Even Edain Elessedil had been tutored by members of the King’s Home Guard during the years he had grown to manhood. The fewer they numbered, they all agreed, the better off they would be.
And so only six went — on foot, for the forest wilderness prevented any other form of travel eastward from the Dwarf village into the darkened woods, following the bend of the Silver River. Browork watched them until they were lost from sight in the trees, then turned reluctantly back to Culhaven and the work that awaited him there.
It was a clear, cool autumn day, the air sharp and still and the skies bright with sunlight. Trees shimmered in myriad hues of red, gold, and brown, leaves falling to blanket the forest earth in a soft carpet that rustled beneath the feet of the six as they marched ahead. Time slipped quickly away. Almost before they knew it, the afternoon was gone, the evening settling in across the Anar in dark shades of gray and violet, and the sun sinking slowly from view.
The company made camp next to the Silver River in a small grove of ash, sheltered on their eastern fringe by an outcropping of rocks. Dinner was prepared and eaten, and then Garet Jax called them all together.
«This will be our route.» It was Elb Foraker who spoke, kneeling in their midst to clear the leaves away, a broken stick tracing lines in the bare earth. «The Silver River flows thus.» He marked its passage. «We stand here. East, four days or so, is the Dwarf fortress at Capaal that protects the locks and dams on the Cillidellan. North of that, the Silver River runs down out of the High Bens and the Gnome prisons at Dun Fee Aran. Further north still lie the Ravenshorn and Graymark.»
He looked about the little circle of faces. «If we can do so, we must follow the river all the way into Graymark. If we are forced to leave the river, the path through the Anar becomes a difficult one — all wilderness.» He paused. «Gnome armies hold everything north and east of Capaal. Once there, we will have to watch ourselves carefully.»
«Questions?» Garet Jax glanced up.
Slanter’s snort of derision broke the silence. «You make it seem a whole lot easier than it is,” he growled.
«That’s why we have you along.» The Weapons Master shrugged. «Once beyond Capaal, you’ll be the one choosing the path.»
Slanter spit disdainfully on the drawing. «If we get that far.»
The group broke up, each member moving off to make up his bed for the night. Jair hesitated, then started after Slanter. He caught up with the Gnome on the far side of the clearing.
«Slanter,” he called. The Gnome glanced about momentarily, saw who it was and looked away at once. Jair stepped around in front of the Gnome and faced him. «Slanter, I just want to tell you that it was not my idea to bring you with us.»
Slanter’s eyes were hard. «It was your idea, all right.»
Jair shook his head. «I wouldn’t force anyone to come who didn’t want to — not even you. But I’m glad you’re here. I want you to know that.»
«How very comforting,” the Gnome mocked. «Be sure to remind the walkers of that when they have us all in their prisons!»
«Slanter, don’t be like this. Don’t…»
The Gnome turned away abruptly. «Leave me alone. I want nothing to do with you. I want nothing to do with any of this.» Then he glanced back suddenly, and there was a fierce determination in his eyes. «First chance I get, boy, I’ll be gone! Remember that — first chance! Now — are you still glad I’m here?»
He whirled and stalked away. Jair stared after him helplessly, both saddened and angered by the way things had worked out between them.
«He’s not as angry at you as he seems,” a low voice rumbled. Jair turned and found the Borderman Helt beside him, the long gentle face looking down. «He’s mostly angry at himself.»
Jair shook his head doubtfully. «It didn’t look that way.»
The Borderman moved over to a tree stump and sat, stretching his long legs. «Maybe not, but that’s the truth of it. The Gnome’s a tracker; I knew him in Varfleet. Trackers are not like anyone else; they’re loners, and Slanter is more alone than most. He feels trapped in this, and he wants someone to blame for that. Apparently he finds it easiest to blame you.»
«I suppose I am to blame in a way.» The Valeman stared after the retreating Gnome.
«No more than he himself,” the other said quietly. «He came into the Anar on his own, didn’t he?»
Jair nodded. «But I asked him to come.»
«Someone asked all of us to come,” Helt pointed out. «We didn’t have to come, though; we chose to come. It’s no different with the Gnome. He chose to come with you to Culhaven — probably he wanted to come. It may be that he wants to come now, but can’t admit it to himself. Maybe he’s even a little frightened by the idea.»
Jair frowned. «Why would he be frightened of that?»
«Because it means he cares about you. There isn’t any other reason that I can think of that he would be here.»
«I hadn’t thought of that. I guess that I thought just the opposite from what he’s been saying — that he didn’t care about anything.»
Helt shook his head. «No, he cares, I think. And that frightens him, too. Trackers can’t afford to care about anyone — not if they expect to stay alive.»
Jair stared at the Borderman a moment. «You seem pretty sure about all this.»
The big man rose. «I am. You see, I was once a tracker, too.»
He turned and walked away into the dark. Jair stared after him, wondering what it was that had prompted the Borderman to speak, but rather grateful nevertheless that he had done so.
Dawn broke gray and cheerless, and a mass of rolling dark clouds swept east across the morning sky. The wind blew chill and harsh out of the north, biting at their faces it! fierce gusts, whistling through the skeletal limbs of the forest trees. Leaves and dirt swirled all about them as they resumed the march, and the air smelled heavily of rain.
Jair Ohmsford walked that day in the company of Edain Elessedil. The Elven Prince joined him at the start of the journey, conversing in his loose, easy manner, telling Jair what his father the King had told him of the Ohmsfords. There was a great debt owed Wil Ohmsford, the Elven Prince explained, as they bent their heads against the wind and trooped forward through the cold. If not for him, the Elven nation might have lost their war with the Demons, for it was Wil who had taken the Elven Chosen Amberle in search of the Bloodfire so that the seed of the legendary Ellcrys might be placed within its flames, then returned to the earth to be born anew.
Jair had heard the tale a thousand times, but it was different somehow hearing it from Edain, and he welcomed the retelling. He, in his turn, recounted to the Prince his own small knowledge of the Westland, of his father’s admiration for Ander Elessedil, and of his own strong feelings for the Elven people. As they talked, a sense of kinship began to develop between them. Perhaps it was their shared Elven ancestry, perhaps simply the closeness in age. Edain Elessedil was like Rone in his conversation at times — serious and relaxed by turns, anxious to share his feelings and ideas and to hear Jair’s — and bonds of friendship were quickly formed.
Nightfall came, and the little company took shelter beneath an overhang along a ridgeline that shadowed the Silver River. There they had their dinner and watched the sullen rush of the river as it churned past through a series of rocky drops. Rain began to fall, the sky went black, and the day faded into an unpleasant night. Jair sat back within the overhang and stared out into the dark, the fetid smell of the poisoned river reaching his nostrils. The river had grown worse since Culhaven, its waters blackened and increasingly choked with masses of dying fish and deadwood. Even the vegetation along the riverbanks had shown signs of wilting. There was a murky, depthless cast to the river, and the rain that fell in steady sheets seemed welcome, if only to help somehow wash clean the foulness that lay therein.
The members of the company began to fall asleep after a time. As always, one among them stood guard for the rest. This watch was Helt’s. The giant Borderman stood at the far end of the outcropping, a massive shadow against the faint gray of the rain. He had been a tracker a long time, Edain Elessedil had told Jair more than twenty years. No one ever talked about why he wasn’t a tracker anymore. He’d had a family once, it was rumored, but no one seemed to know what had become of them. He was a gentle man, quiet and soft–spoken; he was also a dangerous one. He was a skilled fighter. He was incredibly strong. And he possessed night vision — extraordinary eyesight that enabled him to see in darkness as clearly as if it were brightest day. There were stories about his
