Samual (31 page)

“We're being watched.” Though Sam couldn't see a single thing out of place in the forests around them, let alone someone spying on them, he was sure. He'd been feeling the presence of others all around them for some time, and right then he could feel them closing in. It didn't make it easy to relax which somewhat defeated the point of their having set up a camp. The tea he was drinking wasn't particularly soothing either.

“I know that!” Far from appreciating his warning Elder Bela almost snapped an irritated reply at him. But then he was a master of nature magic, whereas Sam was scarcely a novice. He'd probably felt the watchers hours before.

War Master Wyldred however, was a different story. Though he said nothing, Sam watched as his hand slowly moved to his sword hilt and stayed there. He, like Sam, was less trusting than Elder Bela of the shade faun and their likely response to having outsiders in their woods.

It was an unusual dynamic between the two elves, and Sam had watched with interest over the previous days as they'd sparred. It had begun from almost the moment they'd left the caravan, but things had really intensified the moment they'd left the horses behind at the clearing before entering the forests of the Borovan Wastes. That was when the tension had truly begun, as they'd left not just the security of the horses, but also the comfort of lands they knew behind.

That had been two long days ago, and the two of them had been bickering ever since. Politely of course, and with a deeply ingrained sense of humour and friendship. There simply wasn't any animosity between the two elves. In fact they quite liked each other as far as Sam could tell. They just had very different views of the world. Elder Bela wanted to enter the forests completely unarmed, determined to show their peaceful intent to the shade faun, whereas the War Master would have preferred to take an entire troop with him. Bela believed in the power of words and the strength of magic; Wyldred valued his steel. Meanwhile Sam, caught between the two of them, and with a foot in each camp by virtue of his own background, was almost forgotten as the two bickered.

For him the journey had been a revelation in many ways, though not perhaps in the way the elders would have wanted. Elder Bela had perhaps hoped to show him the true value of magic and openness and assess his potential as a wizard and one day maybe even a Magic Council wizard. War Master Wyldred meanwhile was busy examining his potential as a soldier in any upcoming battles. But instead Sam was learning a different lesson entirely. He had been learning the true nature of power in the elven community. It wasn't what he'd expected.

The two elders were in fact both of similar standing in Shavarra. Both were at the top of their professions. Elder Bela sat on the Magic Council and War Master Wyldred was a member of the Warriors Guild Conclave. Both were members of the Ruling Council as well. Thus he was travelling with two of the most respected elders in all of Shavarra. Despite that, neither of them had ordered him around even once. Unless it was something essential to their mission or to his training, they asked.

No more did they try to deny each other their opinions. There was no power struggle between the two of them as there would have been between competing nobles in Fair Fields. Rather there was an ongoing debate about how best to achieve their goal, and its outcome as always, was a compromise.

These two, Sam guessed, embodied a tiny model of how the entire elven government worked. Representatives from all the professions and guilds, members of their own councils, elected by their peers to sit on the Ruling Council came together to debate the important issues. Thus at the same table, there would be twenty one elves; three spell casters, three soldiers, three artisans, three priests, three farmers and three married couples, all politely voicing their concerns and debating the motions brought before them. They were seen as representing all parts of elven society. And their purpose was always to try to reach a consensus on everything from tax rates to what crops should be planted next season.

Of course he'd understood in principle how it worked for many years. But he'd never experienced it. And somehow he'd always imagined that it would be a battle of wits and wills. Just as it was in his homeland.

Such a system could never work in Fair Fields, where all such decisions were made by the king. Supposedly he consulted with the nobles. In Heri's case the reality was that whenever he brought them together it was for the specific purpose of glorifying himself and making sure that none of the noble houses were growing too strong. That none could threaten his rule. If that involved stabbing one's fellow nobles in the back in order to advance one's own status in the court, so be it. Of course the nobles also had other agendas, usually related to their family's wealth and holdings, that they liked to advance. But they could only advance them with the consent of the king, and he only gave it if he got something in return; more soldiers, a display of fealty and so forth. Had the nobles been given any true say in matters of the realm, it would have been complete chaos, as they would have quickly traded principles for advancement.

Bela and Wyldred though did no such thing. Instead they debated the issues without a trace of animosity or rivalry. And when they did disagree on something, be it what wood should be used to make a fire from or what to eat, then they generally arrived at a compromise. And if one still felt that they had ceded too much, then all that would occur would be a few barbed comments that were more jest than serious. It could have been just that the two were old friends, something that Sam had quickly become sure of, but he suspected it was more than that. It was part of their very elven nature. They cared nothing for power, and they hated the very concept of deliberately causing harm to another, whether with weapons or words. If only his own people could be so decent.

They were even decent to him. Despite the fact that he was but a commoner in both their society and in the party, they included him in their decision making and general conversation as if he was of no different rank.

Of course that didn't extend to his training when Sam was suddenly reduced to a novice once more and subject to Elder Bela's rather sharp tongue. The fact that they were in the middle of a nearly impenetrable wood didn't seem to dissuade him.  Nor the fact that the light above was almost blocked out by the forest canopy. Or even the high probability they were surrounded by possible enemies. Regardless of any of these Sam was expected to train. And so he did each evening while Wyldred stood guard.

A war master standing guard while a soldier sat and played with magic; surely it was unheard of? And yet it kept happening. Moreover Wyldred took the duty very seriously and paid very careful attention to the surroundings, all but ignoring the two of them. Something told Sam that despite his years and rank, he too was not unused to the hardships of a soldier's life. But then he had said as much many times.

