Indecision

Felkin looked around at his eight companions, feeling terribly insecure despite the company. They had come probing deep into Shilmista on orders from Ragnor, the brutish, unmerciful ogrillon. Felkin hadn't questioned the orders at all, not even to his fellow goblins, thinking that whatever dangers awaited them in the elven wood could not match the sure doom of Ragnor's wrath!

Now Felkin wasn't so sure. They had seen nothing, heard nothing, but every member of the nine-goblin scouting party sensed that they were not alone.

They crossed one sandy ridge and came into a deep patch of tall green ferns growing in the shadows of wide-spreading elms.

"What was that?" one goblin croaked, dipping into a defensive crouch and trying to visually follow an elusive, darting figure through the deepening shadows. All in the group danced about nervously, sensing they were vulnerable.

"Quiets!" Felkin scolded, fearing the noise more than any suspected spies.

"What was - " the goblin tried to ask again, but its words were cut short as an arrow pierced its throat.

The eight remaining goblins scrambled for cover, dropping under the ferns and crawling for the elms. Felkin heard a noise like a snapping stick, and the goblin closest to him soared into the air, kicking and gasping, as a vine noose tightened about its neck.

That proved too much for two of the others. They jumped up and broke into a run for the trees. Neither got more than a few short strides before arrows took them down.

"Where was they?" Felkin called to his companions.

"Left!" cried one goblin.

"Right!" screamed another.

There came a flurry of bow shots, arrows slicing through the ferns and knocking into trees, then all went quiet. The goblin in the air stopped its thrashing and began turning slowly with the wind.

Felkin crept over to one of his companions, lying still in the ferns. "Five of usses left," Felkin reasoned. When the other didn't answer, Felkin roughly turned him about.

A green arrow shaft protruded from one of the goblin's eyes. The other eye stared ahead blankly.

Felkin dropped the corpse and scrambled wildly away, drawing several bow shots in his noisy wake. Somewhere to the side, another goblin tried to run and was cut down with brutal efficiency.

"There remain no more than four of you," said a melodic voice in the goblin tongue, but with the unmistakable accent of a female elf. "Perhaps only three. Do you wish to come out and fight me fairly?"

"Me?" Felkin echoed quietly, confused. "Only one elf?" His entire party had been trimmed by a single elf? Boldly, the goblin poked his head above the ferns and saw the elven warrior, sword in hand, standing beside an elm, with her bow leaning against the tree, within easy reach.

Felkin looked to his own crude spear, wondering if he could make the shot. One of his companions apparently entertained the same notion, for the goblin leaped from the ferns and hurled its spear.

The elf, not caught unaware, dropped to her knees, and the spear flew harmlessly high. Faster than Felkin could follow, she took up her bow and put two shots into the air. The foolish goblin hadn't even the chance to drop back into the fern cover. The first arrow thudded into its chest and the second caught the goblin in the throat.

Felkin looked at his spear again, glad that one of the others had shown him his folly. By his count, only he and one other remained still two against one if they could get close to the elf warrior.

"Felkin!" He heard a call, and he recognized the voice of Rake, a fine fighter. "How many of usses?"

"Two!" he replied, then he called to the elf. "Two of usses, elf. Will you puts your nasty bow down and fights us fair-like?"

The elf leaned her bow back against the tree and took up her sword. "Come on, then," she said. "The day grows long and my supper awaits!"

"Yous is ready, Rake?" Felkin cried.

"Ready!" the other goblin replied eagerly.

Felkin licked his cracked lips and set his floppy feet for a good start. He'd send Rake into action against the elf and use the diversion to run away into the forest. "Ready?" he called again.

"Ready!" Rake assured him.

"Charge!" came Felkin's cry, and he heard the rustle as Rake, far to his right, leaped from the ferns. Felkin, too, leaped up, but ran off to the left, away from the elf. He looked back once, thinking himself clever, and saw that Rake had similarly retreated to the right. The elf, now wearing an amused smile, took up her bow.

