Midas had never heard of elves
killing men before. He slumped in his
saddle, staring at the bodies scattered near the forest edge. Crows hopped and cawed just out of kicking range. The horses stamped their hooves and flicked
their tails at flies. The smell of
corruption was yet mild.
“I don’t recognize these men,” he
murmured. He should recognize them; he
knew the people on his lands. These men
had not simply been passing through.
Three axes lay near the corpses, and two of the trees showed chop
marks. Red sap flowed down the silver
bark, the trees bleeding from their wounds.
Laithtaris--called the Elf Wood by
men--bordered the tiny province of Welby.
It was home to the elven folk, their only remaining home since the race
of man had come to the Known Lands more than two thousand years ago. A treaty was signed at the time promising
these woods to the elves, to be untouched by man for all time. Midas had rarely heard of any encroachment of
the forest; if it happened it was usually an accident and elven rangers would
escort the offenders to the edge of the woods.
Three bodies lay near the trees and
two more were partially obscured by the brown grass and weeds a few paces
away. Each had a single silver-fletched
arrow jutting from its chest or back. Elven arrows, thought Midas. No man
could make arrows so perfect.
He shifted his gaze to the
woods. Silverbark trees towered into the
sky, their canopies forming a ceiling over the tangled shrubs and dead leaves
below. The edge of the forest was thin
and the summer light shone down in beams to the forest floor, but there was no
sign of elves. This was not unusual;
Midas had never seen an elf in all of his thirty-eight years. There
could be dozens of them staring at us right now and we’d never see them.
He twisted in the saddle to speak
to Fridrik. “Bring a wagon from the
village. Post a guard on these bodies
until they can be loaded up and brought to Welby. Something's happening and I intend to find
out what.”
“Yes, milord,” the squire
said. He detailed two men to guard the
bodies, picked out two more as escorts, and rode off toward the hamlet they’d
passed on the way.
Midas sighed and glanced at Sir
Brindor, who was gazing blankly into space as usual. Amidst the stubble of his gray hair, the
crater in Brindor’s head was clearly visible.
Years ago, Sir Brindor had taken part in a tournament melee, during
which his helm had been knocked from his head and a mace had bashed in the side
of his skull. Healers had given him up
for dead, but Brindor slumbered in a coma for three weeks and then woke
up. He wasn’t the same man--his speech
was slurred and he had little memory of his previous life--but he remained a
ferocious fighter, devoted to his liege lord.
“Brin!” Midas said.
Sir Brindor swayed on his mare, but then his
eyes focused and he turned to Midas.
“Brin,” Midas repeated. “That
dwarf merchant who sold you the elven dagger, where can I find him?”
Brindor’s mouth worked silently for
a bit and his face took on the confused look it always did when he was required
to remember how to speak. “Iskimir,” he
finally managed. “Sh-shhhop in Iskimir.”
Midas nodded to Brin and bent to
examine the closest corpse. The man was
filthy and clothed in rags. He looked
like the beggars or thieves one might find in any of the big cities.
“How could they think to get away
with this, Voor? Even desperate men…”
“I don’t know, milord,” Voor said.
“Someone forced them.”
Voor nodded.
“Have Dalthis and two guards ride
to Iskimir. I want them to find the
dwarf merchant who sells elven goods. I
want to know how he gets his goods; how he makes contact with the elves. Make sure Dalthis takes enough coin to
persuade the dwarf. If he won’t speak to
Dalthis, see if he’ll come to Welby and talk to me.”
“Yes, milord.”
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