If Elder Bela was often sharp of tongue and somewhat private, Wyldred was the opposite. Though he had never shown any sign of weakness with it, he had happily discussed his hopes and fears with Sam. He too was married, and had had some difficulty explaining to his wife and family why he was leaving them for a short while, perhaps even risking his life. Sam only wondered if his wife too had thrown him against the wagon floor and ravished him, even as she beat him up, and then begged him to be careful. Ry had only let him loose after he had sworn several times to return safely.

The other thing that had surprised him was the fitness of Elder Bela. Some of the country they found themselves wading through was incredibly tough. They had had to scamper over large banks, ford streams, and battle thick bush to make it to the meeting point. Yet the Elder was charging through it like a teenager, often leaving the others struggling in his wake. He had to be a hundred and fifty if he was a day – an age at which even an elf should be starting to take things more slowly – but no one seemed to have told him that. Then again, he was also the only one not wearing armour and carrying heavy weapons as well as a hefty pack.

Regardless, by the time they had stopped and set the evening fire for the second night, Elder Bela had looked remarkably relaxed, while he and Wyldred were exhausted. The Elder even looked clean, as he'd somehow avoided the worst of the mud, while Sam and Wyldred's armour had turned dirt brown. He had to be using his magic Sam had decided, to make the path easier for himself, and perhaps to give himself some extra strength and stamina. And yet Sam had felt no such spell, and despite his lowly ability in nature magic, he would normally sense such magic anywhere nearby.

But he did sense the shadelings. And as they came closer and closer even Elder Bela finally began to look a little concerned. Sam could feel them closing in, like a pack of wolves stalking their prey. They stayed hidden and moved silently. Still, Sam could sense the tell-tale whisps of their emotions as they closed in. They seemed satisfied with their concealment from the enemy. That didn't bode well, and his hand like Wyldred's found his sword hilt and stayed there. He didn't draw it though. Nor his fire. A single stare from Elder Bela made sure of that.

“By the spirit of the mighty oak and ash, we come in peace.” The Elder barely raised his voice at all, another indication of just how close the shadelings were. Yet still Sam and Wyldred could see nothing no matter which way they turned.

“By the honour of Shavarra and the Pact of Whisparal we claim safe passage for the night and ask for an exchange of words.”

“The pact is agreed, and the honour of Shavarra known to us. Passage is granted and our Wisdom also seeks discourse.”

The voice came from barely ten feet in front of Sam, causing him to jump – and still he couldn't see a thing. That troubled him. The shadelings could be an invisible enemy. But at least they had agreed to the Elder's bargain. Then the shadelings showed themselves and he jumped again.

“Alder's balls!” The expletive was drawn from him as he watched the tree in front of him suddenly ripple as though it was a reflection in a pond and then divide to reveal two extremely skinny elves with long bows pointed directly at his head, a mere body length or so away from him. He was supposed to be a trained soldier and as such should always be on guard, and he had known they were near, yet he hadn't seen or heard a thing. It was an impressive display and he suddenly understood what all the legends about shadelings had tried to describe, and failed.

But they weren't as frightening in the flesh as he'd expected. Especially once their bows had lowered and the tension in the strings released. They were elves, exactly as Elder Bela had suggested, though very different from the elves of Shavarra.

For a start they were both thinner and taller than the elves he knew. Taller than him. Their skin was dappled green and dark brown. But they had the pointed ears, raised eyebrows and fine features of elves, and their sense of grace as they moved was akin to a dance. Yet if they were truly elves – and his senses told him they were – then they lived as no other elves he had ever seen.

In place of the long flowing clean white robes he was used to seeing were tight fitting thin leather garments that exposed much of their skin around the middle as well as their arms and legs. Crude, torn leather garments that were also dappled green and brown, and showed off too much of their skin for his liking. No tailor he was certain, had ever been near their clothes. They were simply cut from the animal's hide, dried, tanned and crudely stitched together. No elf he knew would ever wear such rags. But a troll might – if they wore clothes at all, that was.

They wore no shoes upon their feet, nor did they carry any metal. Their weapons and tools were all wood and bone, and were strapped to their arms and thighs with thin leather ties. More ties held their long straight black hair tight against their necks, while what looked like mud had plastered it against the skin of their backs. Their teeth were pointed, but rather by intent than by nature. Sam suspected they sharpened them. And their finger nails and toe nails had also been shaped into claws.

The skin that they did show revealed more scars than healthy flesh. Life could not be easy for them in the depths of the forests, and yet he also realised that as tough as their life was, some of those scars were deliberately inflicted. All of them, men and women both, had diagonal scars running down the outside of their arms; scars that looked as though they had been made with knives, while several also had vertical scars running from their cheeks to their chins. Some sort of ritual perhaps? Or maybe a way of simply showing the world how tough they were? Sam wondered how they could mutilate themselves in such ways and yet still go about their lives and even fight.

They might be elves, but he knew it would be wrong to assume they were anything like any other elves he had met. Once, he had been told, someone had written a treatise claiming that trolls were wild humans who had retreated thousands of years ago to the most inhospitable mountains they could find. Once there they had given up the last of their humanity as they became ever larger and hairier. It didn't explain the grey skin or the huge tusks in their mouths, but many believed it. If that was true, then perhaps these were elven trolls, skinny and wild instead of large and savage, but trolls nonetheless. Or perhaps this was what happened to a people living even in the vicinity of the fabled Alder Stone.