Felkin put his head down and sprinted into the shadows, running as fast as his spindly goblin legs would carry him. There came a distant twang of a bowstring and Rake's steady stream of curses. Felkin's hopes returned with the knowledge that the elf had gone after his companion.

There came an agonized scream, and Felkin knew he was alone. He ran on, not daring to slow. Only a few minutes later, Felkin thought he heard a rustle behind him.

"Don't kills me! Don't kills me!" Felkin cried pitifully and breathlessly over and over. Panicking, he looked behind him once again and turned back just in time to see that he had veered straight into an oak tree.

Felkin went down in a heap, folding neatly into a leafy crook between the huge roots at the great tree's base. He didn't hear the footsteps pass him by, a few strides to the side, didn't hear anything at all.

*****

"Are you in contact with Aballister?" Dorigen asked Druzil, seeing the imp in a contemplative stance.

Druzil laughed at her. "Why?" he asked innocently. "I have nothing to tell him."

Dorigen closed her eyes and muttered a short chant, casting a simple spell that might allow her to confirm Druzil's claim. When she looked at the imp again, she seemed satisfied.

"That is good," she muttered. "You are not a familiar in the accepted sense of the word, are you, dear Druzil?"

Again the imp laughed in his raspy, breathless voice.

"You do not seem so tied to Aballister," Dorigen explained. "You do not treat him as master."

"Truly you err, Mistress Magic," Druzil replied, wondering if Aballister had arranged a little test of fealty. "I am loyal to my master, he who summoned me from the torment of the Abyss."

Dorigen didn't seem impressed, and Druzil didn't push it. Rumors had said that he had helped kill Barjin, but, in truth, the imp had considered joining the cleric and abandoning Aballister altogether. Then Barjin's grand designs had come crashing down. The rumors worked in Druzil's favor, though. They made upstarts such as Dorigen treat him with a bit of respect and kept Aballister off track in figuring what had really transpired in the Edificant Library's catacombs.

"We work for a single cause," Dorigen said, "a cause given to us by Talona. This entire region will fall to Castle Trinity, do not doubt, and those who stand beside us shall profit greatly but those who stand against us shall suffer even more!"

"You make a threat?" The imp's simple question nearly knocked Dorigen over.

Dorigen took a moment to collect her thoughts, then replied, "If you believe so. Should it be?" She seemed more unsure of herself than Druzil had ever seen her.

"I am loyal to my master," Druzil said again, firmly, "and now to you, the wizard my master has bade me to travel beside."

Dorigen relaxed a bit. "Then let us travel," she said. "The sun is rising, and we are still several days from Shilmista. I do not like the prospects of having Ragnor running about uncontrolled." She called Tiennek, who was gathering water from a nearby stream, back to her and took up her walking stick.

Druzil wholeheartedly agreed. He gave a lazy flap and landed on Dorigen's shoulder, then folded the leathery wings about him to shield him from the sun. He liked his position now. In journeying with Mistress Magic, he could see the progress of Castle Trinity's conquest, and, even more importantly, in Shilmista he would be out of Aballister's reach.

Druzil knew that Cadderly, the young priest who had defeated Barjin, was Aballister's deserted son, and Aballister knew that he knew. The web of intrigue seemed to tighten around Aballister, and the imp did not want to get choked by its strands.

*****

"One of them got away," Shayleigh reported to Tintagel when she returned to the new elven camp, "but eight others are dead."

The elf wizard nodded, having heard similar reports all day. The enemy had backed off after the slaughter in the Dells, and now sent small probing groups mostly goblins deeper into Shilmista. "Perhaps it is good that one escaped," the elf wizard offered, the corners of his blue eyes turning up in a smile. "Let it return to its foul brethren and tell them that only death awaits them under Shilmista's boughs!"

