This was no homecoming for the prince, it was more like a trial.
Dark arbours drenched in shadows gave way to thicker brush, thorny branched pines and an altogether denser arboreal gloom. These were wild lands, heavily forested, and beasts lurked in the mountains brooding overhead. A small war party moved through the thickening forest, fleet of foot and lightly armoured but wary.
A tall warrior dressed in tan and crimson led the modest group. Leather-clad, he carried a long bow and had a quiver half full of arrows strapped to his back. He was lithe, with almond-shaped eyes and a mane of golden hair tightly bound in a ponytail behind his neck.
Sighting prey, the warrior stopped and signalled silently to his companions to do the same. One was a burly-looking woodsman with thick furs draped over his back. He had drawn a hunting knife and a large double-bladed axe sat in a sheath between his shoulders, haft sticking up. The other laboured under a red hauberk, not as used to the forest as the other two. A short sword slapped against his thigh and three more quivers full of arrows were slung over his shoulder. Despite his shorn hair, which was night black, he was sheened with sweat.
‘I see you…’ whispered the leader, silently drawing an arrow and nocking it to his bow in a single seamless motion.
Scenting danger, the great stag realised it was being stalked. Raising its mighty antlered head, it snorted the air and the muscles bunched in its legs as it made to flee.
The swan-feathered shaft made almost no sound as it was released into the air. It sped swiftly in a white blur, dagger sharp and lightning fast. It pierced the great stag’s heart, killing it instantly.
‘Ha!’ King Caledor looked pleased with his kill. A fine mist was coming off the beast, a fever sweat that was fading to nothing as the heat of its body expired.
‘Flense it, woodsman,’ he said to the fur-clad brute, who nodded. ‘I want fur, flesh and meat. Spare nothing except for the head, which I shall take as a trophy.’
‘See, Hulviar,’ said Caledor to the other elf, gesturing to the woodsman who was quickly about his task. ‘Chracians do have their uses.’
‘Ever since your father’s time, they have been the protectors of the king, my liege.’
‘Yes, the White Lions,’ Caledor sneered, ‘but he is just some peasant.’
If the Chracian heard his noble lord, he was wise enough not to show it.
‘How many is that today?’ Caledor asked.
‘Seven, my liege. You have denuded this part of the forest.’
Caledor’s eyes narrowed and he smiled self-indulgently. ‘Indeed, I have.’
The sound of branches snapping underfoot had the king raise his bow again, and Hulviar draw his sword.
‘Who goes there?’ demanded the retainer.
The woodsman had work to do, and continued with it. Besides, he had been aware of the intruder several minutes ago and knew it was no threat.
‘Stand down, Hulviar. I am no great stag to be skewered by my brother’s wayward arrow,’ came a voice from the gloom.
Another warrior emerged into the clearing where the woodsman was butchering the dead stag.
‘Khalnor,’ said the warrior, who received a warm nod of greeting from the Chracian.
The king smiled so broadly that it filled his face, if not quite his eyes.
‘Never forget a name, do you, little brother?’ Handing the long bow to Hulviar, Caledor went over to the warrior and embraced him.
‘A lesson you would benefit from learning,’ he chastised mildly.
Caledor whispered, ‘I can always call them peasant, can I not, Imladrik?’
There was amusement in the king’s face that Imladrik hoped wasn’t genuine.
‘I have returned, brother.’
‘For which you have my thanks.’ Caledor let him go, favouring his brother with another half-smile, before walking from the clearing.
Imladrik followed. He was still clad in his dragon armour, though he’d removed the greaves and wore only the cuirass and vambraces.
‘When I received your missive, I was under the impression that the skirmishes had escalated to something more serious and yet here you are… hunting.’
‘It is good sport during this part of the season, brother, and as you can see…’ Parting the thick bracken, Caledor stepped into another clearing where several more high elves pored over a map stretched across a white table. It sat beneath a tented pavilion where servants decanted wine and served silver platters of truffles. ‘My advisors keep me well apprised.’
Imladrik joined them at once as Caledor slumped upon a plush couch to remove his boots and hunting apparel.
He nodded to the assembled lordlings, greeting them all by name. To a man, they responded in kind, showing Imladrik the same amount of deference as their King.
Though he thought he had kept it hidden, the prince noticed his brother’s scowl at the way the other nobles and warriors treated him. Imladrik was beloved.
‘He seeks inroads through the Caledorian Mountains and Ellyrion,’ he observed, fathoming the situation instantly without need of assistance from any of his brother’s advisors.
‘Lord Athinol requires reinforcement,’ said Caledor idly. ‘More swords and spears to watch the passes. Every day more Naggarothi scum penetrate our watchtowers.’
‘I am dismayed to hear that,’ Imladrik said honestly, ‘but unfortunately I bring further bad tidings.’
Caledor frowned, as if sensing his hunting trip was about to be curtailed.
‘Relations with the dwarfs have soured.’ Imladrik looked up from the map to regard his brother, who was sipping from a silver chalice.
‘Hardly a surprise. What of it?’
It took all of Imladrik’s composure to bite back his exasperation. ‘Our colonies in the Old World are in danger. There have been murders, I believe by druchii, designed to foment ill will between our two races.’
Caledor sat up, but held on to
