Book of Heroes: George of Sedona I - 4. Elven Archers - and a Troll

Chapter 4: Elven Archers—and a Troll

Color and movement filled a large field outside the elven town of Dundee. Pennons flew from poles along the road. The road was crowded with people. Arthur and George dismounted and walked, leading their horses. George addressed a boy beside them, one member of a family which was walking toward the field.

“Is it a market?” George asked in Elvish.

“An archery competition,” the elven tween answered, “and a festival. The market will be inside the town.”

Helplessly, George looked to Arthur. “He said a festival…and a market in the town. I got that. But what else?”

“Thank you,” Arthur said to the elf before turning to George. “He said there is to be an archery contest, as well.”

“Thank you,” George said to the tween, who smiled and nodded, and then dropped back to take the hand of a child who was lagging behind the group.

“We may have to sleep outdoors, tonight,” Arthur said. “The town will be crowded because of the contest. Look over there…tents, corrals…looks as if that’s the camping area. Do you want to stop?”

“What does destiny say,” George asked.

“Nothing, at the moment,” Arthur answered.

“I’d like to stay,” George, said, and then added, “This is just like in Robin Hood, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, except that the Sheriff of Nottingham isn’t likely to show up and try to capture Robin,” Arthur answered. George giggled.

A boy at one of the corrals agreed to feed and tend their horses for a tupenny. Arthur and George wandered the field, watching the different contests. Many involved archery, but there were other contests, too. While the regular market was inside the city walls, vendors of food, amulets, clothing, and weapons had set up shop around the field. From one position, a barker called out to the crowd, “Who’ll risk a shilling? Which archer among you will rise to the challenge? A shilling will get a pound if you can beat the champion. Best of three shots. How about you?”

“A shilling’s a lot to wager, but those are twenty-to-one odds,” Arthur said to George. “And elves are rightfully proud of their archery. This could be fun to watch.”

Several elves paid their shilling to shoot three arrows at a traditional bulls-eye target. Their opponent was an elven man who wore four gold medals around his neck. None of the challengers bested him, and all but one took defeat with good grace. A golden haired tween, who had put two shots nearly dead center before putting a third shot just outside the bulls-eye, stalked away from the field. He brushed against Arthur.

“Get out of the way,” he snarled.

“Sorry,” Arthur replied.

“Like to see you do better,” the tween spat.

A second elven tween tried to pull him away, but the boy set his feet and crossed his arms, staring at Arthur. “Well, you’ve been challenged,” the boy said. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll not shoot against you,” Arthur said to the boy, “but I will shoot against the champion. You may then compare my score to yours.”

The boy protested, but his friend interceded. “It’s fair…and you started this, not he!”

Arthur selected a bow and three arrows from among those offered, and then greeted the champion. The tween and his friend stood behind a rope; George stood beside them, although a little apart.

Arthur put his first arrow in the bull’s-eye. The champion’s first shot appeared to be an arrow width farther from the center of the target. Arthur’s second shot was just inside the outer edge of the bull’s-eye; the champion’s was only slightly closer to the center. From the shooting line, the two appeared tied. Arthur’s third shot came within an inch of the center of the bull’s-eye. Many people in the crowd gasped; several applauded. The champion paused, carefully examined his third arrow, moistened one of the fletching feathers, and slowly drew his bow. The arrow struck dead center in the target. Clearly, the champion had defended his title. The champion turned and offered his hand to Arthur, “Well shot, lad. I wouldn’t have done so well if you hadn’t offered a strong challenge.”

Arthur thanked the man and returned the bow to the rack. After leaving the arena, he looked at the tween who had challenged him. Arthur raised his eyebrows in question. The boy’s friend elbowed him in the ribs, hard. The tween offered his hand to Arthur, “Well shot. It would take a lot more than three arrows to see which of us was better.” He paused, and then added, “I’m sorry. I was an ox.”

Arthur took the offered hand, “An ox is a plodding beast. You shoot too gracefully to be an ox. My name is Arthur; my companion is George. There’s a publican set up over there. Would you and your friend join us?”

The tween stammered his thanks, and four boys soon sat around a trestle table, drinking from polished wooden mugs of lager.

