissa.
“He must have gone to the Gilsum camp, as Brune suggested, to ask them not to invade the Wood. That’s just what he would do after he realized that Zael wouldn’t back down from attacking those men.”
“It is the Red Shirts who have made the first attack when they felled our trees. My plan is one of defense!” protested Zael.
“It is all the same to Anson,” Nevin shot back. “To kill men—or elves, or any creatures—is intolerable to Anson, as it should be to you, Mr. Elf-Lord!”
Several gasps preceded a sharp silence after this accusation, but Nevin was not through defending his friend. “You never hesitated to take the most violent course, Zael. You could have explored other possibilities to detain t
he Gilsum soldiers, but you were quick to decide on a plan that would kill or injure most of them. You may not like to hear it, Zael, but you’re as prone to military madness as those men.”
Brune, standing next to his leader, may not have understood all of Nevin’s words, but it was evident from the tone that the human was quite angry. Brune took a step forward and dropped a hand to the hilt of his dagger. Zael quickly motioned for him to stop.
“All right, Tall One. Say what you think has happened here.”
Everyone relaxed a little and Nevin continued, “When Gren saw where Anson was headed, he must have either tried to stop him or go with him. Anson had to resort to a sleep spell in order to get away from the droll. He would not put Gren in jeopardy.”
Brune emphatically shook his head, asking why Anson would put himself in such peril when his side had the strategic advantage. Nevin knew Anson well enough to answer, but it was Zael who spoke, “He does not want anyone killed or hurt, Brune. This mage would sacrifice himself to save men he does not even know, even men who would kill him if they knew his identity. He has not betrayed us, but in his way he is trying to save us. Sir Nevin, if they discover he is a mage, he is lost. Can you save him with magic?”
“Sorry, Zael. If I could do something, I would.” Nevin shrugged helplessly. Corissa put her hand on his arm. Her eyes showed concern, but she offered no solution. Both of them realized that the next step was Zael’s to take, and the elf leader was now ready to move.
“Whether Anson lives or dies will be soon decided,” added Zael. “But we cannot wait to see what happens to him. The Red Shirts will try to move their soldiers across the river today and we must get into position to maintain our advantage—even at the risk of imitating human aggression.” Zael might have been stung by Nevin’s criticism, but it was clear the elves were still going to defend their Wood.
Zael was handed a stout wooden rod about seven feet long. “Sir Nevin, here is the staff you requested. I suggest you stay close to Lady Corissa. I can spare no one else to guard you, so you will have to be alert for your own protection. If you are overrun, shout for help and we will try to aid you.”
Zael curtly passed on instructions to a nearby elf who snapped to attention then ran off. A few minutes later, elves started to appear from all sides and gather in the center of the glade.
Soon a large crowd had assembled and the number astounded Nevin. He recalled that Zael made reference to a large contingent, but there had to be two hundred or more elves massed in the glade, though not all of them were armed. Over the past few nights, Nevin had enjoyed their pleasant, affable nature as he got to know these forest denizens, but now their mood was somber. The odd-sounding collective murmur of high-pitched elven voices made this scene seem surreal, and the sheer number of bodies made for a visual and auditory contrast with the forest surroundings. This was the only time Nevin had noticed their sounds standing out from the natural sounds of the woodland. Zael strode to the center of the glade, stopped and raised his hand. There was immediate silence. No birds trilled. Even the rustling of leaves stopped as if the wind and trees seemed subject to obeisance before the Elf-Lord. Zael spoke slowly and deliberately in a common tongue so that all present would get every word.
“You must forgo your personal needs now. Leave all parcels here; carry only weapons. We will depart very soon to take our positions. We must walk at our quietest and speak only in whispers. Those of you armed with bows, save your swordwood arrows for those wearing armor. The best archers will be placed so that the enemy leaders will be the first struck. You have been told how to identify their leaders. If the Red Shirts succeed in getting many fighters across the river, you must succeed in felling your targets with one shot. Remember their vital spots.”
Zael concluded his speech with a short expression in elven words that seem appreciated by the elves, and, in a quiet way, seemed to rouse them. Exhorting the troops to defend home and hearth, Nevin thought, a time-honored tradition before the battle. He solemnly shook his head and surveyed the scene with grave disappointment, perhaps as Anson would have done if he were there.
Almost instantly, the crowd thinned out and the large contingent of elves dispersed into the Wood, all moving west toward the river to take up their positions. Nevin was awed by the seriousness of the moment and humbled by his complete lack of experience in military matters. Using his staff as a walking stick, he moved over to Corissa’s side and asked her to accompany him. She seemed unsure at first, as if she intended to protest this decision.
“Corissa, we cannot avoid this confrontation now. We have to be concerned with our safety. Please come with me so we find a spot to take cover.”
