The Coming Storm (3 page)

“Aye, Elon,” Colath said, eyeing the other calmly. “When should I leave?”

Letting out a small breath, Elon gave him a lighter look. There was almost something of apology in it.

“As soon as you may, with proper preparation.”

Colath nodded. “I shall see you soon, Jareth?”

“When you return, hopefully.”

Then Colath was gone, moving lightly down the stairs and the path in that smooth trot that an Elf could maintain for days as necessary.

Jareth looked at Elon. “Perhaps I should be going as well? I think I have some questions I need to ask here and there.”

 A small rare smile lightened the grimness of Elon’s features. “As always, my friend, you answer my thoughts before I speak them.”

“That’s among my duties, is it not?” Jareth said, with an smile. “Oh, high Councilor.”

Elon shook his head but his tone was lighter. “As you say.”

Then he grew more solemn again. “Go carefully, Jareth, something…”

His eyes became focused on something more distant than sight.

Jareth knew that look well, although he hadn’t seen it that often.

As with many Elves Elon had magic and not least among his gifts was Foresight. As with such talents, it wasn’t always specific.

“Something…stirs.”

Something about how Elon said it sent a shiver down Jareth’s spine and the prickling of his mage sense grew stronger. Indeed, there was something…stirring…although he couldn’t put a name to it.

That disturbed him.

“Warn the Hunters and the Woodsmen you meet,” Elon said, his voice stronger. “Tell them to tread with even more caution than is their wont. Don’t make much of it but warn them. I tell you now, Jareth, I don’t like this.”

The uneasiness within him grew greater the more he thought about it.

“Nor do I, Elon,” Jareth said, “but it’ll take time, two months or a little longer perhaps to cover all that I must at speed, before I can return.”

Elon lifted an eyebrow. “What will your Master say to that?”

Grinning irreverently, Jareth said, “Well, as I’m not in her good graces at the moment, not much.”

With a slight air of amusement, Elon asked, “What have you done this time?”

“Ah, you know Avila, Elon, it doesn’t take much for her to take offense. It will pass. She’ll be quite satisfied if I stay well away for a time though. This will give me a chance to visit with my fellow wizards in far postings. I haven’t had a chance to see many of them lately.”

Yes, Elon knew Avila – knew her and didn’t like her. He didn’t tend to strong feelings about most men but Avila was the exception.

Jareth wasn’t the first to speak of her taking offense at some imagined slight. Elon couldn’t imagine how the College of Wizards had elevated her to a position of such power. That she had a wizard’s skills in full measure wasn’t in question, nor her knowledge, but power hadn’t improved her. Just the opposite. It seemed only to make her thirstier for it.

It wasn’t enough for her to have dominion over all wizards, Avila wanted more.

Elon disliked and distrusted her, which were strong emotions for him. For many reasons but highest among them was she had little or no sense of Honor, or what she did have was very fluid. For all she was easily offended, she was most likely as well to give offense as to receive it. He put those thoughts away for now. Those were problems for men and for Jareth, but not a problem he, Elon, could solve.

“Send word as you may, Jareth. Take what you need and go about it as quickly as you dare. Something tells me we have not much time.”

Jareth raised his head in surprise and then nodded. “I’ll be off then.”

A pause.

“I would have wished to spend more time speaking of better things,” Elon said.

Jareth hadn’t been wrong when he’d said they saw each other more rarely than desired. For a painful moment Elon was reminded of the brevity of human life.

There was no help for it.

“I, too, Elon,” Jareth said. “Perhaps when I return.”

Elon nodded. “When you return. Safe journey, Jareth.”

Colath wasted no time on his way through the vale, moving quickly along the central pathways where such things were expected. He moved fast enough to get where he was going but not so quickly as to raise concern. A few folk called greetings as he went past, mostly the artisans and artificers that worked down here among the pathways, potters, smiths and such, whose tasks couldn’t be performed up above among the branches. Most of his people traveled the pathways there, on the myriad bridges that linked one dwelling to another.

The gathering place for the Hunters and Woodsmen was to the west and north. Most lived on the outer fringes of the vale for quicker access to the borders, as needed.

A few patrols of Hunters were out, scouting along the perimeter of the vale to watch for untoward visitors of any kind. Occasionally uninvited men got lost amidst the mists of the Veil – the ward spells that held the borders of Aerilann safe. As well, the Woodsmen would drive off any of the woodland creatures like bear and mountain cats that might cause difficulty for those who lived within.

There were always a few of each about, though, in case of need. Some drilled, others practiced bow skills or sparred with swords. A group sat together mending tack, honing swords, the basic maintenance that kept them alive. As a rule, Elven steel was lighter, sharper and more durable than the blades of men or even Dwarves, those makers who were masters of metals. Past quarrels between Elves and Dwarves had driven Elves to learn the art for themselves – they were too dependent on swords as well as arrows for their defense.

Choosing his people carefully, Colath deliberately kept the group small, two Elves, two men and himself.

It was enough. With so few they could travel both light and fast. Of the two Elves he chose Jalila for her skill with a bow and Alic for his talents as a Woodsmen. Both were blooded, had had children, so if things went badly their bloodlines wouldn’t be lost.

