Kahanna, a young elfmaiden who had been sweetly, innocently in love with Dall, brought the Pathfinder cakes of com and venison wrapped in crispy leaves, then hurried away as if she didn't want to intrude on his mourning. Kahanna had served Kagonos for many decades, tending to most of his household needs. Now he felt a sting of guilt-surely the young maid must grieve for the loss of her lover. Yet, because Kagonos was the Pathfinder, she bit her tongue and held back her own tears.
Dimly he heard the sounds of the shamans chanting, working the healing magic that might save a limb, or prevent a deep wound from festering. The worst of the wounded received the benefit of these merciful spells, and many lives were saved. But the tribal priests were too few, their powers too limited, to hold against the tide of suffering and death.
For the first time since the battle, he unlashed the Ram's Horn, raising the trumpet to his lips. For the hours of sunset and twilight he played a song of mourning. The notes carried clearly through the camps of the four tribes and rose through the forests into the mountain heights as well. In that music was comfort for all who grieved, and a measure of hope for those Elderwild who tumbled toward despair.
Finally the chiefs joined Kagonos at his fire, and they shared a silent pipe. Only after the last of the tobacco smoke had wafted into the wind did the Pathfinder look around the gathered elves. A part of him saw them as strangers, unknown to him. They needed him, he knew- but did he need them?
The answer to the unspoken question didn't matter. Kagonos must decide what to do now, and he knew this was a decision he could not make by himself.
Abruptly the Pathfinder remembered something that Darlantan had told him. He stood and turned his back to the fire, eyes seeking the eastern horizon. Then he raised a finger and pointed. The chiefs gasped collectively as a crimson orb climbed slowly into view, rising above the ridge and ascending into the darkening sky. Another moon, this one of brilliant, crystal white, followed the first. The third moon, the black one, was invisible when it came after-but the Pathfinder sensed its stark and ominous presence. And now he understood Darlantan's truth: even gods could be punished.
"The war is finished. The gods have banished their own kin, those who gave the dragongems to Silvanos. We see them entombed before us."
"The dragons-even the blues-have gone?" Barcalla asked hesitantly. "You know this from these moons?"
"Yes-but we must be certain. Tomorrow the tribes shall march from here."
"Where do we go?" asked Feldree.
"We shall march to the camp of Silvanos. There we will see what the future holds."
From the top of a foothill ridge the wild elves could see the ogre army streaming toward the north-a ragged, panicked mob, leaving chariots, foodstuffs, and weapons strewn in its wake. The midday sky was clear, free of clouds-and of dragons. Along the southern horizon, four hours' march away, the army of the House Elves sprawled in a vast encampment across the plain.
Watching the flight of the ogre survivors, Kagonos finally knew that more than just the battle had been won. With dual victories, in the mountains and on the plains, the elves had prevailed over their enemies in the Dragon War.
Still, he felt a curious numbness as he led the Elderwild tribes toward the camp of Silvanos. From the crest the march took the rest of the afternoon, and with each step it seemed that the mass, the numbers of the House Elves, grew steadily larger. Cheers rang out as the wild elves approached, and the Pathfinder knew that their greeting would be warm.
But what lay behind that warmth?
It all depended on Silvanos, Kagonos knew. So much about the ruler of the House Elves was a great mystery to the Pathfinder, and it was not without trepidation that he took his warriors and their families among the much more numerous elves of the city-dwelling clans.
The House Elves had made their encampment on the heights overlooking the Vingaard River, within sight of the battlefield-but far enough away to avoid the stench of rotting ogre corpses. In the light of the setting sun Kagonos saw hundreds of vultures wheeling over the scene of carnage, while clusters of the birds already gathered on the ground, flocking like maggots around the multitude of gruesome remains.
The elven camp, conversely, was a riotous gathering of colored tents, crowded horse corrals, and brilliant banners trailing in the breeze. Many of these pennants blazed incredibly bright in the light of the setting sun, as if the flags themselves were living tongues of flame.
In the center of the gathering snapped the white crown pennant of House Silvanos, and Kagonos guided his column toward the patriarch's circle. Nearby waved the green-and-white birch branch that signaled the tents of the great Lord Balif and his attendants. The wild elf knew that it was Balif, even more than Quithas, who had planned and executed Silvanos's most stunning victories. Balif was the true war leader of the Silvanesti, a fact that Silvanos never failed to acknowledge. Now cheers and the sounds of a boisterous toast rose from that great captain's compound, and Kagonos guessed that Balif had played a part in yet another historic victory.
Nearby fluttered another banner, this one all too familiar to Kagonos-a golden field emblazoned with the crossed claws of Quithas's rampant steed. The Elderwild chieftain sensed with a sting of lingering hatred that the general of Silvanos's cavalry had not only survived the battle, but had showered himself with glory.
Now, as they welcomed the arrival of the Elderwild, the elves of Silvanos came forward with shouts and cheers, forming two broad columns to either side of Kagonos's march. The numbness in the chieftain's breast expanded into a sort of vague disbelief as he heard the cheers, felt the exultancy of victory surging over him, offered by the warriors who were of his race but not of his people.
Even in looking at Silvanos's troops, Kagonos could see the differences. The House Elves wore armor of silver, and all of them bore swords or daggers of keen steel. Their faces were unpainted, their boots firm and stout-at least bv comparison to Elderwild moccasins-and their blond hair was bound carefully against their necks.
Most of the warriors, by now, had set their armor aside in favor of cloaks and tunics of bright silk and dyed cotton, while jewelry of silver and gold dangled or gleamed from wrists, necks, ears, and fingers. On many of the hjgh-ranking elves, gems-diamonds, emeralds, rubies, garnets, and many others Kagonos didn't even recognize-sparkled in a brilliant affirmation of an individual's wealth, status, and power.
The elves of Kagonos's band, conversely, allowed their darker hair to flow freely across their shoulders, blowing in the wind with the same lack of constraint as the folk themselves cherished so deeply. The Elderwild were still painted in their swirling battle colors, with each tribe displaying the symbol that identified it-the antlers of the Whitetails, the curling wave of the Bluelake, or the hawk's beak sigil of the Black Feathers. Many wild elves displayed spirals of varying length, and while some of the warriors still showed the hollow circles of unblooded braves, these circles would be altered to spirals at the earliest opportunity. Of course, the paint would be washed off at the conclusion of the victory celebration, but during preparation for battle it served as a key indicator of an individual's station within the war party and the tribe. Now those symbols marked them as a proud and distinct people, obviously very different from the light-skinned House Elves.
The column oЈ Elderwild marched steadily, warriors raising their heads and throwing back their shoulders as they walked among the ranks of their allies. Though every one of them had lost a brother, cousin, or friend in the fight, the survivors remained determined to present a proud and honorable face to their kinsmen from the city houses.