Shayleigh, too, managed a smile, but there was worry reflected in the elf maiden's violet orbs. The enemy scouting parties were being slaughtered, but the fact that their leader apparently accepted the losses only heightened Shayleigh's belief that a huge force indeed had found its way into Shilmista's northern reaches.

"Come," Tintagel said. "Let us go to the king and see what plans he has formulated."

They found Galladel alone in a clearing beyond a shielding wall of thick pines, pacing nervously. The elf king motioned for them to join him, then brought his slender hand up to stroke his raven-black hair, still vibrant and thick, though Galladel had lived many centuries. He stopped his movement when he saw that the hand was trembling, and dropped it back to his side. He glanced at Shayleigh and Tintagel to make sure that they had not seen.

"The slaughter continues," Tintagel announced, trying to calm the nervous king.

"For how long?" Galladel retorted. "The reports, sightings so many sightings of monstrous scum in our fair wood! have continued to come in."

"We will beat them back," Shayleigh pronounced.

Galladel appreciated his fine young commander's confidence, but in the face of the emerging force against him, it seemed only a minor thing.

"For how long?" he asked again, less sharply. "This black tide has rolled over the northern reaches. Our enemy is cunning."

"He sends his troops to be massacred," Tintagel argued.

"He bides his time," the elf king countered. "He sacrifices his weakest fodder to keep us busy. Damn this waiting game."

"Something will happen soon," Shayleigh said. "I can feel the tension. Our enemy will reveal himself in full."

Galladel looked at her curiously, but knew better than to dismiss the elf maiden's intuition. Shayleigh had been the one to argue for, and to organize, the ambush in the Dells, having read the enemy's initial probing actions perfectly. Certainly the king was glad to have her at his side, especially with Elbereth, his son and closest advisor, in the east, trying to gain some insight from the priests of the Edificant Library. Galladel had ordered Elbereth not to go, but lately his commands carried little weight with his headstrong son.

"Soon," Shayleigh said again, seeing that the tension was near to breaking Galladel.

"They are marching now," came a chirping voice from the side. Both Galladel and Shayleigh turned and curiously eyed a large oak tree.

They heard a tittering laughter. Thinking to defend her king, Shayleigh drew her slender sword and advanced boldly. Tintagel took up a position to the side, producing a spell component from his pocket and ready to strike at a moment's warning.

"Oh, do not tell me you have not heard the warnings of the trees!" came the voice, followed by a movement around the back of the tree. A pixie-featured woman, her skin as tan as the oak's bark and her hair as green as the great tree's dark leaves, peeked out from around the thick trunk.

Shayleigh's sword went back into its scabbard. "We have heard nothing but the dying gasps of intruders," the elf maiden said coldly.

"Who is it?" demanded Galladel.

"A dryad," Shayleigh replied. "Hammadeen, I believe."

"Oh, you remember me!" chirped Hammadeen, and she clapped her delicate hands together. "But you just said you can feel it!"

The dryad's abrupt changes of subject left the elf maiden bewildered. "I feel what?" she asked.

"The excitement in the air!" cried Hammadeen. "It is the talk of the trees that you hear. They are afraid, and so they should be."

"What nonsense is this?" growled Galladel, moving to join Shayleigh.

"Oh, no, not nonsense!" replied Hammadeen, suddenly sounding distressed. "They are marching in force, too many for the trees to count. And they have fire and axes! Oh, the elves must stop them you must."

Shayleigh and Galladel exchanged confused looks.

"Listen!" cried the dryad. "You must listen."

"We are listening!" roared a frustrated Galladel.

"To the trees . . ." Hammadeen explained. Her voice diminished and her body seemed to, as well as she blended into the oak. Shayleigh rushed over, trying to catch the dryad or to follow, but the elf maiden's reaching hands found only the rough bark of the wide oak.

"Dryads," Shayleigh remarked, her tone less than complimentary.