Of the men, Mortan was Woodsman and most familiar with the lands to the west. Iric was a Hunter and rode as if he was stuck to his horse like a burr. Both men rode Elven culls, not the horses of men, which was the other reason he’d chosen them. Even an Elven cull was quicker than the fastest of the beasts most men rode. He wanted speed if they had need of it.

None questioned his request. It was their duty and, for the Elves, their Honor as well.

They didn’t speak much while they rode. There was little need. Some among Men would fill silence with talk but not these. Neither was much for it and they’d been among Elves long enough to be accustomed to silence.

He set a quick pace, feeling an urgency he couldn’t explain but not so quick a pace as to tire the horses too much. Still, they covered more ground than men alone would have, moving quickly up the slopes and through the foothills that led to the upper reaches.

It was Mortan who caught his eye as they set camp, standing still and staring at the sky as though he were struck by something. It was so unlike him not to be setting about his chores as they all were doing that it got Colath’s attention.

“What is it?” Colath asked, quietly.

“I don’t know, milord,” Mortan said, his brow creasing sharply.

He was big and bluff for a man, with sandy hair and a matching trim above his mouth that drooped down on either side. Elves had no such facial hair, so it was striking when they met men who did. Known for his temper, and yet when needed Mortan was as steady as a rock.

Mortan tilted his head a little. “Do you not hear it? Not what you hear but what you don’t.”

Colath hadn’t ridden much with Mortan, knowing him more by reputation among the Hunters of men, some few of which Elon allowed to ride with Elven Hunters. He’d chosen him for his knowledge of these lands. Thus, the title, where none was needed. Men put much stock in such things. Colath’s people didn’t. What you did proved your worth, not your family, birth or some other arbitrary naming. Elon was First among equals by virtue of his integrity and ability to lead, not because of a matter of birth. As with Colath. Elon had chosen him for this task for his abilities, not for their true-friend bond or long friendship. If another would have served better, that one would have been chosen.

“I’m no lord of yours, Mortan. Colath, only,” Colath replied, quietly, but he was listening too.

It was what you didn’t hear. He should’ve noticed it himself but his senses had been more attuned to movement and what he should’ve heard had faded so gradually as they rode that he hadn’t credited it.

“No birds.”

“That’s it, Colath. No birds.”

The others had stopped, too, their heads up, listening.

“We’re not that high in the mountains, nor is it so late in the day the birds would be roosting,” Colath said.

“No, we’re not,” Mortan said. “It’s early spring. The birds that’ve wintered in the south should be here. There should be the endless chattering they do once they’ve arrived in the north, as if they’re catching up with each other as we do.”

The silence was striking. It only increased Colath’s sense of foreboding.

Here was the ‘nothing’ for which Elon had asked him to look.

“All right,” Colath said, “we make camp and we set watches. I’ll take first alone so second and third can sleep.” His people didn’t need much sleep but rested people made fewer mistakes and sleep now might be their best chance. The men couldn’t do without it for long stretches, not easily.

They ate in that odd silence, now they were aware of it, with only the soughing of the wind through the trees to break it. Even the horses seemed not to like it, shifting about restlessly and they still had at least a day’s journey or more ahead.

As darkness fell and the others slept, Colath could admit to himself he also didn’t like it. The descending stillness as they rode had been deceptive, the noise of birds and such diminishing as they’d ridden further west. It made him uneasy to know it was happening only a long day’s hard ride from Aerilann.

Riding out the next day, the omnipresent silence grew oppressive. There was little sound of natural things. Every now and then they would stop and scan the ground, looking for sign or cutting trail. No one spoke, a look was all that was needed. They were all too woods-wise not to know what it was they were seeing. The larger creatures were tracking east, followed by the lesser.

It should have been the reverse and only because of lack of food.

There was no lack. The winter had been mild. Grass grew thick for grazing, berries were clustered thickly on bushes. There was plenty. They should have startled herds of wild sheep and goats, spotted an elk or two, seen sign of the shyer deer, heard the grunting of boar rooting among the trees and shrubs. They should have spotted at least one wolf perhaps, before it loped away into cover. Bear, which in these high reaches feared only a pack of wolves or the mountain cats, should have left their claw marks on the trees as they sharpened them, or patches of fur scrubbed off on the bark as they shed their winter coats. Of that there was no sign.

One couldn’t have ridden through these steep hills and thickly forested valleys without frightening a rabbit from cover, or watching squirrels scamper from tree to tree in search of food.

Bold creatures, squirrels, confident in their speed, but rarely venturing too far from the trees and a quick escape. There was no sign of them.

The skies, too, were clear and empty, no flights of sparrows or larks darted overhead, no hawks wheeled.

Everyone was uneasy.

That the borderlands were somehow closer than they’d ever been was one reason but the stillness was another.

Despite the occasional slowing or stops to examine a track, they made good time. The mountains towered above them in the nearer distance, they weren’t merely a bluish shadow glimpsed between breaks in the trees or through the narrow slopes of a valley. This country was much more rugged, split with fissures and gorges, bare slopes of rock that crumbled beneath the hooves of the horses.

Alic threw up a hand to signal a halt. “Colath, look here.”

In a patch of dirt between rocky outcroppings was a paw-print of sorts.

“Boggart. It’s too large for a boggin.”