Magician (68 page)

“But then came a time of
changing. Our masters ceased their internecine struggles and banded
together. Why they did so is forgotten, though some among the
moredhel may still know, for they were closer to our masters than we
elves. We may have known their reasons then, but this was the time of
the Chaos Wars, and much was lost. Only this we know: all the
servants of the Valheru were given freedom, and the Old Ones were
never again seen by elf or moredhel. When the Chaos Wars raged, great
rifts in time and space were opened, and it was through these that
goblins, men, and dwarves came to this world. Few of our people or of
the moredhel survived, but those that did rebuilt our homes. The
moredhel longed to inherit the might of their lost masters, rather
than seek their own destiny as the elves did, and used their cunning
to find tokens of the Valheru, taking to the Dark Path. It is the
reason we are so unalike, who once were brothers.

“The old magic is still powerful.
In strength and bravery Tomas matches any. He took the magic
unwittingly, and that may prove the difference. The old magic changed
the moredhel into the Brotherhood of the Dark Path because they
sought the power out of dark longings. Tomas was a boy of good and
noble heart, with no taint of evil in his soul. Perchance he will
grow to master the dark side of the magic.”

Dolgan scratched his head. “ ‘Tis
a grave risk, then, from what you say. I was concerned for the lad,
true, and gave little thought to the larger scheme of things. You
know the way of it better than I, but I hope we’ll not live to
regret letting him keep the armor.”

The Queen stepped down from her throne.
“I also hope there will be no regrets, Dolgan. Here in Elvandar
the old magic is softened, and Tomas is of lighter heart. Perhaps
that is a sign we do the right thing, tempering the change rather
than opposing it.”

Dolgan made a courtly bow. “I
yield to your wisdom, my lady. And I pray you are right.”

The Queen bade them good night and
left. Calin said, “I also pray my Mother-Queen speaks from
wisdom, and not from some other feeling.”

“I don’t take your meaning,
Elf Prince.”

Calin looked down upon the short
figure. “Don’t play the fool with me, Dolgan Your wisdom
is widely known and highly respected. You see it as well as I.
Between my mother and Tomas there is something growing.”

Dolgan sighed, the freshening breeze
carrying away his pipe’s smoke “Aye, Calin, I’ve
seen it as well. A look, little more, but enough.”

“She looks upon Tomas as she once
looked upon my Father-King, though she still denies it within
herself.”

“And there is something within
Tomas,” said the dwarf, watching the Elf Prince closely,
“though it is less tender than what your lady feels. Still, he
holds it well in check.”

“Look to your friend, Dolgan.
Should he try to press his suit for the Queen, there will be
trouble.”

“So much do you dislike him,
Calin?”

Calin looked thoughtfully at Dolgan.
“No, Dolgan. I do not dislike Tomas. I fear him. That is
enough.” Calin was silent for a while, then said, “We
will never again bend knee before another master, we who live in
Elvandar. Should my mother’s hopes of how Tomas will change
prove false, we shall have a reckoning.”

Dolgan shook his head slowly. “That
would prove a sorry day, Calin.”

“That it would, Dolgan.”
Calin walked from the council ring, past his mother’s throne,
and left the dwarf alone. Dolgan looked out at the fairy lights of
Elvandar, praying the Elf Queen’s hopes would not prove
unfounded.

Winds howled across the plains.
Ashen-Shugar sat astride the broad shoulders of Shuruga. The great
golden dragon’s thoughts reached his master.
Do we hunt?
There was hunger in the dragon’s mind.

“No. We wait.”

The Ruler of the Eagles’ Reaches
waited as the streaming moredhel made their way toward the rising
city. Hundreds pulled great blocks of stone mined in quarries half a
world away, dragging them toward the city on the plains. Many had
died and many more would die, but that was unimportant. Or was it?
Ashen-Shugar was troubled by this new and strange thought.

A roar from above sounded as another
great dragon came spiraling down, a magnificent black bellowing
challenge. Shuruga raised his head and trumpeted his reply. To his
master he said,
Do we fight?

“No.”

Ashen-Shugar sensed disappointment in
his mount, but chose to ignore it. He watched as the other dragon
settled gracefully to the ground a short distance away, folding its
mighty wings across its back. Black scales reflected the hazy
sunlight like polished ebony. The dragon’s rider raised his
hand in salute.