“My mother’s name for me is Cameron,” the elven boy’s friend said. “Adair, here, is our village champion,” he said of the once-sullen tween. “He’s good, too. I think he could beat that fellow in a regular match.” The boys enthusiastically described the competition that would begin on the morrow.

“We will compete for three days. By the morning of the fourth day, only two archers will remain. They will shoot for the championship,” Cameron said.

“We shoot at eight different kinds of targets—ten arrows at each. Some targets are close; some are farther away. My favorite is the one that rolls…” Adair continued, describing the targets and the match scoring. Arthur listened, but kept an eye—both magical and Mundane—on the crowd. George listened intently.

“The shilling I lost was our room for tonight…although I don’t think we’d have gotten one, anyway,” Adair said. “Guess we’ll be sleeping under the trees.”

“We’ve put our things under the oak tree upwind of the publican, there,” Arthur said. “Would you like to join us?”

Adair and his friend agreed, and the two elves and two humans were soon settled in the shade of the tree.

A couple of enterprising boys had set up an impromptu bath next to the stream that ran west of the meadow. They had put a ladder on a wooden dock, and for a florin, they’d dump a bucket of water on anyone bold enough to tolerate the cold. For those who didn’t want to pay the boys, a dip in the stream was free. Arthur guessed that Cameron and Adair were husbanding their money. He and George joined them for a free bath in the creek. As Arthur washed George, he quietly asked the boy, “Would you like to invite Cameron and Adair to share with us tonight? They may not want to…Adair might be too keyed up by the competition.”

George thought for a moment before replying. “Yes. I would. At first, I thought Adair was a real jerk, but I guess he was just embarrassed. Sure. I’d like to be friends with them.”

*****

Serious competition began the next day. Archery was the king of sports in Elvenhold; the contest was well attended. Arthur and George joined Cameron to create an impromptu cheering section. Adair won heat after heat. By sext on the third day, it was clear that Adair was going to face the champion again, this time in a real match. Adair and the champion were 20 and 24 points ahead of all other contestants, winning consistently, but not flashily. At nones, it became official: Adair would face the current champion the next morning in the final heat.

At sext the next day, the champion and Adair were tied at 18 points. The judges halted the competition for lunch. Adair, too nervous to eat, sought out Arthur. “Arthur…I can’t say this to my family…the people from my village…but I’m afraid. I’m afraid I’ll lose.”

“Well,” Arthur said, “If you think you are going to lose, then you will lose.”

A hurt look came over the elven boy’s face. “I thought you’d say differently,” he said, and started to turn back to his family.

Arthur took the boy’s arm. “Think about it, Adair. Please, think. You’re the one who said that you would lose, not I. I just repeated what you said. And what I said is true. If you don’t think you can win, then you can’t win. At least half the competition isn’t in the bows and arrows and targets! At least half the competition is in here…in your head!”

Arthur paused, and then continued. “When we first met I said you shoot with grace…and you do. He’s stiff. He lumbers. You dance! He plods; you skip. He drones; you sing! Adair, you can win…if you think you can.”

Arthur fell silent. Adair looked into Arthur’s eyes. “You’re telling the truth, aren’t you? You really believe in me? Someone you just met?”

Arthur nodded.

“Thank you, Arthur.” Adair lightly touched Arthur’s cheek and whispered, “I will win.”

After two more rounds of competition, Adair and the champion were still tied. The judges announced a final competition: each contestant would shoot one arrow at a traditional bulls-eye target. The one whose arrow was closer to the center would win the competition and the gold medal.

The champion drew the blue token; he would shoot first. He stood at the line and drew his bow. The arrow struck the target hard in the bull’s-eye, less than a finger width from the center. Adair walked to the line. He turned his head, caught Arthur’s eye, and nodded. The boy drew his bow, paused, and then released the arrow. Adair’s arrow struck the target dead center. The force knocked the champion’s arrow from the target. A huge roar rose from the crowd. Adair had won.

*****

The archery contest and the makeshift market that had sprung up around it were over. Adair and Cameron had said their farewells. The town of Dundee was deserted. Arthur and George had no trouble finding a room at the inn. They reveled in the hot water of the bath, especially appreciated after five days of bathing in the creek.

