“The forest has spoken with us,” Sunpatch declared, but she didn’t sit down yet. “The orcs are on the march. The war has begun.”
I gasped and Kli-Kli squealed. Mumr, who hadn’t managed to get to sleep yet, swore. Eel and Egrassa remained impassive, as if they’d been told we wouldn’t be getting sweet buns for breakfast tomorrow, not that a war had started.
“When did it happen?”
“A few days ago.”
“Is that all we’re supposed to know?”
“No, but we understand nothing about war and we cannot tell you in the way you should be told. We will only bewilder and confuse you. Babbling Brook has sent a flinny to you; he will be here soon.”
“How soon?”
Fluffy Cloud closed her eyes as if she was listening to the wind wandering through the naked branches of the trees.
“He will be here in a few minutes. And in the meantime, I think you ought to know that tomorrow we shall have to change direction.”
“How?”
“To go west. We do not wish you to leave the forest and fall straight into the hands of the orcs.”
Right. They didn’t want the Rainbow Horn to fall into the orcs’ hands. They couldn’t care less about us.
“We shall lead you to the western bank of the Black River. You will be close to a human city. Moitsig, if I remember correctly. The orcs have passed it by. The flinny will be here soon. Tomorrow we shall get you out of the Golden Forest.”
The dryads disappeared into the trees again. They obviously weren’t very fond of our jolly company.
“Now, what does that tell us?” said Lamplighter, scratching his stubbly cheek thoughtfully. “If we leave the Golden Forest tomorrow … Then at that speed we’ll get out of Zagraba in three … no, in two days?”
“Let’s hope for exactly that,” said Eel, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Things are getting hot now in the south of the kingdom.”
“But if we come out on the western bank of the Iselina, then do we go straight from Zagraba into Valiostr?”
“You always were a genius, Harold,” said Kli-Kli. “Yes, you’re absolutely right. We’ll be in the most southern part of the south—the south of Valiostr. You can’t get any farther south. From Moitsig to Ranneng is only a nine-day journey. Then a little bit farther, and we’re home.”
“Don’t, Kli-Kli,” said Eel. “Don’t ever try to guess the future. We don’t know what’s going to happen to us.”
“I thought we’d leave Zagraba on the border with the Kingdom, near Cuckoo.”
“Near Cuckoo? No, Harold, you’re way off target there. Way, way off. We’re nowhere near Cuckoo,” Kli-Kli snorted, and reached her hands out to the fire.
“When you were in Hrad Spein, didn’t you realize how far you walked, thief?” Egrassa asked, and his eyes glinted. “It was a distance of many leagues. You left the Palaces of Bone at a place far away from the entrance, and then how far did you walk with the Firstborn? We barely managed to reach the Labyrinth in time.”
“You can say that again,” Lamplighter confirmed.
“So there’s no point in trying to go to Cuckoo. It would be a massive detour.”
“But where’s Honeycomb?”
“I don’t think he’s in the castle anymore. Milord Alistan—may he dwell in the light—left him a letter before we entered Zagraba. If Honeycomb recovered, then he should have galloped to Avendoom long ago with a message for the king.”
“But what about horses? I don’t expect the elk are going to rush us all the way to the capital.”
“We have enough money to buy new horses.”
Yes, there was gold enough, but I would miss Little Bee; I’d grown used to my own mount, and now I’d have to switch to a new one. And apart from that, Little Bee was a present from the king.
First we heard the buzzing, and then the dragoatfly came darting toward us like a tiny shadow. The flinny mounted on it was my old acquaintance, the one who had been given the elfin ring as his reward. The one who, basically, had hauled my backside out of the Labyrinth.
“Iirroo z’maa Olok of the Branch of the Lake Butterfly is glad to greet Tresh Egrassa and his traveling companions!” the flinny chanted, and the dragoatfly circled above our heads.
“I am glad to greet my brother of the little people at my campfire. What has brought you here, Iirroo z’maa Olok of the Branch of the Lake Butterfly?”
“News,” said the crystal-clear little voice, like the jingling of a bell. “Unpaid.”
It was clear from Iirroo’s tone that this last fact was not a good thing. Flinnies were used to being paid handsomely for their labors.
“Would you care to try of our food and sup of our wine?” Egrassa inquired, employing the ritual phrase.
“Hah!” the black-haired flinny responded. “The food of dryads, and not a drop of wine anywhere in sight. Thank you for asking, but no. On this occasion the business is too urgent and too important. Food can wait. But I certainly wouldn’t object to a space where I could land Lozirel. We’ve spent half a day on the wing.”
Without waiting for permission, the dragoatfly glided down to the ground, stuck out its tongue, and bleated in relief.
“I’m glad to see that you escaped from the filthy paws of the orcs, beanpole!” said the flinny, addressing me. “Would you object, Tresh Egrassa, if I were to speak from the ground? I am afraid that Lozirel needs to rest for the next ten minutes.”
No one had any objections.
The news that Iirroo recited to us didn’t make very good hearing. This time the Firstborn had prepared well —they had learned the lesson of their defeat in the Spring War. The Hand had gathered absolutely everyone he could, and, when everything was ready, struck rapidly and to good effect. There were so many orcs that the military leader of the Firstborn had even taken the risk of dividing up his army of many thousands into three strike forces, or “fists.”
The first fist had hammered at the Border Kingdom, the second had struck at Valiostr and was now advancing on Ranneng at a forced march, encountering almost no resistance along the way. The third fist had come crashing down on the southwestern provinces of Valiostr—but the main force of the blow had been taken by the Black Forest.
“Your compatriots, Tresh Egrassa, were not expecting anything of the kind. Before the houses were able to offer an adequate response…” The flinny hesitated, unwilling to convey bad news.
“Continue.” Egrassa’s face seemed to be carved out of stone.
“They flooded through the Black Forest. The House of Black Water gave battle while the others gathered their warriors. No members of the House of Black Water survived; the entire house was annihilated. The orcs advanced as far as Greenwood and the ancient city was totally destroyed. The Black Flame was almost extinguished. Almost all kin of the great Elodssa the Law Breaker fell in the battle. This house is now ruled by Melessana the Night Fox. The Black Moon arrived in time and closed the breach, bearing the brunt of the blow from the Firstborn. Then other houses joined them, I do not know who had the best of it.”
“I see,” said Egrassa, stroking the handle of his s’kash.
“That is not yet all the bad news, Tresh Egrassa.”
“What could possibly be worse?”
“The Black Moon protected the Black Flame. Now all members of the House of the Black Flame have become your k’lissangs. The Flame said it was a point of honor for them to be loyal to those who had saved them.”
“That is impossible,” Egrassa snapped. “The Black Flame is the predominant house. They cannot serve us. The Night Fox must have gone completely insane in her grief!”
“Melessana is too young, but the words have been spoken, and the Council of the Black Flame has approved them.”
“My uncle will never accept such a blatant transgression of the law!”
“Tresh Eddanrassa, the head of the House of the Black Moon, was killed while defending the Flame. His daughter—Tresh Melessana—died beside her father. I am deeply sorry.”
