At least, that had been one of the visions. But he also knew that although they had all been visions of victory and triumph, not all of them were good. And then, perhaps, not every victory was perfect. Life was complicated, and it seemed to Daniel likely that these visions would help him to make sense of his own future. He was closer to a spiritual plane here, and if a revelation were to
be had, then he would find it and bring it back, somehow, to his own world.
But what would the cost be? The Night was brutal and horrific, quite literally a hell. And the things that worried him most—beyond the pain, or its inevitability if he continued to stay in this world—was that he nearly always forgot what he experienced, and every time he came back, less of him seemed to make it. His confidence and righteousness had been eaten away to the point that he was now questioning if he could indeed accomplish anything of worth here in Elfland, or back at home, for that matter. His surety of purpose was faltering.
He sat for another few hours, trying to puzzle out all the logic and fuzzy philosophy of his situation. Then he rose and almost automatically began searching for the Elves in Exile again. If helping them win this battle was part of his penance, then he should get on with it. The problem was that he had no assurance at all that this was a penance, or that there were lessons to be learned.
After a long time of searching, he saw a smudge on the horizon in the southeast that he took to be smoke, and he navigated himself toward that. Whatever it was, he was certain that it was something to do with the war, or would give information that would lead him to it. With such a focal point, he made much quicker progress and had the scene in view in what seemed like less than a minute.
It was a battlefield, but one that had already been spent. The “field” itself was actually several fields spread between two forests—it was apparently part of an elfish farm, entirely open except for low walls, ditches, ridges, and hedges demarcating one cropland from another. The fight had ranged over at least a dozen of these spaces. Daniel had no experience in evaluating or judging what had occurred here, but the battle looked hard fought. Bodies of elfish warriors were spread all over,
sometimes clustering here, sometimes there. There were also horses, so many horses, laying everywhere, dead and dying. Many more were tethered to the walls that ran along the side of the fields where a dirt road meandered. The two fighting sides must have been entirely mounted.
Warriors in what looked to be blue enamelled armour trimmed with black were walking over the field, dragging the wounded—indiscriminate of side, it seemed—off the field and into a circle of elfish healers. These were the victors, apparently, and Daniel wondered who they represented.
The smoke he had spotted came from a patch of grassland at the far end of the field of conflict, which was near a copse of tall, birch-like trees. Here some tents and furniture were smouldering, and the figures in blue were trying desperately to put it out. The tent had been collapsed and the canvas pulled away from what was underneath it, which was papers, journals, and silken cloths. These were spread out and stamped on with a mindful precision in order to extinguish their smoking edges. There was a man shouting orders to these soldiers, and Daniel drifted lower to hear what was being said.
“Faster, you lugheads! Put those papers out! Quickly and well! No, not like that, like
this
! They’ll smoulder into oblivion unless you do it properly. Don’t you know that destruction of vital knowledge of the enemy is treason? Your lives depend on this act, so let’s pretend we all actually care about your miserable existences and step keenly!”
So, the actions weren’t so noble, as Daniel first thought, as to extinguish a fire so close to a wooded area. Daniel drifted upward and spotted a cluster of elves wearing more than the usual amount of armour and ornamentation. These must be the captains and generals. He went toward them. One of them was Prince Kione Traast from the necrologist’s halls.
“Hurry them up,” he was saying, annoyed, to a cluster of clerical-looking elves. “The ground is starting to eat the blood and you know how they’ll only complain when they see that our wounded are being moved.”
“It does no good to rush them, my prince,” said one unflappablelooking elf. “Battlescrying is an ancient art and one that demands much anticipation.”
“Well, then it’s their own cursed fault if things move. I don’t want to hear any excuses or blame from them.”
A young messenger came running from the field behind the prince. “They are ready, my prince.”
Behind him, from the woods, strode four elderly elves in red robes and each one was wearing thin, bone-like stilts that allowed them to tower above all others on the battlefield. They also carried long, black poles that could reach down to the ground. They stood roughly two storeys above anyone else around.
“Clear the field!” shouted one of the prince’s captains. “All of you that can move, clear the field for the battlescryers!”
The soldiers did so, rushing to the edges of the open areas as the four stilted elves stalked into the fields. Their manner was easy and adept and rather eerie as complete silence and attention was given to their activities.
Their increased foot spans gave them surprising speed across the plains, and they used their black poles to move certain objects that they deemed to be in the way. Occasionally they would place their walking sticks in the ground behind them and sit on them in a tripod fashion as they made notes and created diagrams on square books that they carried in a satchel at their waists. They seemed particularly interested in how the bodies had fallen, and how they were clustered, and what relation the fallen apparently had with each other. Daniel could hear them murmuring across to one another.
“There are three brothers, here, there, and there—do you see? Each bears an emblem on his shield with a purple, eight-pointed star. Can another be found?”
“I have one here, a youth of perhaps eighty,” came a reply in a low, sullen voice.
“He would be the youngest, then. How is he oriented?”
“Feet to the sun, head to the wind, hands to his heels.”
This made all of them pause to record this information, and then they began circling the scene again. Another brother was found and they all halted and recorded this discovery with much muted excitement.
Their work apparently finished, they strode back across the plain and alighted with surprised dexterity from their stilts and stood a little apart from the prince and his entourage and conferred awhile, comparing notes.
“Most august and glorified ruler of elf,” said the foremost. “We have finished our divinations.”
“And?”
The battle diviner straightened himself and reported in an authoritative voice:
One body dead with no cut or break in the skin—a high fort will shoot thrice time ten.
Two carrion birds upon a hand—a captain wounded.
Four fallen from the east—fair weather at the next engagement.
Eight headless helmets—lost wealth on a rainy morning.
Nine white worms around a boot—horse sickness for three days.
