Echoes of the Fourth Magic

Chapter 21
The Lines Are Drawn

THE TREES CLOSED behind Del when he emerged from Avalon as if Brielle slammed her door at his back. And though Del told himself that it didn’t bother him, that right now all he cared about was putting as much distance between himself and Avalon as possible, his heart sank even lower at the sound of the forest shutting him out. He tried in vain to blank the thoughts and images of the witch from his mind, for he had witnessed a terrible and unexpected side of Brielle that had wrenched away his fantasy and broken his heart. Head down, he walked with slow and sullen steps across Mountaingate.

He took no notice of his surroundings as he approached and passed under the silver telvensils at the end of the field. His thoughts remained inward in recollections of stately groves of swaying pines and starlit fields and the woman who gave them meaning, and with a resigned sigh he accepted that he would not be so easily rid of his memories of the Emerald Witch.

Even had he been wary, on his best guard, Del would not have seen the three elves, silent as death, slipping down from the concealing branches of the arched trees behind him.

He continued on a few yards up the mountain path, then realized that he could go no farther until an escort arrived. “Damn!” he spat. Even if Ardaz had seen him on the road in Avalon and went right to Arien with the news, it would be hours before any elves arrived to guide him back to Illuma. He punched at the air in frustration and turned back to the archway, seeking a shady place to sit and wait.

His relief at seeing the elves was short-lived, lasting only the second it took him to understand that the two bowmen holding their weapons taut and level had their arrows trained on his heart. And the third elf, standing grim-faced between them, held his slender sword ready in hand, although he obviously recognized Del.

“What’s going on?” Del asked with caution, though he still didn’t quite believe that the elves meant to harm him.

“Silence!” the swordsman commanded. “Throw your weapon to the ground in front of you.”

“Didn’t we already play out this scenario, just a couple of weeks ago?” Del offered with a strained smile, inviting the elves to end their game and admit the joke.

On a nod from the leader, one of the bowmen loosed his arrow. Del whitened in shock at the thrum of the bowstring, and jerked involuntarily, expecting to be struck, as the arrow drove itself deep into the ground between his feet.

“I ask you one last time to throw down your weapon,” the swordsman said in a calm, steady voice, and from the grim tone, Del had no doubt that the next arrow would indeed find his heart.

Anger welled in him, but against the dizzying swirl of his emotional turmoil, it could not gain a focus or a purpose. Confusion dictated to Del, and he had no heart for any argument, much less a fight. He drew his sword and dropped it to the ground, dropping his gaze as well, for he had no desire to view the elves in their deadly mood. Were these the Children of the Moon, the same joyful people whose very existence was based in dance and song, in community and friendship? Or had he, perhaps, in his longings for utopia, misperceived this land and its peoples? His whole image of Aielle suddenly seemed to be closing in around him, suffocating him in the same grim visages of reality he thought he had left far behind on the shores of a distant world.

He offered no resistance as an elf came up to bind his hands.

Erinel trotted across Mountaingate, hugging the eastern cliff face for the little cover it offered. He didn’t like moving openly in broad daylight, but the urgency of his news demanded the risk. He crouched low and slowed, though, when he neared the telvensils and heard the voices beyond.

“Blindfold him,” one of the bowmen said.

“It is not necessary,” the elf with Del replied. “It would only slow us, and Ryell is anxious to speak with this one. You remain here to keep the watch,” he instructed one of the bowmen. “We shall escort the prisoner back to the city.”

“By the Colonnae!” Erinel cried as he stepped through the archway. “Release him, and be quick about it.”

“Erinel!” the elves cried in unison, the swordsman rushing over to warmly clasp Erinel’s arm.

“It is good that you have returned, my friend,” the swordsman said sincerely. “The days of our watch for you have been long indeed in passing, and all of the city is stilled in anticipation of your findings.”

“Untie him!” Erinel demanded, and stormed up the path toward Del.

“But it is by the order of your uncle that he is bound,” the swordsman pleaded, obviously torn between his loyalties. Fearful of a confrontation, yet obedient to the commands of the Eldar, he rushed ahead to intercept Erinel.

