A Hero's throne

a spiritual plane here, and if a revelation were to be had, then he would find it and bring it back, somehow, to his own world.

But what would the cost be? The Night was brutal and horrific, quite literally a hell. And the things that worried him most-beyond the pain, or its inevitability if he continued to stay in this world-was that he nearly always forgot what he experienced, and every time he came back, less of him seemed to make it. His confidence and righteousness had been eaten away to the point that he was now questioning if he could indeed accomplish anything of worth here in Elfland, or back at home, for that matter. His surety of purpose was faltering.

He sat for another few hours, trying to puzzle out all the logic and fuzzy philosophy of his situation. Then he rose and almost automatically began searching for the Elves in Exile again. If helping them win this battle was part of his penance, then he should get on with it. The problem was that he had no assurance at all that this was a penance, or that there were lessons to be learned.

After a long time of searching, he saw a smudge on the horizon in the southeast that he took to be smoke, and he navigated himself toward that. Whatever it was, he was certain that it was something to do with the war, or would give information that would lead him to it. With such a focal point, he made much quicker progress and had the scene in view in what seemed like less than a minute.

It was a battlefield, but one that had already been spent. The “field” itself was actually several fields spread between two forests-it was apparently part of an elfish farm, entirely open except for low walls, ditches, ridges, and hedges demarcating one cropland from another. The fight had ranged over at least a dozen of these spaces. Daniel had no experience in evaluating or judging what had occurred here, but the battle looked hard fought. Bodies of elfish warriors were spread all over, sometimes clustering here, sometimes there. There were also horses, so many horses, laying everywhere, dead and dying. Many more were tethered to the walls that ran along the side of the fields where a dirt road meandered. The two fighting sides must have been entirely mounted.

Warriors in what looked to be blue enamelled armour trimmed with black were walking over the field, dragging the wounded-indiscriminate of side, it seemed-off the field and into a circle of elfish healers. These were the victors, apparently, and Daniel wondered who they represented.

The smoke he had spotted came from a patch of grassland at the far end of the field of conflict, which was near a copse of tall, birch-like trees. Here some tents and furniture were smouldering, and the figures in blue were trying desperately to put it out. The tent had been collapsed and the canvas pulled away from what was underneath it, which was papers, journals, and silken cloths. These were spread out and stamped on with a mindful precision in order to extinguish their smoking edges. There was a man shouting orders to these soldiers, and Daniel drifted lower to hear what was being said.

“Faster, you lugheads! Put those papers out! Quickly and well! No, not like that, like this! They’ll smoulder into oblivion unless you do it properly. Don’t you know that destruction of vital knowledge of the enemy is treason? Your lives depend on this act, so let’s pretend we all actually care about your miserable existences and step keenly!”

So, the actions weren’t so noble, as Daniel first thought, as to extinguish a fire so close to a wooded area. Daniel drifted upward and spotted a cluster of elves wearing more than the usual amount of armour and ornamentation. These must be the captains and generals. He went toward them. One of them was Prince Kione Traast from the necrologist’s halls.

“Hurry them up,” he was saying, annoyed, to a cluster of clerical-looking elves. “The ground is starting to eat the blood and you know how they’ll only complain when they see that our wounded are being moved.”

“It does no good to rush them, my prince,” said one unflappablelooking elf. “Battlescrying is an ancient art and one that demands much anticipation.”

“Well, then it’s their own cursed fault if things move. I don’t want to hear any excuses or blame from them.”

A young messenger came running from the field behind the prince. “They are ready, my prince.”

Behind him, from the woods, strode four elderly elves in red robes and each one was wearing thin, bone-like stilts that allowed them to tower above all others on the battlefield. They also carried long, black poles that could reach down to the ground. They stood roughly two storeys above anyone else around.

“Clear the field!” shouted one of the prince’s captains. “All of you that can move, clear the field for the battlescryers!”

The soldiers did so, rushing to the edges of the open areas as the four stilted elves stalked into the fields. Their manner was easy and adept and rather eerie as complete silence and attention was given to their activities.

Their increased foot spans gave them surprising speed across the plains, and they used their black poles to move certain objects that they deemed to be in the way. Occasionally they would place their walking sticks in the ground behind them and sit on them in a tripod fashion as they made notes and created diagrams on square books that they carried in a satchel at their waists. They seemed particularly interested in how the bodies had fallen, and how they were clustered, and what relation the fallen apparently had with each other. Daniel could hear them murmuring across to one another.

“There are three brothers, here, there, and there-do you see? Each bears an emblem on his shield with a purple, eight-pointed star. Can another be found?”

“I have one here, a youth of perhaps eighty,” came a reply in a low, sullen voice.

“He would be the youngest, then. How is he oriented?”

“Feet to the sun, head to the wind, hands to his heels.”

This made all of them pause to record this information, and then they began circling the scene again. Another brother was found and they all halted and recorded this discovery with much muted excitement.

Their work apparently finished, they strode back across the plain and alighted with surprised dexterity from their stilts and stood a little apart from the prince and his entourage and conferred awhile, comparing notes.

“Most august and glorified ruler of elf,” said the foremost. “We have finished our divinations.”

“And?”

The battle diviner straightened himself and reported in an authoritative voice:

One body dead with no cut or break in the skin-a high fort will shoot thrice time ten.

Two carrion birds upon a hand-a captain wounded.

Four fallen from the east-fair weather at the next engagement.

Eight headless helmets-lost wealth on a rainy morning.

Nine white worms around a boot-horse sickness for three days.

Overlapping wrists: thirteen-the number of days to travel.

Fifteen flies on one breastplate-fortune for felons.

Thirty-nine broken shields-ships will stay at sea.

Eleven gauntlets lost, eleven buckles loosed, eleven heels covered-store half your provisions.

Eight by nine the field of Elven slain-shelter under the canopy. Forty-three within the centre- welcome the first blow.

Twenty-three giving northward supplication-a spy in the fifth ring.

Nine enemies on the fifth level-ride to the South.

These numbers: one, two, four, eight, nine, thirteen, fifteen, thirty-nine. . acquisition, forceful reciprocity, remuneration, fortunate remembrance, a diverse mind, a quick eye.

These numbers: thirty-three, seventy-two, forty-three, twenty-three, forty-five. . changeable fortunes, the stars hidden, a mask unused.

Five brothers-the end of conflict in three weeks.

Four of the brothers with three wounds-finality on the midday.

Three brothers to the west-the location of the next field.

Two brothers supplicant-victory at a great cost.

One brother outside of the square-a claimant abandoned.