Liútasil knew how much he owed to the humans and his traditional enemies, the dwarves. Before the battle of the Blacksaddle, no one had doubted that Âlandur would fall to the älfar, but now, with the enemy retreating, his kingdom was safe. The last few skirmishes had been rearguard actions on the part of the älfar, summoned to Dsôn Balsur to defend their home.
Sitalia, grant me patience, he prayed. Down below, a group of men were brawling over the last skin of wine. Order was restored when their superior had them beaten into their tents by his guards.
On occasions such as this, Liútasil despaired of his new allies, who had nothing in common with the elves. He sometimes questioned the wisdom of fighting side by side with humans and dwarves, but Sitalia seemed to approve of the alliance. I’ll trust in your will…
He left the wooden platform and swiftly descended the ladder. On reaching the ground, he strode past the rows of canvas toward the purple assembly tent to debrief his scouts.
Seated at the conference table were the military commanders of Gauragar, Tabaîn, Weyurn, Sangpûr, Urgon, and Rân Ribastur. The generals were waiting in silence, sipping tumblers of water served by their guards. Liútasil was thankful that none were drinking wine or brandy.
Three elves in leather armor were standing in a corner of the tent. They were scouts, newly returned from the field. The filth of Dsôn Balsur clung to their boots, and their lightweight armor was torn and bloodied. News of the älfar didn’t come cheap.
Liútasil greeted the generals with a nod and signaled that he was ready. The scouts began their report in elvish and he summarized the intelligence for the men. “Our enemies have withdrawn to the heart of their kingdom. Traps are in place to hinder our advance. The Perished Land has taken root around Dsôn Balsur and the trees are black with malice. Our first challenge is to pass through the forest unharmed.”
“I say we wait,” interrupted the commander of Sangpûr’s army. “The Perished Land is retreating from Girdlegard and the forest may yet recover. A march through whipping branches and twisting trunks would be a disaster for the men’s morale. I can’t put them through it.” The other generals nodded in agreement.
“I understand your concerns,” said Liútasil, sitting down and resting his arms on the table. “But I know the forest in question. The land once belonged to my people, and the trees are too old. Even if the soil recovers, the forest has been drinking the poison for hundreds of cycles, and the evil has blackened its soul. With the defeat of the Perished Land, the forest is dying and turning to stone, but it’s a slow process and we can’t afford to wait. We routed the älfar at the Blacksaddle; we need to attack straightaway.”
His speech met with silence from the generals. Realizing they needed time to consider and reach a decision, Liútasil left them and asked a few final questions of his scouts before entrusting them to the care of a physician, who was waiting to dress their wounds.
He accompanied them outside and stood in the doorway, leaning against a tent pole and gazing at the dark night sky.
Hidden in the stars were the faces of his forebears—wise, brave, clear-sighted elves whom Sitalia had elevated to the firmament to watch over their descendants and send them visions and signs.
Liútasil focused on the face of Fantur, second ruler of Âlandur and brother of Veïnsa, one-time mistress of the Golden Plains. I need your help, he prayed, tracing the invisible lines of the constellation. Tell me how to dissuade them from delaying. He returned to the conference table. “What is your decision?”
“The trees in this forest,” began the commander of Rân Ribastur’s army. “Are they made of ordinary wood?”
Liútasil nodded.
“In that case,” continued the general, “we can burn them. I say we blaze a path to the heart of their kingdom.”
“They’ll know exactly where we are,” objected Liútasil. “We’d be a sitting target for their arrows. We’d lose hundreds and hundreds of—”
The man shrugged. “Who cares if they know where we are? Our army is vastly superior; we’ll show them our strength. If they’re too scared to fight us, we’ll raze their accursed kingdom to the ground. I don’t think anyone will be sorry to see the Perished Land in flames.”
The other generals thumped the table and grunted their support.
Liútasil realized that they were unlikely to be dissuaded from the plan. “Maybe the dwarves will have a better suggestion,” he said lightly. “I’ve sent a party of scouts to meet them, and one of my best elves, Shanamil, is guiding them here as we speak. They’ll be with us in a couple of orbits.”
“Dwarves are fine for tunneling and fighting underground,” said one of the generals. “Palandiell knows they’re brave and their axes are lethal—but they don’t know a thing about fighting in the open. I’m in favor of burning the forest.” He looked at the others. “Who’s with me?” Most of the other generals raised their hands in support.
“Let’s see what the dwarves have to say,” ruled Liútasil, friendly but unyielding. “Go to bed. The new dawn might bring us better counsel.”
The men filed out, leaving Liútasil alone. He untied his red hair, letting it fall freely around his shoulders.
He couldn’t help feeling uneasy about the campaign. Älfar liked to ambush their enemies, killing ruthlessly without exposing themselves to counterattack. Blazing a path through a forest was a dangerous tactic—as the generals would surely discover to their cost.
He picked up the map and calculated the distance from the outskirts of the forest to the capital of Dsôn Balsur—fifty-one miles. In the best-case scenario, they would lose fifty men for every mile. I tried to warn them.
32 Miles Southwest of Dsôn Balsur,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle
Trust the long-uns and the pointy-ears to forge ahead without us. They should have waited!” grumbled Gisgurd, looking from Bundror to Gimdur. “It’s not our fault that it’s taken an age to get here. We’d have made it to camp orbits ago if the tunnels hadn’t caved in.”
“I hope you didn’t say pointy-ears,” scolded Bundror with a twinkle in his eye. “We’re one big family, remember.”
Gimdur tore off two large strips of dried mushroom and stuck them together with a morsel of cheese that was melting over the fire. “Since when are we supposed to like our families? My sister and I can’t get on.” He turned to Gisgurd and took a bite of his snack. “You should be grateful they made it to camp before we did,” he said, mumbling through his mouthful. “They’ll have dug their own trenches and saved us some work.”
“Elves can’t dig trenches,” said Bundror scornfully. “They can’t lift their shovels higher than their boots! They’re good on the lute and not bad with their arrows, but when it comes to handling a shovel… And they don’t know a thing about food—not to mention proper beer!”
Gisgurd clapped him on the back. “Too right!” he agreed enthusiastically. “When all’s said and done, they’re elves.” He paused for a moment, hoping Bundror would notice that he had referred to their confederates by their proper name. “I know we’re on the same side, but how are we supposed to trust them? We hated each other for cycles. You can’t just bury the past.”
“No one’s asking you to bury the past, master dwarf,” said a singsong voice from the shadows. “For my part, I’m looking forward to a future of peace and friendship.” A figure stepped out of the darkness toward the three dwarves. The firelight revealed a slender elf, her dark hair blowing in the breeze. “I’m glad it didn’t take long to find you, although next time you camp near Dsôn Balsur you might want to post a few sentries. Your campfire is visible for miles.”