Ashen-Shugar returned the greeting, and
the other’s dragon approached cautiously. Shuruga hissed, and
Ashen-Shugar absently struck the beast with his fist. Shuruga lapsed
into silence.

“Has the Ruler of the Eagles’
Reaches finally come to join us?” asked the newcomer,
Draken-Korin, the Lord of Tigers. His black-and-orange-striped armor
sparkled as he dismounted from his dragon.

Out of courtesy Ashen-Shugar dismounted
as well. His hand never strayed far from his white-hilted sword of
gold, for though times were changing, trust was unknown among the
Valheru. In times past they would have fought as likely as not, but
now the need for information was more pressing. Ashen-Shugar said,
“No. I simply watch.”

Draken-Korin regarded the Ruler of the
Eagles’ Reaches, his pale blue eyes revealing no emotion. “You
alone have not agreed, Ashen-Shugar.”

“Joining to plunder across the
cosmos is one thing, Draken-Korin This . . . this plan of yours is
madness.”

“What is this madness? I know not
of what you speak. We are. We do. What more is there?”

“This is not our way.”

“It is not our way to let others
stand against our will. These new beings, they contest with us.”

Ashen-Shugar raised his eyes skyward.
“Yes, that is so. But they are not like others. They also are
formed from the very stuff of this world, as are we.”

“What does that matter? How many
of our kin have you killed? How much blood has passed your lips?
Whoever stands against you must be killed, or kill you. That is all.”

“What of those left behind, the
moredhel and the elves?”

“What of them? They are nothing.”

“They are ours.”

“You have grown strange under
your mountains, Ashen-Shugar. They are our servants. It is not as if
they possessed true power. They exist for our pleasure, nothing more.
What concerns you?”

“I do not know. There is
something . . . .”

“Tomas.”

For an instant Tomas existed in two
places. He shook his head and the visions vanished. He turned his
head and saw Galain lying in the brush next to him. A force of elves
and dwarves waited some distance behind. The young cousin of Prince
Calin pointed toward the Tsurani camp across the river. Tomas
followed his companion’s gesture and saw the outworld soldiers
sitting near their campfires, and smiled. “They hug their
camps,” he whispered.

Galain nodded. “We have stung
them enough that they seek the warmth of their campfires.”

The late spring evening mist shrouded
the area, mantling the Tsurani camp in haze. Even the campfires
seemed to burn less brightly. Tomas again studied the camp. “I
mark thirty, with thirty more in each camp east and west.”

Galain said nothing, waiting for
Tomas’s next command. Though Calin was Warleader of Elvandar,
Tomas had assumed command of the forces of elves and dwarves. It was
never clear when captaincy had passed to him, but slowly, as he had
grown in stature, he had grown in leadership. In battle he would
simply shout for something to be done, and elves and dwarves would
rush to obey. At first it had been because the commands were logical
and obvious. But the pattern had become accepted, and now they obeyed
because it was Tomas who commanded.

Tomas motioned for Galain to follow and
moved away from the river-bank, until they were safely out of sight
of the Tsurani camp, among those who waited deep within the trees
Dolgan looked at the young man who once had been the boy he saved
from the mines of Mac Mordain Cadal.

Tomas stood six inches past six feet in
height, as tall as any elf. He walked with a powerful self-assurance,
a warrior born. In the six years he had been with the dwarves, he had
become a man . . . and more. Dolgan watched him, as Tomas surveyed
the warriors gathered before him, and knew Tomas could now walk the
dark mines of the Grey Towers without fear or danger.

“Have the other scouts turned?”

Dolgan nodded, signaling for them to
come forward. Three elves and three dwarves approached. “Any
sign of the Black Robes?”

When the scouts indicated no, the man
in white and gold frowned. “We would do well to capture one of
them and carry him to Elvandar. Their last attack was the deepest
yet. I would give much to know the limits of their power.”

Dolgan took out his pipe, gauging they
were far enough from the river for it not to be seen. As he lit it,
he said, “The Tsurani guard the Black Robes like a dragon
guards its treasure.”

Tomas laughed at that, and Dolgan
caught a glimpse of the boy he had known. “Aye, and it’s
a brave dwarf who loots a dragon’s lair.”