Overlapping wrists: thirteen—the number of days to travel.
Fifteen flies on one breastplate—fortune for felons.
Thirty-nine broken shields—ships will stay at sea.
Eleven gauntlets lost, eleven buckles loosed, eleven heels covered—store half your provisions.
Eight by nine the field of Elven slain—shelter under the canopy. Forty-three within the centre—welcome the first blow.
Twenty-three giving northward supplication—a spy in the fifth ring.
Nine enemies on the fifth level—ride to the South.
These numbers: one, two, four, eight, nine, thirteen, fifteen, thirty-nine . . . acquisition, forceful reciprocity, remuneration, fortunate remembrance, a diverse mind, a quick eye.
These numbers: thirty-three, seventy-two, forty-three, twenty-three, forty-five . . . changeable fortunes, the stars hidden, a mask unused.
Five brothers—the end of conflict in three weeks.
Four of the brothers with three wounds—finality on the midday.
Three brothers to the west—the location of the next field.
Two brothers supplicant—victory at a great cost.
One brother outside of the square—a claimant abandoned.
The priest-like elf stopped his recitation.
“That’s all well and good,” the prince said, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and ring finger. “But where does that leave me?”
“An end of the campaign in twenty-two days, an unexpected boon in ten. A fortunate departure by the end of the day.”
The prince grunted and dismissed the warpriests. “Keep up
pursuit with our runners. Report back to me when they’ve caught track of the leaders. Where’s the human? I would speak with him.”
The aide made a face. “He would be with the rest of the train—back along the road. The warriors do not like him. They believe such a thing brings bad luck. He is too interested in the prisoners, they feel.”
“He is a valuable oracle, and I would hear his counsel.”
“Yes, my prince.”
Kione Traast surveyed the landscape. “Unless they flee to the lake, which I doubt, then they will be doubling back. It would be better for us to rejoin the train. Give the orders to return. And next time bring the man with the entourage.”
“Very well, my lord. It will be done.”
Daniel rose up and now faced a decision. He was intrigued by this talk of a human, but it may be better if he meet up with the elves escaping from the battlefield and aid them in their flight.
But there was also talk of prisoners, and he wondered who they might be—it could be anyone, since he hadn’t determined how long the Night had kept him this time. It could be either of the generals, one of the wizards, or the prince himself. And then he might glimpse the human too . . .
Daniel decided to look into it. He could easily be there in a matter of minutes, and if he saw nothing, then he would quickly be on his way to Prince Filliu.
He started swiftly along the paved road and before too long the elfish war host’s encampment could be seen on the road ahead. Daniel slowed, not because he was cautious anymore, but because he needed to take it in.
It looked much like the Fayre he had visited on his first trip to Elfland, but populated by a very different looking type of elf. Where the Fayre had attracted colourful and pageant-like elves, this one was full of warriors in sparkling gear and weaponry,
and their attendants who dressed and behaved more utilitarian. Inspecting the tents and the elves passing in and around them, he found butchers and bakers bustling around baking pits, herders tending to strange livestock that looked like massive, ornately horned oxen, drink-makers pulping and distilling fruits that had been harvested from the nearby wilderness. There were smiths working industriously at repairing sword blades, shields, and odd pieces of armour. Fletchers were creating arrows and unstringing and steaming bows, and there were any number of elves doing a dozen other tasks.
But where would he find this “human,” who was trusted by the prince, but not by anyone else?
From helping the Elves in Exile, he had a passing familiarity with how they organised up their military camps. He quickly located the prince’s tent, which was a deep blue trimmed by dark purple banners and pennants. Because he couldn’t see into it, he had to materialise at the entrance and push his way through.
“Hello?” a voice called out in Elvish.
Daniel instantly dissolved into the air.
The tent was just a single, large space, not separated into different rooms by fine cloths and carpets as they usually were. Lush rugs were strewn across the ground and a black polished wood table the size of a merry-go-round dominated the centre of the area.
There were small booths around the edge of the tent that contained beds, wardrobes, maps, scrolls, and books. It was from one of these that a white-haired man—and he did seem to be a man, not as tall or angular as the elves—popped his head out and peered at the tent entrance.
It was Ealdstan.
“Hello?” he asked again. “Is anyone there?”
Daniel was so surprised that he did nothing and the wizard
turned back to his booth where a large scroll of parchment had been unrolled. Daniel came nearer to Ealdstan as he saw he was copying it into a large notebook with a gel pen, both of which Daniel recognised as being from his own world and incongruous not just in this world but also in Ealdstan’s hand. The image that was being copied was a complex series of interlinking rings that Daniel recognised as being very similar to the map of the spheres that Reizger Lokkich had once consulted.
“So inaccurate . . .” Ealdstan lamented under his breath, and then he turned around again. “Truly now, who is there?” he asked. “Show yourself,” he commanded weakly, sounding thin of breath and disturbed.
Daniel waited. He couldn’t really sense him, could he?
The wizard spoke a few words that he didn’t understand in either English or Elvish and waved his hand.
Daniel felt a heaviness build inside of him, like he was made of lead weights, and suddenly he found himself standing before the elderly man, re-corporated against his will.
“Hello, Ealdstan. What are you doing here?”
“What am
I
. . . ? Who are you?”
“Don’t you recognise me? It’s Daniel—Daniel Tully. I killed Gád for you. Well . . . tried to.”
“You mean . . . you . . . ? What are you doing here?” The old wizard seemed really rattled.
“I asked you first. Why aren’t you in Niðergeard? Don’t you know it’s been overrun?” Daniel asked. He tried to dissipate but found himself unable to; it was like he was being bound together by thousands of rubber bands. It was uncomfortable, and he started to become nervous in case any of the elves outside should come in and see him. “Why are you here and not there?”