“Gods of Wimps, is it, Malek?” Galdar growled. “You lost the tip of your horn to a Solamnic knight. Was she a wimp, or did she kick your sorry ass?”
The minotaur looked chagrined. His fellows grinned at him, and one nudged him with an elbow.
“So long as we threaten no harm to the Walking God, the Gods of Light will not intervene. So the priest of Sargas assured me.”
“And what do we do with this Walking God once we have him, sir?” asked another. “You haven’t told us that yet.”
“Because I don’t want to burden your brain with more than one thought at a time,” Galdar told him. “All you need worry about now is capturing the Walking God. Alive!”
Galdar cocked an ear. The voices and the footfalls were drawing nearer.
“Take up your positions,” he ordered and dispersed his men, sending them running to the ditches on either side of the road. “Don’t move a muscle and keep upwind of them! These blasted elves have a nose for minotaur.”
Galdar crouched behind a large oak tree. His sword remained sheathed. He hoped he would not have to use it, and rubbed the stump of his missing arm. The wound was an old one. The arm was fully healed, but sometimes, strangely, he felt pain in the limb that was not there. This evening the arm burned and throbbed worse than usual. He blamed it on the damp, but he had to wonder if it hurt because he was thinking of Mina, recalling their first meeting. She had reached out her hand to him and her touch had healed him, given him back his severed limb.
The limb he’d lost again, trying to save her.
He wondered if she remembered, if she ever thought of their time together, the happiest and proudest time of his life.
Probably not, now that she was a high muckety-muck priestess.
Galdar rubbed his arm and cursed the damp and listened to the voices of elves coming closer.
Hunkering down among the dead leaves and shadows, the minotaur soldiers gripped their weapons and waited.
Two elven warriors walked in front, four came behind. Valthonis and the druid of Chislev walked in the center of the group, absorbed in their conversation. Elspeth kept very close to him, almost at his heels. Usually she would have been far in the rear, several paces behind the rear guard. This sudden change added to the uneasiness the others felt at being so near the accursed valley of Neraka where the Dark Queen had once reigned. They had questioned Valthonis about why he had chosen to come here, to this dread place, but he would only smile and tell them what he always told them in answer to their questions.
“I do not go where I want to go,” he would say. “I go where I need to be.”
Since they could elicit no information from the Walking God, one of the Faithful took it upon himself to question Elspeth, asking her in a low voice what was wrong, what she feared. Elspeth might have been deaf, as well as mute, for she did even glance his way. She kept her gaze fixed upon Valthonis and, as the elf later reported to his fellows, her face was drawn and tense.
Already uneasy and nervous about their surroundings, the elven warriors were not quite caught off guard by the sudden attack. Something struck them as wrong as they passed beneath the leaves of the overhanging tree limbs. Perhaps it was a smell; minotaur have a bovine stench that is not easy to conceal. Perhaps it was the breaking of a stick beneath a heavy boot, or the shifting of a large body in the underbrush. Whatever it was, the elves sensed danger, and they slowed their pace.
The two in front drew their swords and fell back to take up positions on either side of Valthonis. The elves following nocked their arrows and raised their bows and turned to stare intently into the shifting shadows in the trees.
“Show yourselves!” one of the elves shouted harshly in Common.
The minotaur soldiers obeyed his command, clambering up out of the ditches and surging onto the road. Steel clanged against steel. Bowstrings twanged and the druid began to chant a prayer to Chislev, calling on her for blessed aid.
Valthonis’ voice cut through the chaos, ringing out loudly and forcefully. “Stop this! Now.”
He spoke with such authority that all the combatants obeyed him, including the minotaurs, who reacted to the commanding tone out of instinct. A heartbeat later they realized that it was their intended victim who had ordered them to cease and, feeling foolish, sprang again to the attack.
This time Galdar roared, “Stop in the name of Sargas!” The minotaur soldiers, seeing their leader striding forward, reluctantly lowered their swords and fell back.
The elves and the minotaurs eyed each other balefully. No one attacked, but no one sheathed his blade. The druid was still praying. Valthonis placed a hand upon the man’s shoulder and spoke a soft word. The druid cast him a pleading glance, but Valthonis shook his head, and the prayer to Chislev ended in a sigh.
Galdar raised his only hand to show he bore no weapon and walked toward Valthonis. The Faithful moved to interpose their own bodies between the Walking God and the minotaur.
“Walking God,” said Galdar, speaking over the heads of those who blocked him, “I would speak to you-in private.”
“Stand aside, my friends,” said Valthonis. “I will hear what he has to say.”
One of the elves tried to argue, but Valthonis would not listen. He asked the Faithful again to stand aside and this they did, though reluctantly and unhappily. Galdar ordered his soldiers to keep their distance and they obeyed, though with lowering looks at the elves.
Galdar and Valthonis walked into the trees, out of earshot of their followers.
“You are Valthonis, once the god Paladine,” stated Galdar.
“I am Valthonis,” said the elf mildly.
“I am Galdar, emissary of the great god known to minotaur as Sargas, known to those like yourselves as Sargonnas. My god bids me speak these words: ‘You have unfinished business in the world, Valthonis, and because you have chosen to ‘walk’ away from this challenge there is new strife in heaven and among men. The great Sargas wants to bring this strife to an end. This matter must be brought to a swift and final resolution. To facilitate this, he will bring about a meeting between you and your challenger.’”
“I hope you do think I am being argumentative, Emissary, but I am afraid I know nothing about this strife or the challenge of which you speak,” Valthonis replied.
Galdar rubbed his muzzle with the side of his hand. He was uncomfortable, for he believed in honor and in honesty, and in this he was being less than honest, less than honorable.
“Perhaps not a challenge from Mina,” Galdar clarified, hoping his god would understand. “More of a threat. Still,” he went on before Valthonis could reply, “it hangs between the two of you like noxious smoke, poisoning the air.”
“Ah, I understand now,” Valthonis said. “You speak of Mina’s vow to kill me.”
Galdar glanced about uneasily at his minotaur escort. “Keep your voice down when you mention her name. My people consider her a witch.”
He cleared his throat and added stiffly, “I was told by Sargas to say that the Horned God wants to bring the two of you together, that you may resolve your differences.”
Valthonis smiled wryly at this, and Galdar, embarrassed, kept on rubbing his muzzle. Sargas had no intention the two should resolve their differences. Galdar had no love for any elf, but he scorned to lie to this one. He had his orders, however, and so he said what he’d been told to say, though he was making it clear he wasn’t the one to say it.
The two were interrupted by one of the Faithful, who called out, “You have no need to parlay with this brute, sir. We can and will fight to defend you-”