Anthology: The Realms of the Elves

"That's what I make of it, too," Nilsa said. She sighed and looked away. "Naturally, they indulged themselves in any murder or mayhem they liked while they were at it. Glen just happened to be in their way."

Daried quickly gathered his belongings. "Come. We have not a moment to lose," he said. "By daybreak these woods will be swarming with the Sembians' mercenaries."

He hurried back to the trail, Nilsa a couple of steps behind him, and set off at once. By his reckoning they had twenty-five miles, perhaps a little more, back to the human village. The bladesinger was tired and his wounds felt stiff, but with luck he thought he might be able to reach his warriors sometime in the late afternoon. The question was how much the half-human girl would slow him down. If she couldn't keep up, he didn't see any alternative to leaving her behind and making the best speed he could alone.

He took a quick glance over his shoulder to see how Nilsa was faring. She jogged along a short distance behind him, a sheen of sweat over her brow, but her breathing was easy and even.

They ran together through the summer night, slowing only a little when the moon finally faded altogether. He noticed that Nilsa managed better in the darkness than a full-blooded human would have-one small gift of her unfortunate elf ancestor, whoever he or she had been. Perhaps it also meant that she'd tire less easily, too.

Nilsa caught him looking back at her. Between strides she asked, "Can you stop them, elf?"

"If they are as strong as you say, then they are too many for us."

"Then what will you do?"

"This attack will turn the flank of our army at Ashaben-ford. I have to get word to Lord Gaerth and warn him."

Daried returned his attention to the trail at his feet. The last thing he needed was to turn an ankle on an unseen root.

"Will he be able to fight them off?" Nilsa asked.

"He could, but it would be a mistake. We can't risk getting trapped between the Sembian army east of the Ashaba and these mercenaries coming up from the south." He trotted on a few steps, gathering his breath. "Gaerth will abandon the Ashaba defenses and pull back before we are trapped and destroyed along the river."

Nilsa kept up in silence for a time before she spoke again. "That wont do much to help the folk in Glen or Ashabenford."

"There is no help for it," he told her. "Enemies on this side of the Ashaba makes the defense of Ashabenford pointless. There is nothing to be served by allowing our warriors to be destroyed here."

"While your elf warriors are abandoning the dale, mercenary bands will ravage my home!" Nilsa snapped. She stumbled in the darkness and swore to herself. Daried turned back and offered her a hand, but the girl waved him off angrily.

"I do not know what you think I can do," Daried said. "I have scarcely twenty warriors under my command. We do not suffice to stop a warband of hundreds. As matters stand, flight is our only option."

"We can muster close to a hundred bows in our own defense. If you aid us, we might be able to drive off the attack."

Farmers and merchants, fighting against hardened sellswords three times their number? Daried shook his head. There was no sense in it. If he had fifty or sixty skilled elf warriors, he could whittle down their strength with a strategy of ambush-and-retreat, keeping ahead of the slow-footed humans and avoiding a stand-up fight. But the folk of Glen would get themselves slaughtered if they tried any such thing-especially since the Chonda-thans evidently had at least one capable wizard leading their troops. It would be a slaughter.

They reached the old elven crossing about an hour before daybreak, and paused to splash cold water over their faces and brows. Daried's legs burned with fatigue and his wounds ached abominably, but he knew his own endurance. He'd be exhausted when he reached the town, but he would reach it.

Nilsa's hair was plastered to her head by sweat and the morning damp, and she looked pale in the gray glimmers of daybreak. She was careful not to sit down while they rested, walking in slow circles by the riverbank as she studied the old river-crossing. The river's song filled the air, murmuring of gravel and worn stone.

"I don't suppose you have any magic to make this place unusable, do you?" she asked Daried.

He shook his head. "I have no illusions suitable for concealing it, and much of my battle magic is exhausted. Given a few hours of work with my hands, I could do something. But I do not think we have the time." He glanced up at the gray streaks brightening the sky in the east. "I expect the Chondathans are already marching. They know they've been found out. That means speed is their best weapon now."

"Lathander preserve us, you're right," Nilsa muttered. She turned away from the coming dawn, and hugged her arms to her chest. "Could I have been any more stupid? The whole warband will be on our heels. I thought I was going to kill my father's murderers, but all IVe done is lead the rest of them back to Glen."

Daried grimaced. In truth, he had no answers for her. He had little gift for meaningless words of comfort, and he simply couldn't lie about what he saw coming for the tiny village of Glen and its folk in the next few days. He'd seen the marauder's handiwork at the home of Nilsa's father and the homesteads along their bloodstained trail. Still, he tried.

"They were marching against Glen anyway, Nilsa," he said. "If you hadn't pursued the marauders, you would not have discovered the danger that approaches your village. And you would not have been close at hand to rescue me from the consequences of my own foolishness."

She looked over her shoulder at him. "My father's death is only the beginning, isn't it?"

The bladesinger studied the girl. In the growing half-light he could see the elf traces in her features more clearly. Her eyes were as green as spring, and yet she had a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Whatever else she was, she was hardly unfortunate in her heritage. In her face an elf's timelessness met a human's youth, a human's passion, and was transformed into something new again. He could read the despair, the exhaustion, the grief in her features, and yet fire and determination still nickered in her eyes. She was the daughter of heroes, after all. And a daughter of the People, too.

He met her eyes evenly. "It will be hard on you and your people, Nilsa. But nothing is written yet. This is what we have won with our foolish chase-a few hours to make our choices. Perhaps we will choose more wisely today than we did yesterday."

The girl shivered in the cool damp air. She glanced to the north, perhaps imagining the long miles still ahead of them. Then she looked down at her feet and said, "Daried, I am sorry you weren't able to get your family's sword back. My grandfather shouldn't have taken it. I don't think he meant to hurt you or your folk, but that doesn't make it right."

He shrugged awkwardly. "I should have held my temper in check," he said. "Besides, I am not sure that I have lost my chance to get the Morvaeril moonblade back. I think I am not done yet with Lord Sarthos. Our paths will cross soon enough."

Nilsa gave him a sharp look. "You are going to help us fight the sellswords?"

Daried nodded. "Yes… I owe you that much for saving my life in the marauders' camp." He shouldered his pack again, and gestured at the river-crossing. "Come, we have a hard day's travel ahead of us still."

An hour before sunset, Daried and Nilsa parted ways at the smoking ruin of her father's farm. The girl hurried back to the town to carry warning of the Sembian column marching up from the south, while Daried sped back to his warriors' encampment by the banks of the Ashaba.

He stumbled into camp covered with road dust, his legs hollow and weak, his wounds throbbing and blazing like lines of fire drawn across his limbs and body. Distantly he noted the high clear call of welcome from the sentry, and the rustle of activity as elves emerged from shelters or came running from work in the woods nearby to hail his return. "It seems I've been missed," he muttered to no one in particular. Grimacing in pain, he allowed himself to fall to the ground by the shelter he used as his own. He seized a waterskin close at hand and drank long and deep, then upended the rest of its contents over his head.