the camp—worn paths, squares of dead grass from tents, latrine ditches and old earthworks—the echo of an army. Westward the plains rose into hills and mountains culminating with Mount Teles, the tallest peak in the world that loomed over everything. Surrounding it were lesser mountains and a vast forest. Tyrus smelled the trees long before they reached them, a green scent early in the morning, fresh with dew, as if a summer rain had washed away the war. He should enjoy it, but the beasts led them to the woods where dozens of his scouts had died.
Biral whistled. They stopped on the edges of the forest. His hounds became still, inanimate except for their smoldering eyes. Tyrus wished for real dogs because the sight of the beasts was offputting. The things had no jowls, and their exposed canines glistened.
The trees were a type of oak: thick trunks, few branches low to the ground but large tops. Near the plains, they stood maybe thirty feet tall, but farther in they became enormous, reaching for the heavens, hundreds of feet high. Azmon said the tallest trees predated Shinar. Ferns and vines and bushes—untamed, unkempt—covered the ground. Despite the blistering sun, they were bright green, bursting with deep colors and smells. Vines wrapped around trunks of trees, hiding the bark in a shaggy coat of leaves, and a vast canopy blocked the sun. The gloom did not invite.
“What are you doing?” Tyrus pushed forward. “We follow the girl.”
Biral said, “But those are the Paltiel Woods.”
“And?”
“The stories of what the Ashen Elves did to our men. We are too few to go in there.”
“We are not claiming the woods for Rosh. Keep moving.”
“But Lord Marshal, their archers are impossible to see.”
“We catch the girl and leave. We are strong enough for scouts.”
Tyrus kneed his mount forward without looking back. His men followed. Biral rejoined them, and his dogs darted into the trees. Tyrus watched them go, so ugly with their stretched leathery skin but also canine-like, noses to the ground, zigzagging across the trail.
No roads into Paltiel. That told Tyrus all he needed to know about the elven regard for Shinar. His men broke into three lines, spaced out. The center, with Tyrus and Biral, followed a small game trail. Their first hint of a scouting party would be arrows peppering Biral. The bone lords always died first. Biral must have heard the stories. He licked his lips and jerked at the slightest sound. Tyrus called a champion closer to his flank.
“Thank you, Lord Marshal.”
“Champions do not require thanks. Besides, elves climb trees.”
Biral ducked at nothing.
Tyrus grew grimmer as they traveled deeper into the woods. Compared to the open plains, the trees hugged him. Branches brushed his arms and legs. Wood scraped his armor. Sounds didn’t travel as far, and he struggled to watch his periphery. The shade, at first a welcome break from the sun, soon felt humid, sticky. Tyrus preferred a dry heat.
Einin had traveled faster than he hoped. If they encountered one scouting party, several more would close on them before they could escape Paltiel. He needed men to establish a foothold, something to fight toward if the Ashen Elves tried to trap them in the forest.
“Keylan, return to Shinar and find Elmar. Tell him I want two regiments sent to me. Spearmen, archers, double march.”
“Yes, Lord Marshal.”
“Lead them here and wait for us. This is the rally point.”
The reinforcements would never reach them before they found the girl, but they might distract the elves. Tyrus felt eyes watching him. He studied all the soft cover. Biral was right. They needed more men.
The chase became dull, long hours in the saddle watching Biral manage his dogs. Tyrus busied himself seeking an ambush, but an attack could come from anywhere. His mind drifted. He had no idea what he would do when they found Einin. Somehow he must rescue the heir, protect Ishma’s reputation, and please Azmon. He
Biral whistled. They stopped on the edges of the forest. His hounds became still, inanimate except for their smoldering eyes. Tyrus wished for real dogs because the sight of the beasts was offputting. The things had no jowls, and their exposed canines glistened.
The trees were a type of oak: thick trunks, few branches low to the ground but large tops. Near the plains, they stood maybe thirty feet tall, but farther in they became enormous, reaching for the heavens, hundreds of feet high. Azmon said the tallest trees predated Shinar. Ferns and vines and bushes—untamed, unkempt—covered the ground. Despite the blistering sun, they were bright green, bursting with deep colors and smells. Vines wrapped around trunks of trees, hiding the bark in a shaggy coat of leaves, and a vast canopy blocked the sun. The gloom did not invite.
“What are you doing?” Tyrus pushed forward. “We follow the girl.”
Biral said, “But those are the Paltiel Woods.”
“And?”
“The stories of what the Ashen Elves did to our men. We are too few to go in there.”
“We are not claiming the woods for Rosh. Keep moving.”
“But Lord Marshal, their archers are impossible to see.”
“We catch the girl and leave. We are strong enough for scouts.”
Tyrus kneed his mount forward without looking back. His men followed. Biral rejoined them, and his dogs darted into the trees. Tyrus watched them go, so ugly with their stretched leathery skin but also canine-like, noses to the ground, zigzagging across the trail.
No roads into Paltiel. That told Tyrus all he needed to know about the elven regard for Shinar. His men broke into three lines, spaced out. The center, with Tyrus and Biral, followed a small game trail. Their first hint of a scouting party would be arrows peppering Biral. The bone lords always died first. Biral must have heard the stories. He licked his lips and jerked at the slightest sound. Tyrus called a champion closer to his flank.
“Thank you, Lord Marshal.”
“Champions do not require thanks. Besides, elves climb trees.”
Biral ducked at nothing.
Tyrus grew grimmer as they traveled deeper into the woods. Compared to the open plains, the trees hugged him. Branches brushed his arms and legs. Wood scraped his armor. Sounds didn’t travel as far, and he struggled to watch his periphery. The shade, at first a welcome break from the sun, soon felt humid, sticky. Tyrus preferred a dry heat.
Einin had traveled faster than he hoped. If they encountered one scouting party, several more would close on them before they could escape Paltiel. He needed men to establish a foothold, something to fight toward if the Ashen Elves tried to trap them in the forest.
“Keylan, return to Shinar and find Elmar. Tell him I want two regiments sent to me. Spearmen, archers, double march.”
“Yes, Lord Marshal.”
“Lead them here and wait for us. This is the rally point.”
The reinforcements would never reach them before they found the girl, but they might distract the elves. Tyrus felt eyes watching him. He studied all the soft cover. Biral was right. They needed more men.
The chase became dull, long hours in the saddle watching Biral manage his dogs. Tyrus busied himself seeking an ambush, but an attack could come from anywhere. His mind drifted. He had no idea what he would do when they found Einin. Somehow he must rescue the heir, protect Ishma’s reputation, and please Azmon. He
Similar Books