“Then my uncle is a fool!” Erinel snapped, brushing the swordsman aside and continuing on to Del without missing a step.

The three elves looked at each other with uncertainty, and slowly began closing on Erinel and Del, weapons still at the ready.

“It’s all right, Erinel,” Del said, trying to soothe his friend’s ire and avoid any further confrontation with the other three. “I really don’t mind. Let’s just get back to the city. And do blindfold me, whatever they might think. Better for all that I remain ignorant of the way to Lochsilinilume.”

Erinel hesitated for a moment. He hated seeing his friend bound, despite Del’s assurances, but he, too, understood the futility of arguing. He pulled a hood from the swordsman’s belt and popped it over Del’s head, offering a last smile to assure the man that he would be there, every step. “Very well, then,” he told his fellow elves. “Let us be off at once. Arien must be told of the stirring in the south.”

Leaving the two bowmen behind to keep watch, Erinel led Del and the swordsman at a swift pace up the mountain. Still struggling with the torment of Brielle’s darker side, Del asked no questions and paid no attention to the secret paths. Eventually, though, when they had entered the tunnels and left Avalon far behind and hidden from sight, he was able to focus on the events at hand, and he realized that something terribly important and grave must be going on. All of the signs moved him in the direction of one horrible suspicion: that one of his companions must have done something awful to rile the elves so. And Del had a good idea who that might be.

Soon after, seated at a table of council in the Throne Room of Arien’s house, Del noted the grim faces of the elves, trying to mask an undercurrent of desperation, and the quiet, almost cowed visage of Billy Shank. He also noticed with great concern and renewed suspicion, that Mitchell and Reinheiser weren’t present.

“It is as we feared,” Erinel said darkly. “They have reached Caer Tuatha.”

“Mitchell,” Del said with a groan, easily guessing now the deceit and motives of the hated captain, and angry at himself for not recognizing this possibility sooner, when it could have been prevented. “That idiot.”

“And how were they received?” Arien asked evenly, ignoring the outburst.

“Even as we hold council, the Usurper marches north with an army of a thousand spears,” Erinel replied. Above the gasps and frightened whispers that flooded from every end of the table, he added, “And their numbers swell every day as more humans rush to the side of their glorious Overlord to join in his day of triumph over the wicked mutants.”

“Barbarism!” Ryell shouted, punctuating his cry by slamming his fist on the table. “Again we bear witness to the treachery of man.”

“Silence,” Arien commanded, fighting to the last to maintain a rational atmosphere. Yet the elf-lord, too, wanted to scream out in anger and frustration. He could not, for he was the Eldar, the leader of his people, and was bound to set the proper example of strength. All Illuma looked to him for guidance. He mustered up his composure and stated his question calmly. “How much time do we have?”

“A few days, no more,” Erinel replied.

This time there were no ensuing gasps or whispered responses, as a silent veil of dread wafted through the room, graying the faces of the elves and dimming the light in their eyes.

“Pray tell us, Eldar,” Ryell said with a snarl, holding fast to his rage as a litany against despair and making it clear to all present that he held Arien personally responsible for their predicament, “whatever are we to do now? Would you have us play the role of frightened rabbits as they run and hide before the teeth of the wolf? Perhaps we could find another hole deeper in the mountains that would serve as our prison for the next few centuries.”

The mention of rabbits sent Del’s thoughts reeling back to Avalon and the peaceful lunch he had shared on the first day of his return to the wood. Ryell’s twisted grimace destroyed that fantasy quickly, reminding Del with painful clarity that his utopian image of Aielle was a distortion founded entirely upon his own ignorance.

Right, Ryell, he thought. Rabbits would run away. They don’t confuse pride with stupidity.

Ryell’s sarcasm wounded Arien deeply, for he had trusted the humans despite the risks, and now had to bear the responsibility for not taking stronger precautions. Arien remained solid in his convictions about trust and friendship, but the army coming to slaughter his people, to snuff out his entire world, weighed as a heavy consequence on his tired shoulders. He felt the judging eyes of the others upon him, awaiting his response to the accusations of Ryell.

