Valdid, the second chamberlain, went down on one knee. “Your Highness,” he said, “the marshal of the Eastern Hundred is here with his warlords.”
None of Tol’s guesses was correct. Crown Prince Amaltar was perched on a folding stool, a scroll in his hand. He was dressed in a simple robe of midnight blue silk, cinched at the waist by a wide leather belt. A jeweled war dagger was thrust through the belt, the only visible weapon in the room. The prince’s black hair was cut shorter than the fashion, barely brushing his collar, and unlike all the other men present he sported neither beard nor mustache. Around his neck on a fine gold chain he wore a woman’s golden torque, set with a pair of rubies-said to be a memento of his deceased mother.
Putting down the scroll he held, the prince’s dark eyes inspected the Juramona men as they knelt before him.
“Long life to Your Royal Highness and to your noble father. Death to all enemies of Ergoth!” Odovar cried. The fighting men and many of the women present echoed the marshal’s sentiments, but the foreigners merely looked on, quietly amused.
“Rise, loyal vassals,” said Amaltar.
Grunting from the task of raising his bulk on a sprained knee, Odovar managed to stand without help.
“How long has it been since I last saw you?” asked the prince.
“I last met Your Highness eleven years ago, after the battle of Torgaard Pass.”
“That’s right! You gained the pass from the Tarsans with a picked force of fifty men, as I recall.”
“Your Highness favors me by remembering,” Odovar said, bowing his head. “Aias, we did not hold the pass for long.”
“No matter.” Amaltar gestured to the stool he’d vacated. “Take your ease, my lord. Your leg obviously pains you.”
Odovar colored. “I cannot sit in Your Highness’s presence!”
Amaltar’s pleasant demeanor vanished. “You can if I order it. Sit, marshal.”
Odovar slumped onto the stool, stiff leg extended, embarrassed both by the breach of protocol and by how obvious his need for it was.
The prince snapped his fingers, and a light camp table was carried over, its top covered with scrolls. At another imperial command, four nobles, each the commander of a horde, unrolled a large parchment and held it open by the corners. It was a grand map of the vicinity, drawn in vibrant colors. The blue Caer River snaked across the landscape. Caergoth, three leagues away, appeared as a black ring on the west bank of the river. The only spot on the map devoid of color was the forest itself, east of Caergoth. A line of green delineated its boundary, but within the border no features were depicted.
“The Great Green, my lords,” Amaltar said. He waved a beringed hand across it. “One hundred and fifty leagues end to end, varying from eighteen to thirty leagues wide. We know the dimensions and fringes of the forest thanks to our own surveyors-and our friends the Silvanesti.” He nodded to the listening elves. “But the interior a day’s ride beyond the border is as hidden to us as the far side of the red moon!”
A line of scribes stood behind Amaltar, ready to note any imperial utterances. Four waited with styluses poised, while the fifth was writing, rapidly but discreetly, recording every word the prince said.
Amaltar smote the map with his fist. “Since the days of Ackal Ergot, this region has sheltered brigands, runaways, rebels, and savages. My uncle, Emperor Pakin II, thought he could pacify the forest tribes with gifts and soft words. All he gained for his efforts was the worst series of raids since the founding of the empire. The foresters have continued to block our attempts at eastern expansion, and in their latest raid they murdered my cousin Hynor. No asset to empire was Hynor, but the killing of imperial relatives cannot be allowed to pass.”
“The foresters respect nothing but force, Highness, and heed nothing but cold iron,” Odovar said staunchly. His fellow warlords murmured agreement.
“That’s why we are here,” said the prince. “We will harrow the Great Green like a farmer does a patch of weeds. Any pests we don’t destroy will be forced to flee over the mountains.” With one finger, he traced a line across the unknown land, east to the north-south course of the Kharolis range.
“Is that our limit, Highness?” asked the black-haired noble in burgundy who wore the silver circlet.
“It is, Lord Urakan. When your men reach the western slopes of the mountains, they’ll have ridden far enough.”
Prince Amaltar went on, specifying goals for the invasion. Ten hordes would enter the Great Green in five different locations. They would move parallel to each other as they drove into the woods. Two hordes would remain outside, to guard against sallies by the tribesmen and to catch anyone who tried to escape back into Ergoth.
The three Juramona hordes would not be fighting together. The Firebrands, under Wanthred, would fight alongside another horde from southwest Ergoth, the Corij Rangers. The Rooks and Eagles and Pagas’s Panthers, with Lord Odovar, would enter the Great Green through a large meadow known as Zivilyn’s Carpet.
Amaltar called on the flaxen-haired, white-robed Silvanesti. The elf glided to the map table, trailed by his entourage. This included several dark, painted faces-elves of the woodland Kagonesti race.
The prince said, “My good cousin, Harpathanas Ambrodel, speak of your experiences.”
The tall elf bowed slightly to the heir of Ergoth. “I have fought my way through the great forest seven times,” he said. His voice was mellifluous and pleasing, though it carried a definite air of command. “Each journey brought new battles against new foes. You will find humans, Kagonesti, and, occasionally, ogres.”
The assemblage stirred at the mention of ogres. Harpathanas spoke again, calming his listeners.
“Most ogres never leave the high slopes of the mountains, far to the south,” he said. “Single marauders sometimes stray north to the lowlands, but not often.”
The Silvanesti smiled thinly, showing narrow white teeth. “Humans are the most numerous folk in the forest, as they are elsewhere. The forest humans live in tribes, as humans did centuries ago on the plains. The sizes of the various tribes are hard to measure. At one skirmish my archers had to contend with two hundred human fighters, but I believe more than one tribe was arrayed against us. I would say a typical tribal war party would include ten to fifty warriors, including women. They fight alongside their men.”
The handsome young warlord laughed at that, tossing back his long blond hair. “I look forward to meeting them!” he said.
“Be careful what you wish for, Lord Tremond. Forest women are ferocious in combat and collect the heads of any foes they vanquish,” Harpathanas replied gravely.
“And sometimes they take other parts,” said one of the Kagonesti. Rough laughter encircled the table. None of the elves joined in.
At Harpathanas’s behest, a Kagonesti left his entourage and stepped forward to describe forester weapons and tactics. The Kagonesti’s muscular build and tanned face, painted with red and blue loops and lines, seemed at odds with his attire-a plain yet good-quality dark green robe.
“They are good archers,” said the Kagonesti, “but use only short bows, which may not penetrate iron plate armor. Their favorite tricks are deadfalls and pit traps, which they also use against wild beasts. Take care when pursuing tribesmen who flee too easily. They are likely leading you into a trap.”
“Do they use metal?” asked Wanthred.
“Such metal as they trade for or take from their victims. Elsewise, they use flint weapons.”
Odovar leaned an elbow on the map table. “What about the forest elves? Will we have to fight them?”
Harpathanas and his Kagonesti retainers exchanged glances.
The painted elf replied, “Some of my woodland brethren have mated into human tribes, and some humans have likewise joined Kagonesti bands. These mixed groups will fight you. The pure Kagonesti bands will not, unless trapped and forced to give battle, but there are few west of the mountains anyway.”