Tinuva and Kavala was a long one, stretching over a century and had clearly been settled this morning. But my feud is longer, deeper, Bovai thought, and I shall be the one to settle it.
Three times over the years he had encountered Tinuva when Clan Raven had raided down across the moss-covered marshes of Yabon and had struck westward along the border of Elvandar. Three times Tinuva and he had spied one another across a river, a valley, and from the opposite sides of a ridged canyon. The last time they had faced one another, both had emptied quivers of arrows across the gorge, each coming close to death, but both leaving with empty quivers and only minor wounds. To present Hartraft’s head to Murad would gain Bovai glory, but killing Tinuva was a matter of personal honour, and had nothing whatever to do with glory. Tinuva must die so that the darkest affront to Bovai’s family could at last be forgotten.
Finally, Bovai forced himself from his reverie. To Golun he said, ‘This changes nothing. If Tinuva is among them, that will come as it does. Right now, we must do as we planned, and bring them to heel before they can escape. Go.’
Golun left while Bovai stared into the fire for a moment longer. Then he stood. The time for fantasies of revenge were past; now was the time to act. He tossed the fire poker aside and left the barracks.
The dead had been moved to the side of the building and covered with blankets so that the goblins and human renegades would not see the remains as they marched through the gate. Already Golun was urging the column forward, half a dozen mounted men galloping to the fore while his own brothers stood to one side.
All eyes were upon him as he stood in silence, his black cape wrapped around his thin frame, watching as the column trotted past. The last of the goblins came through the gate and disappeared into the mist. They would push the pursuit: his own brothers had to have their moment of remembrance before moving on.
The circle of moredhel gathered around him, heads lowered, a mournful chant beginning – the singing of the dead, calling upon the spirits of the Old Ones to come down, to gather up the souls of the slain and return them to the Immortal Lands in the sky, taking them to reside with the Mothers and Fathers. Their voices were whispers, lost in the wind, drifting through the trees, muffled in the swirling mists.
The singers lowered their heads. One soldier, chosen from the band, let the cowl of his cape fall over his face so that none would hear as he whispered the names of the fallen, the sacred names that no one spoke aloud, his softly-spoken words drowned out by the murmured cries of those gathered around him. He bid them farewell on their journey, and henceforth no one would again say their names lest they call them back from their journey and condemn them to wander the world as restless spirits.
The chant fell away, until the only sound that could be heard was the crying of the wind and the creaking of the frozen trees bending beneath the cold morning gale.
Bovai raised his head. ‘We came to hunt the enemy,’ he said, ‘and till this moment the hunt has been good.’
There were nods of agreement.
‘Until this moment we rejoiced, we laughed as we pursued a foe who ran before us as the rabbit runs before the fox.’
‘Until this moment,’ several of his brothers responded, following his words and the ritual of the call for a ‘savata’, the hunt of blood-vengeance.
‘Until this moment our hearts were filled with joy, the joy of the hunt, the slaying of our foes, and we drove them before us.’
‘Until this moment!’ More joined in.
He paused, slowly turning, looking at each of those gathered around him.
‘Those who walk the mortal world for but a brief moment, who know not the touch of eternity, who have taken from us our lands, now have snatched our brothers from us, sending them into the dark lands from which no one returns. Even as our brothers leave us, their souls cry to us.’
His words struck into the hearts of those around him, for the shrieking of the wind through the pass had a demented, unworldly tone to it, like that of souls lost in the night and more than one of the brothers looked about nervously.
‘Who was this who did such an infamy to our brothers?’ the singer of the dead cried.
Bovai pointed up the trail, into the swirling mist where the goblins and humans had already disappeared. ‘The Tsurani, and those who follow Hartraft.’
There was silence for a moment, for all knew his name.
‘Tinuva, as always.’
‘Tinuva.’ The name was whispered, and heads lowered again. A few of the warriors glanced at one another, and some of the bolder among them cast a look at Bovai. He had mentioned the hated elf’s name, which was the breaking of a silent, yet powerful, prohibition in Clan Raven.
‘Hartraft and Tinuva I claim for myself for there is blood debt between us. The others I give to you, my brothers. Let us take their heads! Let us send their spirits to the dark world! Let us gain our vengeance and thus regain our honour! Swear this now with me.’
‘We swear.’
The words were spoken softly, yet any who was not of their race, and had heard the two words spoken would have been filled with dread at the sound of the oath, as if a primal force out of an ancient time had stirred itself.
Suddenly Bovai was in motion. With a simple gesture he ordered his horse to be brought to him. He mounted with an ease that belied his distaste for riding and urged the animal forward. He would overtake the Master of the Hunt and the human outriders who served him, and he would lead the attack on Hartraft and his Tsurani allies.
The horse’s hooves clattered on the stones and the sound of ice cracking under its iron shoes filled the cold day’s air like a clarion of doom.
THE RIVER WAS FLOODED.
Tinuva, with Dennis and Asayaga behind him, slowly slipped out of the cover of the forest, crouching low, and slid down the muddy bank. Tinuva disappeared into the high tangle of dried rushes that were coated in a glistening sheen of ice.
Crawling through the tall brown foliage, he approached the trail that ran parallel to the river. He could remember a time, centuries ago, when he would walk openly on this trail, ambling along on warm summer evenings and hunting in the autumn, the trees ablaze with colour.
That had been centuries ago, and of the elves who had shared those moments, nearly all had gone to the Blessed Isles, dead in the bitter strife with the moredhel. Mortality was something he tried not to dwell on, but even so he suddenly felt old, and wondered if it was somehow a foreboding, a warning.
He thought of Kavala. The settling of an ancient debt had been achieved at last. Although he knew that the death of another was something in which to take no joy, still there had been a terrible moment of satisfaction when he had seen Kavala come out of the mists, unaware that death was closing in at last.
Now was not the time to dwell on that, to let such thoughts divert him