The Eldar steeled his gaze on his accuser. “No, Ryell,” he said firmly, “I shall not leave.”

“You can’t win!” Del blurted desperately, jolted by the sudden, unexpected declaration, a vow that seemed suicidal.

“That may be,” Arien replied, “but if the entire city departs, the pursuit will be swift and unrelenting. My people must survive, and thus a large group of maidens and the younger of our race, and any else who wish, shall flee into the mountains.

“We must leave more than a token group behind to face down the murderous threat of Ungden, and I count myself among that number. This had been my home for many, many years, and I shall not willingly relinquish it to an unlawful king. Perhaps there is parlaying yet to be done, and in that circumstance, who but myself should speak for Illuma?”

“He’ll kill you all,” Del declared flatly.

“Then let him fulfill his rage and be done with it,” Arien declared. “We are not a warring people, yet our skill with sword and bow is great. The Calvans will pay a heavy price for their raid. Our fallen will satisfy their thirst for blood, and it may well be that the numbers of their own dead will dim any further desires they have for war. I perceive this to be the only way any of our people shall live in peace again.”

Arien jumped to his feet, sending his chair skidding behind him, and stood tall and proud above the gathering, set in a grim resolve that could not be questioned. No weakness showed in the Eldar now, no indecision, no burden weighing on his shoulders, and all seated around the table looked on him with respect that bordered on awe.

All except for Del.

He looked away and muttered, “Et tu, Arien,” once more feeling the pain of disappointment as keen as a dagger in his breast.

Arien paid him no attention. “These are my words of counsel,” he declared. “Yet in this matter I feel that each of us must make his own choice-to flee to the mountains or to stay and face the wrath of Ungden.”

Through gritted teeth, Erinel cried out his support. “None shall willingly leave!”

“No,” Sylvia agreed with the same fervor. “The people stand behind you, Father!”

“Then let us not stand idle,” Ryell commanded. “There is much to be done!”

Overcome by a dizzying wave of nausea, fighting back the distaste of bile rising in his throat, Del stumbled out to the corridor.

Del returned to the Throne Room several hours later. The place had become a beehive of activity, with elves coming and going and congregating in small groups to discuss plans. Ryell, just a few feet away, standing with his back to Del, seemed the center of it all. Excited, almost frantic, he called out commands, delegating duties to the younger elves.

“You seem thrilled by all of this, Ryell,” Del stated accusingly as he entered. “Are you that hungry for blood?”

Ryell wheeled on him angrily. “For freedom,” he growled. “I am hungry for freedom. Too long have I hid in fear from men. Too long have I viewed the same mountain walls, the walls of my prison.”

He looked across the room, leading Del’s gaze with his own. Billy and several others stood before a large map that had been hung on the wall.

Ryell turned back to Del, eyeing him slyly. “Your friend has offered his aid unconditionally,” he said loudly, purposely attracting the attention of some of the other nearby elves. “What of you?”

Del knew that he had just been set up, had been put on the spot before witnesses that Ryell might wring the desired responses from him. He recognized the expectant looks turning quickly to impatience. He lowered his head so as not to face their disappointment and remained silent.

For Del could not give his assistance or his approval for the battle the elves had chosen to fight. He had hoped for more in this new land than the commonplace wars, the non-solutions of violence, that were the tainted legacy of his world-hadn’t Calae of the Colonnae spoken specifically of earth’s Jericho and the first steps on that bloody road? And after witnessing that same dark wrath in the woman he had viewed, and loved, as the epitome of peace and beauty, his abhorrence of violence now claimed his emotions absolutely, with no room for excuses or compromise.

“I need time,” he stalled. “I want to talk to Ardaz.”

“That fool is gone,” Ryell retorted. “He fled at the first signs of trouble.”

“Then I’d like to go back to my room,” Del said softly.

