Douglas Niles - Circle at center

Another druid, one Baystril, arrived one day on horseback. He brought a dozen of the nimble ponies that Natac had observed in the valleys around Miradel’s villa. Within a few hours, Natac, Tam, Deltan, several other elves, and a couple of druids had learned the basics of riding. The Tlaxcalan delighted in the speed and power of the horse, and on subsequent days he rode about the camp as much as he walked. Owen and Fionn, however, preferred to work on foot-which was a good thing, since none of the ponies of Nayve could have easily born the weight of either brawny human.

After a full tenday of working, Natac decided to commence the next part of the elves’ preparation.

“The best way to condition yourselves for war is to march, to rapidly cover long distances at good speeds,” he announced when the elves gathered for their morning instructions. “Today we begin such a march. It will be several tendays before we return to our valley.”

“Tendays?” yelped Owen mournfully. He looked longingly at the keg of ale he had just rolled up to his lodge. “Maybe I should stay back here and guard the camp?”

Natac only laughed. “I have in mind that you’ll be leading the way. Didn’t you tell me that you Vikings are famous raiders? I don’t see how you can do much raiding if you don’t know how to march at a good clip.”

“We liked to travel in our longships,” the Norseman countered. “Never did have much use for a lot of walking.”

“Well, it’s time you learned to appreciate it,” replied the Tlaxcalan. “Because that’s how we’re going to be getting around.”

Although he, too, looked glum at the prospect of a long hike, Fionn didn’t make any objection. Nor, of course, did any of the elves-as with everything else, they seemed to accept the wisdom of whatever Natac asked them to do.

Tamarwind Trak led the way. His own staff was marked with a plume of red cloth emblazoned with yellow feathers, and he held it upright at the start of the column. Natac thought it added a splendidly martial touch to their procession.

The Tlaxcalan strode along beside the elven scout for a while, directing the company along the path he had selected for the start of this march. In subsequent days, of course, they would venture into parts of Nayve that he had never before seen-indeed, Natac was looking forward to the chance to explore some more of his new world.

For most of the morning they followed a shallow valley, moving away from the lake and gradually climbing toward the heights of the Ringhills. The higher elevations loomed before them, some of the hills looking like mountain peaks. Snowfields dotted the upper slopes, and lofty crags rose into massive gateposts framing either side of their route.

Deltan Columbine played his flugel, dancing in step while the elves shouted, chanted, and sang in accompaniment. As they crossed a low pass Natac stopped marching, stepping off to the side in order to watch the column march past. The elves were invariably cheerful and happy, waving to their human instructor, or exclaiming to each other over the scenes unfolding around them. To judge from their mood, they might have been on a picnic, but Natac was pleased with this evidence of high morale.

Owen and Fionn trudged at the rear of the file, staff and club, respectively, slung listlessly over brawny shoulders.

“Cheer up, men-let the elves set you an example!” Natac encouraged them. He got only sour grunts in reply, but was content enough with that. Almost whistling himself, he fell into step behind them, and looked around at the new wonders of Nayve unfolding before him.

“F erngarden seems like a nice enough place,” Belynda admitted as she and Nistel stood on the porch of a comfortable inn, preparing to make their morning departure. Around them the little village was coming to life, ovens heating at the baker’s, a few cows lowing as they waited for their Lighten Hour milking. Daylight filtered through the trees, though even the clearings were still obscured by mist and fog.

The two travelers had spent the night in comfortable beds, after a dinner of good meat, fresh bread, and-for Nistel-the innkeeper’s self-brewed brown ale.

“That it does,” the gnome agreed. “It’s hard to believe that anything’s wrong in this part of the Greens.”

“But we’ve got a lot more looking to do,” the sage-ambassador noted.

“How much of it do we have to see?” asked the gnome glumly. Belynda didn’t exactly stride along, but the little fellow was forced nearly into a jog just to keep up with the elfwoman’s sedate pace. He had already gone through two pairs of slippers on the journey.

“I don’t know,” Belynda admitted. “But I know what Tam and Ulf said, and I’m certain they were telling the truth. We just have to keep looking until we find some proof, something I can take back to the Senate, tell them I’ve observed with my own eyes. No one would dare challenge such testimony, at least not to my face.”

“I hope we see something, soon!”

“Here, my lady.” Weathervall, the innkeeper, joined them on the porch and offered a package wrapped in white cloth. “Here’s some bread and cheese, also a bit of chicken and some apples. But are you sure you want to go that way?” He gestured along the narrow pathway extending behind the inn. “You’ll find plenty of comfortable lodgings, if you were only to go along the main road.”

“Thank you, but no,” Belynda said. “We’ve already visited many of those places. I fear our search calls for us to go farther into the woods.”

“Well, you have a care then… and come back this way, if you want a nice clean bed again.”

Once more Belynda conveyed her gratitude, and then she and Nistel set out on the narrow path and walked a ways before crossing a rickety bridge over Ferngarden’s small stream. There were a few barns and houses on this side of the water, and then the trees of the forest rose ahead.

“Psst-lady!”

The call came from the door of a small barn at the edge of the village. Nistel hopped along behind Belynda as she stepped up to the little building. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, like.” A stooped figure, a fellow with big ears and wide, watery eyes, gestured from the darkness.

“A goblin!” gasped the gnome, clutching Belynda’s skirt.

“That’s your name for us,” retorted the fellow. “We like to call ourselves nightcrawlers.”

“What do you want?” asked the sage-ambassador, gently pushing the gnome away.

“To warn you-don’t be going about with your eyes shut, now. Hear me?”

“Eyes shut… of course not. But what do you mean?”

“Just beware, eh?” With that last warning the fellow disappeared, scooting through the barn and vanishing through a crack in the rear wall.

The pair of travelers were left to wonder about the mysterious warning as they made their way along the forest track. The road was barely wide enough for a single cart, though judging from the grass growing under their feet it rarely received even that much traffic. Ditches flanked the track, but these were mostly filled with brush and brambles. From what they had learned in Ferngarden, they would have to go some distance along this route before they came to another village.

“I had no idea that the Greens were so big,” Belynda admitted many hours later. Nistel, plodding down the road beside her, was too tired to reply, so he only nodded in mute agreement.

“Perhaps we can find another inn, before too many nights have passed.” she added hopefully.

The gnome shook his head. “If we can even find any place in the next tenday, I’d be surprised,” he grumbled. “The road looks so ill-traveled-like maybe it isn’t even a road, just some track into the woods.”