“What will we do here?” George asked while he scrubbed Arthur. “Are you going to get a job?”

“I don’t know…what would you like to do?” Arthur asked.

“I want to learn to shoot a bow,” George said. “I think the contest was really neat!”

“The people who took part in the contest…they were shooting at targets. What do you think they shoot when they’re at home?” Arthur asked.

“Oh, deer, birds maybe, stuff like that,” George said.

“Most elves are vegetarians, except for fish and cheese and eggs,” Arthur said.

“Oh,” George said. “I guess I knew that…or should have figured it out, by now…So, what do they shoot at?”

“They shoot at targets at home, too. For some, it’s just a game, a contest. But others do it not to win contests, but to be able to defend themselves, their homes, their farms, their villages, from raiders, brigands, trolls, and other enemies. Some of the elves still remember the forever war between Light and Dark.”

Arthur stepped back and looked George in the eye. “If you learn to use a bow, it will be so that you can kill someone. Are you ready for that?”

George hesitated. Arthur silently chewed the inside of his cheek, waiting for the boy’s answer.

“I knew…back at the faire on Earth…I knew that someday I’d have to kill somebody. You told me…you made it seem so real that I almost threw up…I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d not let me come with you, but I almost threw up.”

The boy hesitated, again. “When Brownlee tried to poison us, and you stood there with your sword at his stomach, I thought you might kill him, and I was almost sick, again. I…I don’t know, Arthur.” George looked away. His eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry. I must be a disappointment to you.”

Arthur closed the distance between himself and the boy in two steps and wrapped his arms around George. “Shhh, George, shhh; it’s all right,” he said. “You must be able to kill, but only if you have to. I don’t want you to look forward to it, or to enjoy it. No, George, you’re not a disappointment. I knew you were almost sick at the faire. I could see it in your face, your eyes. When we faced Brownlee, you were at my side in an instant, and you had your dagger in your hand. You may have felt sick, but that didn’t stop you from doing what was needful. No, George, you’re not a disappointment. I’m very proud of you.” Arthur hugged the boy tightly, and then kissed his forehead.

The next morning, Arthur and George sought out Donovan, the recently displaced archery champion. They found him at his pottery shop. He remembered Arthur, and was pleased when Arthur asked him to teach George the basics of archery. “It’ll take years to learn everything, and if you want to be really good, you’ll keep learning all your life. I can teach you how to pick a bow that’s right for you, how to make arrows—you’ll want to make your own, of course—, and start you on target shooting. You’ll need to find a school in a larger city if you want to do field shooting … moving targets and so on.”

*****

Arthur and George heard the commotion in the square from a block away. When they reached the square, they could see the object of people’s attention: an exceptionally large troll. Manacles encircled each wrist and ankle. A collar ringed its neck. Chains led from the manacles and collar. Two elven men held each chain while others attached the ends to metal rings embedded in the stone wall of the City Hall. It took all their strength to restrain the creature.

“He’s eight feet tall!” George exclaimed. “What is he?”

“A troll,” Arthur said, “and an especially large one, too. They’re usually not more than seven feet tall.” Arthur felt George’s hand creep into his and squeeze tightly.

“You said there really were ogres,” the boy whispered.

Talk of the troll filled the common room at the inn. “Tried to raid a farm … there were seven of them … he’s the only one who wasn’t killed … one of his own kind knocked him out when he swung his club and wasn’t looking … killed two of the farmer’s boys, they did … there were at least a dozen … two were killed and the rest got away … except for this one … fell and hit his head on a stone, he did …”

Arthur and George tried to piece together what had happened, but without success. “Elves and trolls are historically enemies,” Arthur said, for George’s ears, only. “Some say it’s because the trolls envy the elves’ beauty. Some say it’s because the elves feel a racial guilt because trolls were created by an Evil elven mage, and the elves kill trolls to rid the world of them,” Arthur explained. “I believe trolls were created by merging human and dwarf DNA, and mutating the results.”

