Mortal Consequences (29 page)

A howl of protest went up, that the tribe would die, that they couldn’t last the winter, that—

Sunbright plowed on, “Yes, yes, yes! True! And since the prairie can’t support so many, the Moon Elves generously offer us the fringe of the forest for a depth of two leagues. From the grasslands, into the forest for six miles, to a river called the Delimbiyr. An escort will show you this boundary. A six-mile band, free, to use as we wish. In return, you must promise to guard the prairie from outside attack, and keep faith with elves and dwarves, and work together for the good of all. So elves may call on barbarians if needed, and humans might retreat to the dwarven mountains in an attack, or into the elven forest.

“In short,” Sunbright droned to a mesmerized audience, “you will swear—by blood oath—to harm neither elf nor dwarf, but aid all to keep out the orcs and other villains. In short, we build an alliance of people secure on their own turf—prairie, forest, and mountain—with secure borders. A mighty triangle that can withstand any force, from any direction!”

Sunbright let his words die in the air, then shouted, “Children of the Rengarth, do you agree?”

Barbarians muttered, questioned, buzzed, and argued. Over the babble Forestvictory called, “We can cut trees to build huts? Shoot game and set snares? And we only need keep out raiders?”

Sunbright smiled. For the question gave the answer.

Deep in the Barren Mountains….

With oil lamps and pickaxes, Oredola and Hachne explored a tall cave from which rust water trickled. Rust meant iron. But not far in they gagged on a gut-wrenching stink. A hashed coyote carcass writhed with maggots on the cave floor. The skull had been crushed as if by a stone, then gnawed by strong, dull teeth. Without a word, the dwarves pulled back.

Too late.

From the dark rustled something twice as tall as the dwarves, mottled green and scabrous black in the lamplight. Empty eye sockets drilled into their souls.

“Trolls!”

The dwarves whirled and ran on stumpy legs.

But the trolls were quick as spiders. Crud-caked claws tore at the dwarves’ backpacks, ripping stiff ox hide like paper. The dwarves shucked their packs and ran faster, breath sobbing in their lungs, hobnailed boots ringing on stone and splashing in rusty water. As they reached the dim sheen of twilight, they screeched, “Help! Trolls! Help!”

Oredola felt a claw tick the back of her neck and draw blood. Without turning, she whipped her pickaxe behind, heard it thud on stony flesh, gained a second’s respite, then charged into flat winter light that was overcast but blinding after the dark cave. Hachne stampeded down the narrow canyon, shouting for help.

With a screech, the trolls erupted from the cave behind. Scaly feet skittered on rock while a curious kitten’s mewling whined in their throats—a sound of hunger and rage. Then Oredola heard a gasp like a death rattle at her ear. Covering the back of her neck, she threw herself flat on rough stone.

And help arrived.

Slim black arrows zipped from the sky like ospreys after fish. The shafts slammed into trolls’ empty eye sockets, stabbed deep into dim brains, and hurled them backward to crash like dead men cut from the gallows.

The hideous creatures didn’t die, only thrashed and pulled at the wood jammed in their skulls. Their undying thrashing was the most hideous sight of all.

Oredola rolled to her feet, grabbed up a rock hammer, and pounded the nearest troll. She knew that any limbs that she might hack off the thing would only regrow, but the dwarf hoped that breaking limbs would slow the monsters down. Having heard the zip of arrows, Hachne returned to smash his pickaxe again and again into a troll, crunching joints and mauling the thing’s throat.

Soon, an elf in green and black, with long, wild black hair and a pale face joined them. Darting from her high guardpost, she’d fetched an armful of sticks and branches and feathers and fluff: an old condor’s nest. Flinging the mess over the trolls, she called, “Only fire will kill them! Spill your oil!”

Swiftly the dwarves smashed lanterns atop the pyre.

Ancient dried wood and downy fluff caught immediately. The trolls gasped and sobbed horribly as the flames curled around them. Dwarves and the elf retreated down the canyon to avoid the stink.

“Well!” Oredola said as she mopped her brow with a shaking hand, slurped water from a canteen, then offered some to the elf, who took it. “I guess we’ll mark that cave as ‘occupied!’ “

“Not any more!” Hachne laughed at the weak jest. The elf smiled.

They congratulated themselves on their cooperation and the success of the elven/dwarven/barbarian alliance. Here the dwarves explored the mountains and flushed out monsters while keen-eyed elves guarded the work details from on high.

Flames crackled down the canyon and the pyre quit heaving. The elf said, “I shall return to my post.”