Galain said, “If they follow the
pattern of the last three years, they most likely are done with us
for the season. It is possible we shall not see another Black Robe
until next spring.”

Tomas looked thoughtful, his pale eyes
seemingly aglow with a light of their own. “Their pattern . . .
their pattern is to take, to hold, then to take more. We have been
willing to let them do as they wish, so long as they do not cross the
river. It is time to change that pattern. And if we trouble them
enough, we may have the opportunity to seize one of these Black
Robes.”

Dolgan shook his head at the risk
implicit in what Tomas proposed. Then, with a smile, Tomas added,
“Besides, if we can’t loosen their hold along the river
for a time, the dwarves and I will be forced to winter here, for the
outworlders are now deep into the Green Heart.”

Galain looked at his tall friend. Tomas
grew more elf-like each year, and Galain could appreciate the obscure
humor that often marked his words. He knew Tomas would welcome
staying near the Queen. But in spite of his worries over Tomas’s
magic, he had come to like the man. “How?”

“Send bowmen to the camps on the
right and the left and beyond. When I call with the honk of a
greylag, have them volley across the river, but from beyond those
positions as if the main attack were coming from east and west.”
He smiled, and there was no humor in his expression. “That
should isolate this camp long enough for us to do some bloody work.”

Galain nodded, and sent ten bowmen to
each camp. The others made ready for the attack, and after sufficient
time Tomas raised his hands to his mouth Cupping them, he made the
sound of a wild goose.

A moment later he could hear shouting
coming from east and west of the position across the river. The
soldiers in the Tsurani camp stood and looked both ways, with several
coming to the edge of the water, peering into the dark forest. Tomas
raised his hand and dropped it with a chopping motion.

Suddenly it was raining elven arrows on
the camp across the river, and Tsurani soldiers were diving for their
shields. Before they could fully recover, Tomas led a charge of
dwarves across the shallow sandbar ford. Another flight of arrows
passed overhead, then the elves shouldered bows, drew swords, and
charged after the dwarves, all save a dozen who would stay to offer
covering fire should it be needed.

Tomas was first ashore and struck down
a Tsurani guard who met him at the river’s edge. Quickly he was
among them, wreaking mayhem. Tsurani blood exploded off his golden
blade, and the screams of wounded and dying men filled the damp
night.

Dolgan slew a guard and found none to
stand against him. He turned and saw Galain standing over another
dead Tsurani, but staring at something beyond. The dwarf followed his
gaze to where Tomas was standing over a wounded Tsurani soldier who
lay with blood running down his face from a scalp wound, an arm
upraised in a plea for mercy. Over him stood Tomas, his face an alien
mask of rage. With a strange and terrible cry, in a voice cruel and
harsh, he brought down his golden sword and ended the Tsurani’s
life. He turned quickly, seeking more foes. When none presented
themselves, he seemed to go blank for a moment, then his eyes
refocused.

Galain heard a dwarf call, “They
come.” Shouts came from the other Tsurani camps as they
discovered the ruse and quickly approached the true battle site.

Without a word Tomas’s party
hurried across the water. They reached the other side as Tsurani
bowmen fired upon them, to be answered by elves on the opposite
shore. The attacking group quickly fell back deeply into the trees,
until they were a safe distance away.

When they stopped, the elves and
dwarves sat down to catch their wind, and to rest from the battle
surge still in their blood. Galain looked to Tomas and said, “We
did well. No one lost, and only a few slightly wounded, and thirty
outworlders slain.”

Tomas didn’t smile, but looked
thoughtfully for a moment, as if hearing something. He turned to look
at Galain, as if the elf’s words were finally registering.
“Aye, we did well, but we must strike again, tomorrow and the
next day and the next, until they act.”

Night after night they crossed the
river. They would attack a camp, and the next night strike miles
away. A night would pass without attack, then the same camp would be
raided three nights running. Sometimes a single arrow would take a
guard from the opposite shore, then nothing, while his companions
stood waiting for an attack that never came. Once they struck through
the lines at dawn, after the defenders had decided that no attack was
coming. They overran a camp, ranging miles into the south forest, and
took a baggage train, even slaughtering the strange six-legged beasts
who pulled the wagons. Five separate fights were fought as they
turned from that raid, and two dwarves and three elves were lost.