The next day, a proclamation read in the square silenced the wild stories about the troll. The official story was that the troll had, indeed, been captured during a raid on a farm about a day north of Dundee, and that it had fallen and been knocked senseless after a defender’s arrow had found its leg. It was being held until someone arrived from Elvenhold to examine it. After a mage had examined the troll, it would be destroyed.

“I guess they want to know how it got so big, huh?” George asked.

“Could be. Let’s go take a look,” Arthur said.

The boys stood somewhat apart from the crowd in the square. “Um, Arthur?” the question was apparent in George’s voice. “Um, it’s got no genitals.”

“For that we can be thankful,” Arthur replied. “That means it can’t breed. Normally, about a quarter of trolls are born without genitals, or with rudimentary genitals of both sexes. That’s perhaps why they haven’t overrun the Gray Mountains.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” George said.

“Whatever they are, the trolls are hybrids…like a mule or a hinny,” Arthur began.

“A hinny?” George interrupted.

“You do know what a mule is, don’t you?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah, the offspring of a horse and a donkey. They’re sterile,” George responded.

“Technically, a mule is the offspring of a male donkey and a female horse; a hinny is the offspring of a female donkey and a male horse. The distinction is probably more important in World’s agrarian society then on your Earth. Anyway, they’re both usually sterile. Many hybrids are. Most magical creatures are hybrids. Many are sterile. They don’t reproduce beyond a generation or two. Trolls and Lizard Men are the most stable. They’ve been around for aeons. The trolls’ sexuality is a product of their status as hybrids.”

A troll chained in the square was still a novelty. News of the troll’s capture had spread, and visitors from the surrounding countryside poured in. The square was full, and the city guards had their hands full trying to keep order.

Arthur concentrated and examined the troll using magic in place of a microscope. When he’d finished, he asked George, “Do you hear anything specific when you listen to the troll?”

The boy nodded his head, but with some hesitation. “I hear something. It’s like a regular song being played very slowly. The notes are drawn out, and low. But I don’t know what it is, or if it’s from the troll.”

“Try to remember what you hear; store it in your mind the way I showed you,” Arthur said. “If you hear it again, it might warn you of danger, because trolls are always dangerous.”

“Did you see anything?” George asked.

“I think so,” Arthur replied. “You remember I said that trolls were created by mixing human and dwarf DNA, and then mutating it?” When George nodded, Arthur continued, “That was first done tens of thousands of years ago—perhaps more. There’s a mutation in this one’s DNA that I haven’t seen before. I think its parents’ DNA was mutated much more recently. Someone’s been experimenting with troll DNA again, and that’s not a Good thing.

“Come on, it’s time for supper.”

Later that night, as Arthur’s breathing slowed and he drifted toward sleep, George nudged him. “Arthur?”

“Hmmm?” Arthur replied.

“How did whoever make the troll so big?”

“George, for millions of years, primates have been going to sleep after sex. Especially boys, because once they’ve planted their seed, their genes are safe. Even on World, and even when it’s sex between boys, that instinct didn’t evolve away. I think, however, you missed that particular gene.”

“I’m sorry,” George mumbled. He rolled over, facing away from Arthur.

Arthur immediately pulled the boy back into his embrace. “Hey, remember what I promised? To teach you and to cherish you? I guess I’m going to have to figure out how to do both at once.

“Come on, George, I’m not angry—”

George kissed Arthur, and then sat up. The faint light from the sky and the stars poured in the window with the spring air and bathed his body. “About the troll?” he asked.

*****

After three months of archery training, George began to carry his bow and quiver everywhere. The arrows in the quiver were blunt practice arrows, designed to penetrate only a straw target. Arthur did not discourage the boy, even though there was a little element of swaggering in what George did. He knew that George was becoming comfortable with something that would someday be an important part of his life.

The crowds that once filled the city square had thinned considerably. Still, the square was busy, and people moved about, visiting vendors and shops, and stopping to meet friends. Several people stood near the troll, gawking.

From one corner of the square came a piercing scream. A girl-child had been frightened when she caught sight of the troll. She held her hands over her mouth, but that did nothing to block her scream. The troll, startled by the noise, lifted its hands to cover its ears. The ring holding the chain attached to the troll’s left hand pulled from the wall of the City Hall. Stupefied at first, the troll soon reacted. It yanked hard on the staple holding its right hand and swept the chain attached to its left hand through a knot of people.