“Guard!” Ryell called, and Del was grateful to be able to leave so easily with the elf who appeared at the door.

The war councils stretched long into the night, for though the elves had in the past fought many a skirmish with bands of rogue talons, they were totally unfamiliar with larger-scale battles or defensive preparations. Arien and Ryell listened intently as their people presented various plans of action, and together they tried to devise one of their own. Soon they both realized that their only hope rested with the otherworldly knowledge of Billy and Del. Ryell abhorred the idea of trusting the humans again, but even he had to admit that the elves were mere novices against the trained Calvan army.

Billy felt awkward in a position of leadership, but was more than willing to help. He quickly dismissed what the elves perceived as their most feasible option: retreating to Shaithdun-o-Illume with its one, very defensible entrance. Even Arien, who had never witnessed war, had failed to recognize the gruesome consequences of a siege.

While the setting moon sent its last silvery rays into the Throne Room through a western window, the council agreed upon its final decision that the elves would make their stand on the field of Mountaingate. Billy had offered them two alternatives, a onetime confrontation on the field, or a war of hit-and-run raids, whittling away at Ungden’s troops while ever seeking higher, more defensible ground deeper in the mountains. Billy had strongly opted for the latter, believing that the elves had little hope in a pitched battle with so large a force. But the elves, especially Arien, were thinking along different lines.

They perceived their fate as sealed, the outcome of the battle as preordained, and considered it, rather, as a test of their honor. Arien gave little consideration to the short-term victory or defeat, viewing the fate of those who would stand with him against Ungden as inconsequential. His thoughts focused on the aftereffects of the clash, the safety of the Illumans who would flee into the Crystals. The purpose of opposing the Calvans was to gain the respect of the common soldiery, to show such valor as to dispel Ungden’s depictions of the elves as dangerous, murderous mutants. A guerrilla war, Arien feared, would reinforce the negative misperceptions against the elves. And it would be time-consuming. New recruits swarmed to join Ungden’s army with every passing day. In the end, Arien’s forces would lay dead or hopelessly scattered, and the army celebrating victory on the southern slopes of the Crystals would be ten times the size of the force now approaching. Still believing in its righteousness, a perspective likely reinforced by aggravating guerrilla tactics, the Calvan force would willingly continue its hunt for renegade mutants.

And so, on the next morn, Billy and a group of elves led by Arien and Ryell traveled down to Mountaingate to better organize their battle plans. In studying the area, searching for the most advantageous positions, Billy noticed a long ledge cutting across the sheer face of the cliff that bordered the field on the east, about twenty feet above the grass and nearly invisible from below, due to the coloration and shading of the rocks. Certainly an army charging into battle would pay it no heed.

“Is there any way to get people up there?” Billy, pointing to the ledge, asked Ryell.

Ryell nodded. “There was at one time a low tunnel behind that cliff wall,” he confirmed. “A split in the stone allowed entry to the ledge. It cannot be seen from this angle. But I have not traveled that path for many years; perhaps it no longer exists.”

“Ah, but it does,” Sylvia interrupted. “Oftentimes Erinel and I have tread that trail to sit upon the ledge and watch the waning sun over Clas Braiyelle.”

“Excellent,” Billy said. “A few dozen archers up there would thin the Calvan ranks.”

“You forget our number,” Ryell said. “We have not the warriors to spare.”

“And it would be not quite as great a surprise as you believe, I am afraid,” Arien said. “I considered the same plan as we journeyed down here, but it is flawed, for Captain Mitchell knows more than the way to Illuma Vale, he knows the number of our people. All of the warriors except the few I have chosen as escort for the departing host will stay for the battle, but if many of them were missing from our ranks, such an ambush might be anticipated. And if it was discovered, the Calvans could stay to the far edge of the field for their charge and use their shields to render the archers relatively ineffective, leaving the number of our people remaining to face the onslaught greatly depleted.”

“I still think we should put a few archers up there,” Billy argued. “We’ve got to weaken them before they get to us. And you’ve already told me that your people excel with bows.”

