Paul Thompson - Firstborn

One of the humans, with pale brown hair on his face, stood up. “Terrible spirit, do not harm us!” he intoned. “Peace be with you!”

Kith-Kanan relaxed. These weren’t desperate brigands. They were ordinary men and, by the looks of their equipment, woodcutters. He dropped his sword point and stepped into the firelight.

“It’s one of them!” declared another human. “The Elder Folk!”

“Who are you?” demanded Kith-Kanan.

“Essric’s company of woodmen. I am Essric,” said the brown-haired human.

Kith-Kanan surveyed the clearing. Over thirty large trees had been felled in this one place, and he could see a path had been cut through the forest. The very biggest trees were trimmed of their branches and were being split into halves and quarters with wedges and mallets. Slightly smaller trees were being dragged away. Kith-Kanan saw a rough pen full of broad-backed oxen.

“This is Silvanesti land,” he said. “By whose grant do you cut down trees that belong to the Speaker of the Stars?”

Essric looked to his men, who had nothing to tell him. He scratched his brown beard ruefully. “My lord, we were brought hither and landed on the south coast of this country by ships commanded by Lord Ragnarius of Ergoth. It is Lord Ragnarius’s pleasure that we fell as many trees as his ships can carry home. We didn’t know anyone owned these trees!”

Just then, an eerie howl rippled across the fire-lit clearing. The humans all stood up, reaching for axes and staves. Kith-Kanan smiled to himself. Anaya was putting a scare into the men.

A clean-shaven man to Essric’s left, who held a broadaxe in his meaty hands, suddenly let out a cry and staggered backward, almost falling in the fire. Instead, he dropped into the arms of his comrades.

“Forest spirits are attacking!” Kith-Kanan shouted. His declaration was punctuated by a hair-raising screech from the black trees. He had to struggle to keep from laughing as the twelve humans were driven from their fire by a barrage of sooty stones. One connected with the back of one man’s head, stretching him out flat. Panic-stricken, the others didn’t stop to help him, but fled pell-mell past the ox pen. Without torches to light their way, they stumbled and fell over stumps and broken branches. Within minutes, no one was left in the clearing but Kith-Kanan and the prone woodcutter.

Anaya came striding into the circle of light. Kith-Kanan grinned at her and held up a hand in greeting. She stalked past him to where the human lay. The flint knife was in her hand.

She rolled the unconscious human over. He was fairly young and had a red mustache. A thick gold ring gleamed from one earlobe. That, and the cut of his pants, told Kith-Kanan that the man had been a sailor at one time.

Anaya put a knee on the man’s chest. The human opened his eyes and saw a wildly painted creature, serrated flint knife in hand, kneeling on him. The creature’s face stared down with a ferocious grimace twisting its painted designs. The man’s eyes widened in terror, showing much white.

He tried to raise an arm to ward off Anaya, but Kith-Kanan was holding his wrists.

“Shall I cut out your eyes?” Anaya said coldly. “They would make fine decorations for my home.”

“No! No! Spare me!” gibbered the man.

“No? Then tell us what we want to know,” Kith-Kanan warned. “There was a white-haired elf boy here, yes?”

“Yes, wonderful lord!”

“And a griffon—a flying beast with an eagle’s forepart and a lion’s hindquarters?”

“Yes, yes!”

“What happened to them?”

“They were taken away by Voltorno,” the man moaned.

“Who’s Voltorno?” asked Kith-Kanan.

“A soldier. A terrible, cruel man. Lord Ragnarius sent him with us.”

“Why isn’t he here now?” Anaya hissed, pushing the ragged edge of her knife against his throat.

“He—He decided to take the elf boy and the beast back to Lord Ragnarius’s ship.”

Anaya and Kith-Kanan exchange looks. “How long ago did this Voltorno leave?” persisted Kith-Kanan.

“This morning,” the unfortunate sailor gasped.

“And how many are there in his party?”

“Ten. S—Six men-at-arms and four archers.”

Kith-Kanan stood up, releasing the man’s hands. “Let him up.

“No,” disagreed Anaya. “He must die.”

“That is not the way! If you kill him, how will you be any different from the men who hold Mackeli captive? You cannot be the same as those you fight and have any honor. You must be better.”

“Better?” she hissed, looking up at the prince. “Anything is better than tree-killing scum!”

“He is not responsible,” Kith-Kanan insisted. “He was ordered.”

“Whose hand held the axe?” Anaya interrupted.

Taking advantage of their argument, the sailor shoved Anaya off and scrambled to his feet. He ran after his comrades, bleating for help.

“Now you see? You let him get away,” Anaya said. She gathered herself to give chase, but Kith-Kanan told her, “Forget those humans! Mackeli is more important. We’ll have to catch up with them before they reach the coast.” Anaya sullenly did not reply. “Listen to me! We’re going to need all your talents. Call the corvae, the Black Crawlers, everything. Have them find the humans and try to delay them long enough so that we can catch up.”

She pushed him aside and stepped away. The big fire was dying, and the hacked out clearing was sinking into darkness. Now and then an ox grunted from the makeshift pen.

Anaya moved to the felled trees. She put a gentle hand on the trunk of one huge oak. “Why do they do it?” she asked mournfully. “Why do they cut down the trees? Can’t they hear the fabric of the forest split open each time a tree falls?” Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “There are spirits in the wildwood, spirits in the trees. They have murdered them with their metal.” Her haunted eyes looked up at the prince.

Kith-Kanan put a hand on her shoulder. “There’s much to be done. We must go.” Anaya drew a shuddering breath. After giving the tree a last gentle touch, she stooped to gather up her throwing stones.

Summer was fading. The harvests were coming in, and the markets of Silvanost were full of the fruits of the soil. Market week always brought a great influx of visitors to the city, not all of them Silvanesti. From the forests to the south and the plains to the west came the swarthy, painted Kagonesti. Up the Thon-Thalas came thick-walled boats from the dwarven kingdom, tall-masted, deep-sea vessels from the human realms in the far west. All these ascended the river to Fallan Island where Silvanost lay. It was an exciting time, full of strange sights, sounds, and smells. Exciting, that is, for the travelers. For the Silvanesti, who regarded these races flooding their land with distaste and distrust, it was a trying time.

Sithel sat on his throne in the Tower of the Stars, weary but attentive as clerics and nobles filed up to him to voice their complaints. His duties did not allow him respite from the incessant arguing and pleading.

“Great Sithel, what is to be done?” asked Firincalos, high priest of E’li. “The barbarians come to us daily, asking to worship in our temple. We turn them away and they grow angry, and the next day a new batch of hairy-faced savages appears, asking the same privilege.”

“The humans and dwarves are not the worst of it,” countered Zertinfinas, of the Temple of Matheri. “The Kagonesti deem themselves our equals and cannot be put off from entering the sacred precincts with filthy hands and feet and noxious sigils painted on their faces. Why, yesterday, some wild elves roughed up my assistant and spilled the sacred rosewater in the outer sanctum.”