“Yes,” Oredola said. “And we thank you.” She held out her craggy paw, as did Hachne. Bemused, the elf stared, then, for the first time in her life, shook hands.

In the Far Forest….

Blackblossom and Kindbloom knelt at a small stream off the merry Delimbiyr River. Behind them, in the six mile stripe allotted to the barbarians, axes rang and chinked. The two warriors pulled axes from the stream and wiped them dry. They’d soaked the hafts overnight so the wood would swell and make a tighter, safer fit. The new broad-axes were dwarven-made, for Drigor had built a forge near an iron deposit at the foot of Sanguine Mountain.

They’d shouldered the axes when Kindbloom suddenly grabbed Blackblossom’s arm.

“Listen! What’s that?”

Blackblossom tossed back her horsetail, and cupped her ear. “It’s—coyotes yapping,” she said. “From across the river.”

“Too deep for coyotes,” Kindbloom whispered. “Something bigger.”

Blackblossom, tall and willowy and decisive, hefted her axe and yanked the sash of her sheepskin coat. “We better go see,” she said.

“We’re not supposed to cross the river,” stated Kindbloom, who was surly and quick to cite rules.

The barbarian warrior didn’t answer, only tripped across a new log bridge and into the winter forest. Rather than miss a fight, Kindbloom followed.

Leafless brush was still thick and tangled along the riverbank, forcing them to take the path, though they went warily, with axes foremost. Undergrowth gave way to open forest where wide-spaced white oaks allowed easy walking. Only sunlit glades sported brush. They turned north off the trail toward the yapping. Gradually they made out a familiar sound. Orcs. But happy and raucous. What could it mean?

Silent in moosehide boots, the two women skirted a glade, spotted flickering movement, and picked from trunk to trunk. Five orcs gamboled around a tree, hooting and laughing like dogs barking, hurling rocks and sticks into the branches. In the tree something like a big kingfisher, painted black and green, ducked and dodged.

“They’ve treed an elf!” breathed Blackblossom.

“Good enough,” snapped Kindbloom. “One of the bastards shot Darkname. Let ‘em suffer!”

“Go left,” Blackblossom whispered, ignoring the snipe. “I’ll go right opposite. When I shout, charge in, screaming your head off. They’ll probably run.”

Kindbloom stared, whispered, “I won’t risk my life for a vampire.”

“Risk it for mine then,” Blackblossom said. “I swore by blood to uphold the alliance.”

Blackblossom slid off right to circle another glade. A minute later, the clan cry “Be-lu-ga!” split the woods. Bashing through brush, swinging a shining pole axe, a tall, thin barbarian woman flew screaming from the forest. Seconds later, from the opposite side, another woman roared, “Snow cats!” and exploded among the orcs.

The villains dropped their swords and shields to scatter. One orc stood its ground, but its upraised war club was battered aside, then a heavy axe head crushed its breast. A fleeing orc was tripped to crash in loam and leaves, had its head smashed by an axe.

The other orcs were long gone. The two women scanned the woods, panting, axes poised, but there was no counterattack.

An elf dropped from the wide limbs of the oak, and picked up his fallen knife and hat. He was tall, but looked Blackblossom in the eye, “I thank you,” the elf said. “I am Starvalley.”

Deliberately withholding their names, Kindbloom instead sniped, “How were you taken, elf?”

The elf’s pale face colored.

“I was drinking at the river while thinking of a poem. Not paying attention. I got separated from my bow and had to run.”

Kindbloom sniffed, “You were quick enough to shoot our people in the back when hiding in the forest!”

The elf drew up straight and said, “Such was I obligated by duty. Whether I liked to kill or not wasn’t asked of me.”

“And anyway,” Blackblossom breezed, “that’s in the past. We’re allies now. Come, comrade.” With a short nod and hint of a smile, she sashayed off.

“Wait!” called the poet. “What are your names?”

Kindbloom marched on, but Blackblossom turned back, teased, “Oh no, Sir Elf. We’ve heard that if an elf learns your name, he gains power over your soul. You’ll just have to guess our names—Starvalley!”

Back at the log bridge, Kindbloom groused, “Consorting with elves, bah! Darkname and Firstfortune and Lightrobin must writhe in their graves!”

Blackblossom only mused, “Starvalley … And he favors poetry. These elven men are not uncomely, you know. Not big and sturdy like our breed, but spry like willows. Even … tingly.”