“You doubt our prowess?” Sylvia laughed. “The first you ever saw of Illuma was the arrow I put into a tree by Mitchell’s head. Would that I had aimed to kill!”

“You made that shot?” Billy said with a grin, a plan quickly formulating.

Sylvia looked at him as if she didn’t understand his surprise.

Billy pressed on. “Tell me, then, do all Illuman maidens shoot as well as you?”

“A field of battle is no place for females!” Ryell cried, guessing Billy’s thoughts and certainly not approving.

“Normally I would agree,” Billy retorted, and he turned to Arien. “Are all of your females to flee into the mountains?”

Arien’s face went grim. “They cannot,” he admitted darkly. “Our stand would then be recognized as a ploy.”

“And if we are beaten, do you really believe that Ungden will show mercy to the females back in your city?” Billy had to ask. “No way. Their only chance is for us to win, so they might as well help where they’re needed. You even said that Mitchell knows the number of our warriors. How many is that?”

“Three hundred, perhaps half a hundred more than that.”

“Against thousands,” Billy reasoned. “We need all the help we can get, Arien. Give some of your females bows and put them on that ledge. If the battle is lost, they can retreat back to the city, or along other mountain passes.”

“We’ll have lost nothing and gained, perhaps a chance,” Ryell agreed.

At length, Arien agreed as well, much to the satisfaction of Sylvia, who had steadfastly refused to flee into the mountains, but loathed the thought of sitting helplessly by as Ungden slaughtered her brethren.

Arien had a bit more spring in his stride as they returned to the city, for Billy’s strategy offered at least some hope for attaining the goals of their futile stand. Though he saw no alternatives, the decision to fight still troubled the Eldar deeply. For all of their preparations and determination, he was convinced that he was leading most of his people to their deaths in an unwinnable battle.

Del rarely left his room during the next few days. He hung a blanket over its one window, darkening it as his sanctuary against the familiar images of brutality that had suddenly sprung up all about him. He had no visitors, save Sylvia bringing him his meals, and she, incapable of understanding his torment and perceiving his behavior as a betrayal to her people, could not bring herself to speak to him.

Del accepted her coldness stoically, though it wounded him to his soul. The elves had not witnessed the world before the holocaust, and thus could not see among the implications of the coming battle the renewal of a destructive cycle that had only one possible conclusion. They were the children of dance and song and play, and in their innocence lay the hope of the world. But Del could not expect them to shoulder burdens they could not begin to recognize.

Yet he had indeed expected more of Billy. If Mitchell and Reinheiser were to be the demons that would damn Aielle, then Billy Shank had become their unwitting agent, bolstering the resolve of the elves to accept the rekindled flames of war by feeding them the false hopes of futile plans.

And the sight of these doomed people rehearsing the scenes of their imminent slaughter with sharpened blades and a common, merciless grimace, revolted Del, sent him reeling to his room, the last bastion of his fleeting hopes. Even this walled womb was not impervious to the assaults of the wicked reality, for it couldn’t block out the sounds. Every so often the hollow clang of sword against sword echoed through the air and slashed into Del’s heart.

On the afternoon of the third day since his return to Illuma, Del lay quietly on his bed fantasizing that he was dancing with Brielle in the promised splendor of Luminas ey-n’abraieken. A soft knock on the door chased away his daydream.

“What?” he called defiantly.

Billy entered the room, disregarding the challenge in Del’s tone. “How’re you doing?” he asked through a strained smile.

“I’m all right,” Del replied coolly, averting his eyes from Billy’s to make a point of his true feelings.

“What are you planning to do?” Billy asked quietly, walking over and boldly sitting on the edge of the bed beside his friend.

“How the hell do I know?” Del replied sharply, and again he looked away.

“Will you look at me?” Billy scolded. “Listen, pal, you had better make up your mind soon. The Calvans are setting up camp less than three miles south of Mountaingate, and this whole damned thing is going to explode tomorrow morning.”

Del sat up on the opposite side of the bed, still looking away, and bit his lip at the grim news.