He laid a hand gently on her shoulder and she acquiesced. The two walked west in the same direction taken by the elves. Gren stirred, but at Zael’s order was left to recover on his own.
Although the Wood was not particularly dense in this area, Nevin noticed that he had gained some skill at walking quietly and with less difficulty through the tangle of briar, bramble and bracken amid the trees. There was nothing magical about it, merely selecting soft ground plants, particularly the ferns and bracken, which would muffle a footfall and cushion one’s path. Roots could be avoided or lightly stepped on to avoid tripping. It was remarkable how fast he was adjusting to these barely believable circumstances.
* * *
It was easy to detect the very edge of the Wood because of the distinct tree line, but this line was now interspersed with a hundred stumps from trees very recently hewn. Zael stood alone at the forest edge, looking over the damage with a cold, stone-faced stare. Nevin and Corissa quietly walked up to his side, but said nothing. Littered everywhere were wood chips, saw dust, branches and the remains of tree crowns. Numerous small bonfires had burned down to embers and ashes, filling the air with the harsh scent of latent wood smoke. Knowing how the elves treated their land with the care and attention one gives a home, it was a ghastly sight that gave Nevin momentary pause to forgive Zael’s outrage.
Zael turned his stare to Nevin. Without a blink the Elf-Lord spoke, his voice almost a whisper and feathered with sadness. “Look closely at what has been done. This has been a massacre of living beings, made worse because only young trees were cut for their uniform size. Can you feel the loss of life here, Tall One, as we do?”
The Elf-Lord’s face showed grief, but his look quickly hardened again as he organized and located his troops. His intention was clear: This assault on Elvenwood would not go unpunished.
Zael suggested that Nevin and Corissa move to a high spot amid a cluster of medium-sized birch trees. From there they could remain hidden and see down past the scrubby, bushier growth to the bank of the river. From this distance, they could already see about three dozen men milling around on the shore, most of whom had taken off their red uniform tops as a concession to their manual labor. Several men were attending to a huge rope, which they were trying to secure to some type of anchor post. Two soldiers were positioned as guards, but they were nonchalant about their duty and seemed either half asleep or otherwise not alert.
On the far side of the river, Nevin could see a lot of campfire smoke and barely perceptible movements of many red-clad men, though they were too far away to see distinctly what was going on.
The river itself was the only whitewater Nevin had seen so far in this land. Except for the foamy tops of curling waves and rollers, the cloudy sky made the river appear almost black. The current was very swift, due to the narrowing of the river channel from much wider beds to the north and south. There were occasional large rocks in the river which produced some eddies and rapid backflows, and downstream the curling waves terminated at a large souse hole. Why would the army try to cross here, where the strength of the current could make their crossing perilous? Someone had said this was a deep river with a fast drop-off, which added another peril for those who tried to cross. Nevin concluded that some Gilsum general had undoubtedly picked this point because it was the narrowest cr
ossing in proximity to the Wood, which had to be their destination as well as a supply of logs.
The plan for moving the soldiers across was plainly evident. Two huge rafts were constructed from the hewn tree trunks and floated across to the far shore, where they were secured. A single, hefty rope was conveyed across the river and anchored at both ends from one shore to the other. The rope was strung through rings on heavy stanchions screwed onto the rafts so that men could pull it through the rings and force their raft to move the length of their pull. The rope was heavily bowed where it fell into the swift current, but it was holding and the plan looked to be a sound one. Nevin excused the Gilsum general for picking this turbulent location because ferrying a wider distance in this manner was impractical.
Nevin had a growing emotional response to this scene—a vague but still powerful feeling of anxiety unlike anything he had ever felt before. His fight with the soldier at the Hogshead Inn seemed insignificant compared with this impending battle, but even that simple bout of fisticuffs had bothered him deeply. He was troubled by a blend of emotions—fear, guilt and worry—and a paralyzing uncertainty about what he should do. He was afraid for Corissa’s safety as much as his own, repulsed by the heightening prospect of manslaughter, and worried about Anson, who was still missing and certainly in great peril. All these feelings intensified because he was confused. What role would he have to play in these events?
Chapter 8
Battle
“The time has come.”
Zael came by for a last check and motioned for Corissa and Nevin to remain quiet and hidden in the small cluster of birches where they crouched. Zael was accompanied only by Brune. The Elf-Lord whispered to the humans, “They make ready to cross. I must leave you now. I…I am sorry about what must occur.”
As Zael left, Nevin detected something different about him. It might have been his pace, or posture, or the inflection in his voice. Something about the Elf-Lord revealed a hesitancy that contrasted with his usual demeanor. Zael was always confident and decisive, even arrogant, and on the day of battle these qualities should be even sharper. Perhaps the Elf-Lord was influenced by Anson’s reverence for life. If so, it was a good sign. If Zael could soften, maybe the king of Gilsum might not be so hard a sell after all. It also showed how essential Anson was to their success.