“Tingly?” Kindbloom almost fell off the bridge as she said, “And comely? Are you mad?”

Blackblossom only whistled as they crossed the bridge.

Later that day, along the river… .

A boy and a girl, Greatreeve and Meadowbear, squabbled as they overturned a rotten log and kicked at red-brown punk. Grubs and wood lice spilled loose, legs windmilling to escape the light. The pair scooped dozens of insects into a birch bark cup.

“I still say it’s a waste of time!” Meadowbear stated. “We tried these bugs, and the fish won’t bite!”

“What else is there?” demanded Greatreeve. “There aren’t any worms. The dirt’s too rocky.”

“Quiet!” the girl shushed, though she was just as loud. “They’ll hear us!” The two had sneaked away from their chores to try their luck with the rainbow-speckled fish in the river Delimbiyr. They’d never seen such fish before, but they looked succulent. And fussy, for the creatures rose to no bait the children offered. “And elves live in these—Aah!”

The children jumped so high their birch bark cup flew in the air. Bugs flitted across winter leaves. An elf, tall and green and black and wild-haired, had stepped from behind a tree as if invisible.

“Don’t be frightened,” the elf said. Calm and kind words belied the elf’s fierce appearance. “I see you seek the shalass but lack luck.”

“The what?” asked Meadowbear. “Oh, the fish? Is that what you call ‘em?”

“How do you catch ‘em?” asked Greatreeve.

The elf smiled, face lighting up. He pointed at the rotten log. “Not with those,” he said. “The best bait is the grub of the mayfly in spring, when the shalass is hungriest, but there are none now. Rather, try here …” The elf crooked a finger and walked away smiling.

“What d’ya think?” Meadowbear hissed to her partner.

“Elves eat babies, my papa says,” whispered the boy. “But we’re not babies … And he lives here—”

“So he knows how to catch fish!” finished Meadowbear.

Together, the barbarian children picked on silent feet after the elf. The tall archer climbed into a tree with thick branches still adorned with dark green leaves. Jumping free of the trunk, the elf bent a branch for the children to reach. “Pick a few nuts,” he told them. “Not too many.”

Wondering, the children plucked a handful of dark green nuts like olives. Releasing the branch, the elf drew a wicked curved knife that made the children step back. The woods-dweller smiled as he peeled a green husk. Revealed was a nut white as chalk. Quartering the nut, the elf handed each child a white curl.

“The shalass is delicious but dim. Bait your hook with this nut and jig the line ever so gently, and Sir Shalass will mistake it for a mayfly grub. Trust me, it works.”

The erstwhile fisherfolk looked at the nut hunks with awe. “My thanks …” said Meadowbear. Remembering her manners, she added, “But what do I owe you? Rengarth Barbarians always pay their debts.”

The elf nodded and said, “Fair enough. Know you the names of the two women who entered the forest this morning? They came after axes soaking in yon stream. One was middling-high and dark, but the other was tall and graceful as a sandhill crane—”

“You mean Blackblossom?” blurted Greatreeve. Meadowbear jabbed him with an elbow, too late.

“Blackblossom.” The elf tasted the name. “Apt, for one so rare and fair … My thanks, fishers. Our debt is square. Good luck!”

Swinging bow and sword hilt, the elf melted into the forest.

“Big mouth!” snarled the girl. “You blabbed Blackblossom’s name. Now he’ll get power over her soul!”

“I wonder why he wants it,” said Greatreeve. “I hope he doesn’t hurt her….”

On the slope between forest and prairie….

Strongsea threw down his axe in disgust. It bounced off a log and flipped over. “Gah!” he spat. “Next to useless!”

“Don’t be silly,” Graysky said as he patiently hammered the back of his axe with a wooden maul to split a log. “Just because you can’t sharpen an axe—”

“It’s not something you can learn. Either you’re born knowing how to sharpen a blade, or you’re not, and I’m not! And I’m damned to walk all the way to the mountain just to have a dwarf sharpen it for me! I hate walking as much as I hate sharpening.”

The bigger man flopped down on a stump. There were stumps everywhere, scores of them, for the barbarians had labored to cut back the forest and build homes for the winter. Already a dozen longhouses striped the hillside and sent smoke curling into the blue-white sky. Stacks of cordwood and piles of burnable slash ran higgledy-piggledy up the slope.

“Everyone’s busy,” Graysky said as he hammered his maul a last time to divide the log, then leaned back and wiped his brow. “The dwarves are too busy forging tools to come sharpen them, so we needs—Hello! What are you?”