Now, several people were screaming, and others were moaning in pain. The troll became more animated. The staple holding the chain attached to its right hand gave way, and both arms swung lengths of chain. More people were struck; others fell onto the pavement. The troll began kicking, snapping at the chains holding its feet. It grasped the chain attached to the collar around its neck, and pulled.

George saw Arthur, sword drawn, walking toward the troll. “Come no closer, George,” Arthur said. “Come no closer, and flee if he gets past me.”

George paused only for a moment, and then pulled his bow from his shoulder. He fitted one of the practice arrows to the string. Drawing the string back, he waited until the troll faced him, and fired directly toward its right eye. The arrow missed the eye, but its impact on his forehead startled the troll. It paused for a moment. People rushed in to pull the injured out of the reach of the chains. George’s second arrow missed, but again the troll paused, looking for the source of the arrows. Arthur continued to close the distance between himself and the troll. He was only a few feet out of range of the troll’s swinging chains when the troll freed itself from the last of its restraints. With chains dangling from its neck and ankles, the troll swung its arms, scything chains toward another group of people. The troll found another target; blood spattered against the wall of the square.

Arthur’s sword flashed brightly and attracted the troll’s attention. The creature swung its left arm and chain at Arthur. George gasped, but Arthur’s sword cut through the troll’s wrist. The chain, and the hand to which it had been attached, dropped to the ground. The troll looked at the stump at its wrist. George loosed another arrow that struck the troll in the mouth, entering its throat. The troll coughed out the arrow, but the distraction gave Arthur the opening he needed. Taking four quick steps toward the troll and holding his sword in both hands, he swept it across the troll’s gut. The creature’s intestines tumbled at its feet; the troll blanched. Arthur stepped back. The troll dropped to its knees, and then fell, face down.

George ran to Arthur, who wrapped his arms around the boy. “Thank you, George. You did very well. I’m proud of you.” He stepped back. “Now, unstring your bow, and collect your arrows.” Normalcy, routine, keep him busy.

*****

Arthur and George sat on the edge of the fountain in the corner of the square farthest from the troll’s body. The injured had been taken into the temple on the west side of the square. A maniple of soldiers had arrived, and had begun dispersing the crowd, encouraging people to leave the square. An elven man walked from the temple toward the fountain where the boys sat. Arthur stood, gesturing for George to rise, too. George’s hand found its way into Arthur’s.

“Light to you,” the elf said. “I am the City Master. Are you the two who killed the troll?”

“Light to you, Master,” Arthur replied. “Yes, we are. I am Arthur; he is George. We acted in haste, but I saw no alternative.”

“Nor do I. Even in the calm of the aftermath, I see no alternative. You did the right thing, and likely saved many lives. No one was killed. Of those who were injured, all will recover. Had the troll had but a few more seconds, however, I shudder to think what might…no, what would certainly have happened.” He paused. “Are those practice arrows, boy?”

George stammered a Yes, Master in Elvish.

“I salute your courage, boy,” the elf said. “Thank you, both, on behalf of the city. Are you visiting for long?”

“We have been here since the archery tournament, Master, and had hoped to stay for a few more tendays…if that’s not imprudent. We are staying at the Inn of Summer Ale and George is learning archery from Donovan the Potter.”

“You are very welcome to stay.” The old elf hesitated. “They said that your sword glowed with the Light?”

“It is enchanted, Master, but I would rather people think it was a trick of the sunlight.”

“As you wish,” the elf said.

*****

“Your sword’s enchanted!” George whispered to Arthur. “I thought I saw a glow when we came through the gate, but I’d forgotten about it! What…”

Arthur interrupted, “Not here…I do not want anyone to overhear. Let us go back to the inn.”

They sat at their customary table in the corner of the inn’s common room. Arthur sat with his back to one wall; George sat with his back to the intersecting wall. It was mid-afternoon: too early for supper and too late for lunch. The square outside was nearly empty. The injured had been tended, and the body of the troll had been carted away. The market had closed, and the only sound that came through the door was an occasional splash of water washing away blood—troll and elf.