"Listen to the trees," spat Galladel. He kicked dirt at the base of the oak and spun away.

Shayleigh was surprised by the intensity of the king's disdain. It was said that the trees of Shilmista had often spoken with the forest elves, that once the trees had even uprooted and walked to fight beside Dellanil Quil'quien, an elven hero and king in times long past. That was only legend to young Shayleigh, but surely aged Galladel, a direct descendent of Dellanil's, had lived in those times.

"We know now that our enemy is on the move again," Shayleigh offered, "in great numbers. And we know from where they will come. I will arrange another surprise - "

"We know only what a dryad has told us!" yelled Galladel. "You would risk our entire defense on the fleeting words of a dryad, by nature a creature of half-truths and insidious charms?"

Again the elf maiden was taken aback by Galladel's unwarranted anger. The dryads most certainly were not the elven host's enemies, and could well prove valuable allies.

Galladel took a deep breath and seemed to calm himself, as though he, too, realized his misplaced wrath.

"We have only the word of Hammadeen," Shayleigh offered tentatively, "but I do not doubt that our enemy is on the march. There are many defensible ridges between here and the northern reaches. It would seem prudent to begin preparations even without the dryad's warning."

"No," Galladel said firmly. "We'll not go out to meet the enemy again. We will not catch him so unaware, and the result might be disastrous.

"Our powers are greater near the center of the forest," Galladel continued, "and there we may more easily elude this great force, if indeed it is coming."

Shayleigh was livid and adamant. "If we run, we give them miles of the forest to destroy," she growled. "Shilmista is our home, from the southernmost to the northernmost tree!"

"Daoine Dun is not so far," Tintagel offered as a compromise location. "The caves there offer us shelter, and certainly the hill figures prominently in our power."

Shayleigh considered the suggestion for a moment. She would have preferred taking the offensive again, but she knew well that Galladel would not give in to her reasoning. Daoine Dun, the Hill of the Stars, seemed a reasonable compromise. She nodded to Galladel.

The elf king didn't seem convinced. "There are better choices more to the south," he said.

Shayleigh and Tintagel exchanged fearful glances. Both wished that Elbereth had not gone away, for the elf prince was more attuned to their way of thinking, more determined to preserve what little remained of Shilmista's glory. Perhaps Galladel had lived too long; the burdens of ruler-ship over the centuries could not be underestimated.

"Our enemy numbers in the thousands, by every report," Galladel snapped at them, apparently sensing their heartfelt disapproval for his decision and for him. "We number barely seven score and hope that our courage alone will turn aside that black tide. Do not confuse courage with foolishness, I say, and I am still your king!"

The younger elves would have lost the argument then, except that cries rang out in the elven camp beyond the pine grove. "Fire!" the shouts proclaimed.

One elf rushed in through the trees to report to his king. "Fire!" he cried. "Our enemy burns the forest. In the north! In the north!" The elf turned and fled then, back through the natural barrier.

Galladel turned away from Shayleigh and Tintagel, ran his hand nervously through his raven-black hair, and muttered several silent curses at Elbereth for going away.

"Daoine Dun?" Tintagel asked tentatively and hopefully.

Galladel waved a resigned hand the wizard's way. "As you will," he offered listlessly. "As you will."

*****

When Felkin opened his eyes again, he had to squint against the morning sunlight. The forest around him was deathly quiet, and a long time passed before the goblin mustered the nerve to crawl out of the leaves. He considered going back to check on his companions, then snorted the thought away and made off with all speed for Ragnor's camp on the forest's northern borders.

Felkin felt a bit relieved a short while later, when he heard the hacking of axes. The sky lightened in front of him, the thick canopy thinned, and he came out of the trees suddenly, only to find himself immediately surrounded by Ragnor's elite guard, a contingent of eight huge and hairy bugbears.

They looked down at poor, shivering Felkin from their seven foot height, evil, yellow-eyed gazes boring into the goblin.