“Most of the elves are already down on the field,” Billy continued, less harshly, in tones truly sympathetic. “The rest of us are leaving in a little while.”

“It’s stupid,” Del muttered.

“Of course it’s stupid,” Billy agreed with a chuckle. “Ever know a war that wasn’t?”

Del spun on him. “Then why?” he shouted. “Can you answer me that? You’re going down there to die, Billy. To die! All of these wonderful people are going to throw their lives away. And for what?”

Billy shook his head and sighed. “For principles, damn it,” he said, rising from the bed. “You live by principles and you do what’s right. And if you die by those principles, and for those principles, then your death isn’t stupid!”

The two men glared at each other, truly at odds for the first time in their friendship.

“Never mind the Illumans, then,” Del argued. “Think about the Calvans. Your sword is going to be stabbing at men, real men, with wives and children. Not evil monsters, just ordinary, misinformed men who are doing what they’re told. How do you feel about that?”

“I feel terrible about it,” Billy replied. “Of course I do. But I’ve got no choice.”

“Oh, is that so?” Del taunted.

“Yes, that’s so,” Billy mimicked, his voice growing stronger as his anger spilled out. “You know, Del, since we got here, you’ve been living in some kind of wide-eyed fantasy world. I hate to be the one to tell you, but that’s not the way it is.”

“But that’s the way it should be!” Del snapped, and again the two exchanged cold glares.

It couldn’t hold though, not between these two. As if they had screamed out all of their rage, had cleared their differences from the air in one quick fit of passion, they soon found their familiar smiles.

“What’s wrong with us?” Del offered calmly. “What is it within our character that makes men, and now elves, fight one stupid war after another?”

“I don’t know,” Billy replied with a shrug. “I don’t want this war any more than you do, but it’s about to begin and we’ve got to fight it. What else can we do?”

“We can run,” Del replied without the slightest hesitation. “I’m amazed that Arien didn’t do that in the first place. There must be millions of places to hide in these mountains. This battle, this tragedy, doesn’t have to be fought tomorrow.”

Billy paused for a moment, studying Del. “Up on the shelf a couple of weeks ago, Reinheiser said that maybe we were brought here not to prevent this fight but to make sure that the right side won. Think about it; it makes a lot of sense. You’re right, and this whole mess can be delayed. But not avoided. Ungden knows for sure that the elves are here now, and he won’t rest until he’s got them. Arien realizes that. Why else do you think he’d stick around?”

Del bit down on his lip again and crossed his arms in front of him, his expression a mixture of disdain and disappointment, but Billy refused to yield.

“You’ve got to face reality,” he pressed. “Forget about the elves and the Calvans and just think about this: We don’t have the luxury of time to run away. If Mitchell and Reinheiser aren’t stopped here and now, they’re going to introduce all the wonderful weapons from our world to Aielle. Don’t doubt that for a minute. Where will your fantasy world be then?”

Del slumped back, stunned. So overwhelmed by the present danger, he hadn’t given much thought to what future damage Mitchell and Reinheiser could wreak.

Billy walked to the door, but looked back over his shoulder one final time. “You think about it, Del. We leave in half an hour.”

Del sank deeper into the security of his soft bed covers as the door slammed shut. He felt the ghosts of pain and misery, images from the wars and poverty of his own world, crowding around him, mocking his hopeless dreams of true peace and brotherhood. He had no arguments to dispute Billy’s warning about Mitchell and Reinheiser; he was trapped in this conflict, locked as surely as his ancestors into the unyielding cycle of battle.

It flooded him with revulsion, paralyzed him for many minutes on his bed in subconscious hopes that the last party for Mountaingate would leave without him, absolving him of his unwanted responsibilities.

Then a vivid memory jolted him. He saw Captain Mitchell standing on a beach with an automatic rifle, holding hundreds of cowed talons at bay and proclaiming himself to be a god.

Del had run out of arguments.

Had that last party already left? he wondered. He leaped from the bed and charged out the door.

He had a plan of his own.