Arthur glanced around the room. The publican dozed behind the bar. Otherwise, they were alone. Pitching his voice for George’s ears, only, Arthur began. “The sword is an ancient artifact, made earlier in this Age when magic was stronger, and when mages knew more of the secrets of magic.”

“Wait a minute,” George interrupted, “they knew more, earlier? Have they forgotten? I thought people learned more with time.”

“Generally true,” Arthur said, “but do you remember the Dark Ages on your world? Religious fanatics gained power in most of Europe. They not only discouraged learning, but also suppressed old knowledge because it conflicted with the teachings of the Catholic Church. In fact, the start of the Dark Ages is generally accepted to be the day Christians sacked and burned the ‘pagan’ library at Alexandria. If it had not been for the Arabic culture in the Mediterranean—the Middle East, Africa, Spain—preserving astronomy, medicine, chemistry, physics, and so on, I don’t know if the human race on Earth would ever have recovered from that.”

“Is that what happened, here?” George asked.

“Not quite the same,” Arthur replied. “But not so different, either. Perhaps 50,000 years ago, during a Great War between the Light and the Dark, Evil gained ascendancy in Arcadia and Elvenhold. The elven king and his family, save one of the king’s nephews, were killed, and a Dark Elf was crowned in Elvenhold. In Arcadia, the entire royal family was killed, and the country was divided into several kingdoms and principalities. The new rulers suppressed learning, like the Christians did, because it threatened them.”

“How did Light win…I mean, it must have, since you said both countries are ruled by Light, now?”

“Evil contains the seeds of its own destruction, George,” Arthur said. “In this case, it was divisiveness in Arcadia. The self-styled kings and princes fought among each other until they were so weak that dwarves from the western mountains could march in and take over. Despite living underground in what we would think of as dark caverns and caves, these dwarves served the Light. They reinstated good humans as rulers, and then returned to their mountains. They were not interested, you see, in conquest. They just did not want to have bad neighbors.”

“And in Elvenhold, too?” George asked.

“Actually, no,” Arthur said. “Actually. The humans retook Arcadia, united under a prince, and then invaded Elvenhold. The Evil elves could not get together…could not organize a cohesive defense…because they did not trust one another. The Light triumphed, and the nephew was restored to the throne.”

“And your sword?” George prompted.

“It had been forged to fight this war, and was carried by the nephew. King Oberon gave it to me when I left Elvenhold.”

“I have looked at the sword many times. All I can see are specks of magical energy that flicker randomly throughout the metal. It is almost like quantum jitters in empty space…did you study that?”

George shook his head. “I remember a little about quantum theory…like quarks and gluons and stuff, but I didn’t know about jittery quantums.” He giggled.

“Quanta, George,” Arthur said, and then laughed back. “We will have to get to that, someday, since some important magical spells work at the quantum level, but that is a long time from now.

“Somehow, my sword is able to tap the magical field, I think at the quantum level. Its magic keeps it hard and sharp … harder and sharper than any sword I have ever seen … and makes it respond, a little bit, to my thoughts. I know it will slice through even a mithral sword, if I want it to. And it will not cut unless I want it to. That is how I was able to hold the blade when King Henry administered our oath at the faire.

“I don’t know if I’d use up its magic if I tapped it each time I used the sword. I don’t think so, though. The main reason I don’t use its magic is that if I went around cutting through other people’s swords someone would figure out that this sword was something special, and there’d be another reason to target me … us, now.”

*****

A day later, a tween from the City Guard found Arthur and George at the Inn of Summer Ale. He bore gifts from the city: a quiver of excellent arrows—with real tips—for George, and a leather baldric for Arthur.

That evening, the common room was crowded and noisy when George and Arthur came down for supper. Several of the patrons hailed Arthur and George. “George, we have to leave,” Arthur said quietly.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

“We attracted too much attention killing the troll,” Arthur said. “The story that the sword’s light was just sunlight is not holding up. We cannot stay here. I’m sorry. I know you were making friends with the boys at Donovan’s and—”

“You warned me,” George interrupted. “And I understood. Besides, you’re the best and only friend I need.”