"Who are you?" one of the creatures demanded, poking a trident against the goblin's shoulder.

Felkin winced from the pain and fear, nearly as terrified of bugbears as of the elf he had left behind. "Felkin," he squeaked, bowing his head submissively. "Scout."

The bugbears murmured something in their own guttural tongue, then one of them prodded Felkin even harder. "Where are the others?"

Felkin bit his lip to prevent crying out in pain; revealing weakness would only inspire the cruel monsters to greater acts of torture. "In the forest," he whispered.

"Dead?"

Felkin nodded meekly, then he felt as if he were flying as one bugbear grabbed him by the scraggly hair and hoisted him high off the ground. Felkin's skinny arms flapped as he tried to secure a supporting hold on the bugbear's sinewy arm. The merciless creature carried him by just the hair all the way across the large encampment. Felkin continued to gnaw on his lip and fought back tears as best he could.

He determined their destination to be a large, hide-covered tent. Ragnor! The world seemed to spin about to the quivering goblin; he knew that he was fainting and hoped he would never wake up.

He did awaken, and then he wished that he had stayed in the forest and taken his chances with the elf.

Ragnor did not seem so imposing at first, sitting behind a large oaken table across the tent. Then the ogrillon stood, and Felkin whined and crawled backward across the ground. A prod from a trident forced him back to his place.

Ragnor was as tall as the bugbears and twice as wide.

His features were orcish, mostly, with a snout resembling a pig's nose and one tusklike tooth protruding from his bottom jaw, up over his upper lip. His eyes were large and bloodshot, and his brow heavy, always crinkled in an ominous glare. While his features were orcish, his body more resembled his ogre ancestors, with thick, powerful limbs, corded muscles, and a barrellike torso that could stop a charging horse dead in its tracks.

The ogrillon took three heavy strides to stand before Felkin, reached down, and easily too easily! lifted the goblin to his feet.

"The others are dead?" Ragnor asked in his throaty, commanding voice.

"Elveses!" Felkin cried. "Elveses killed them!"

"How many?"

"Lots and lots!" Felkin answered, but the ogrillon didn't seem impressed. Ragnor put a single large finger under Felkin's chin and lifted the goblin to his tiptoes. The ugly orc face with evil-smelling breath moved just an inch from the goblin, and Felkin thought he would faint again though he realized that Ragnor would skin him if he did.

"How many?" Ragnor asked again, slowly and deliberately.

"One," squeaked Felkin, thinking the better of adding that it was a female. Ragnor dropped him to the floor.

"An entire patrol cut down by a single elf!" the ogrillon roared at the bugbears. The hairy monsters looked around to each other, but did not seem overly concerned.

"You send goblins and orcs," one of them remarked.

"I first sent bugbears!" Ragnor reminded them. "How many of your kin returned?"

The embarrassed bugbears mumbled excuses in their own tongue. "Send bigger scouting groups?" the bugbear spokesman offered a few moments later.

Ragnor thought it over, then shook his huge head. "We cannot match the elves with such tactics in the woods. We have the advantage of numbers and strength, but that is all in this cursed forest."

"They know the region well," agreed the bugbear.

"And I do not doubt that they have many spies about," added Ragnor. "Even the trees I do not trust!"

"Then how do we proceed?"

"We continue our march!" the frustrated ogrillon growled. He grabbed Felkin tightly about the throat and pulled him off the ground, again close to Ragnor's ugly face.

"The elves know their forest, so we will destroy their forest!" the ogrillon growled. "We will force them out in the open ground and crush them!" Too excited by his own words, Ragnor's hand jerked suddenly. There came a loud crack, and Felkin twitched violently, then was still.

The bugbears looked on in amazement. One of them chuckled, but bit it back quickly. Too late; the other bugbears burst out in laughter, and their mirth increased tenfold when Ragnor joined in, giving the goblin a shake to make sure it was dead.