Before Arthur could reply, the door opened and an elf clad in a deep blue robe with a yellow belt entered. He wore a straw hat, which he doffed, and he carried a quarterstaff. A baldric supported not a sword, but a satchel. His eyes swept the room and stopped when they rested on Arthur and George.

“Don’t look now,” Arthur said, “But I think the mage from Elvenhold is here to examine that troll you killed.”

“Me?” George said. “I was only playing with it. If you hadn’t been so clumsy and sliced open his stomach, I’d still have a playmate!”

Both boys sobered when the elven mage came to their table. “May I sit?” he asked softly.

“Of course, Master Mage,” Arthur said. “The cider is excellent, and the inn’s Best Summer Ale is worthy of the appellation.”

The mage asked the innkeeper’s boy for the ale. When it arrived, he took a sip and nodded to Arthur. “They tell me you two are the reason my trip from Elvenhold was unnecessary.”

“Well, we did kill the creature, but perhaps your visit is not entirely a waste of time,” Arthur replied. In response to the mage’s raised eyebrows, he continued. “The cloth with which I wiped blood from my sword, and another with which George cleaned the arrow that went into the creature’s throat, were preserved. There’s enough blood and tissue to see his life-pattern. The cloths are upstairs …”

“What do you know of life-pattern?” the mage asked? “Are you a healer?”

“I have some skill, Master,” Arthur replied. “In any event, we will give you—”

“Some skill? I’d not looked until now, but your aura is bright. Who are you?” the mage asked.

Arthur felt the mage gathering magic. In order to avoid even the appearance of confrontation, he said quietly. “I call myself only Arthur of Elvenhold, now. When we met, I was Arthur of Clan Stewart.”

The mage’s face broke into a smile. “Why, so you are!” he said softly. “You’ve scarcely changed, but in this light … and, in truth, I’ve not thought of you in so very long. It’s good to see you again. And your friend?”

“George, please greet Pronomius, a mage in King Oberon’s court. His name means—”

“I know,” George said, “it means upholder of moral law.”

“That is correct, George, and I am very pleased to meet you,” Pronomius said. “The Town Master said you attacked the troll without hesitation, even though you had only practice arrows in your quiver. That was very brave.”

George blushed, “I had to. Arthur was in danger.”

“How did you know the meaning of his name?” Arthur asked. “I haven’t taught you that Old Elvish word.”

“I guessed, from Antinomius, in the Book of Heroes. He was opposed to moral law, and anti and pro are both Latin and Old Elvish,” George answered.

“Latin?” Pronomius said, lifting his eyebrows. “What do you know of Latin?”

“This could be a long evening,” Arthur said, gesturing to the serving boy for another round of ale.

*****

Pronomius had accepted the cloths containing the preserved remains of the troll. He had agreed to Arthur’s request that he tell no one, except the king, that he had seen Arthur.

“If you were prince-consort, and Pronomius was a mage at the court, why did he not recognize you right away?” George demanded as soon as Arthur closed the door to their room behind the mage.

“He said the light was bad, which it was. He also said that he really hadn’t thought of me in what, nearly 60 years? And that’s the greater reason. Elves tend to live in the present more than humans do.”

“What does that mean?” George asked.

“Well,” Arthur began, “because elves live so long, they don’t store memories that aren’t important. Also, most elves are too busy experiencing today to dwell on what happened in the past. That’s why Pronomius didn’t recognize me until I reminded him of the name by which he had known me.”

*****

The Black Elf spent another day in Ulan Woods, trying to get information on a stranger who had recently visited, but without success. His quarry had moved west. In order to make the compass work, he had to summon all his magical skill … but the compass still pointed to his target.

Four days out of Ulan Woods, the road continued west while another road turned southeast. The Black Elf rested overnight, camped well away from the road, and checked the compass the next morning. The energy required was great, and the movement was slight, but it was still there: the compass pointed west.

After another tenday, the Black Elf acknowledged that he’d made another mistake: the road had turned toward the northwest, while the compass, which required all the magical energy he could muster, showed that his quarry was well to the southwest. Somewhere he’d taken the wrong road. He felt no sense of resignation or defeat, but turned his horse back toward the crossroads.