Roberc drew Cavan even with Marissa's mount.
"Exactly what is behind us?" Roberc asked. "How many will we need to face?"
The druid shook her head. "I do not know," she replied. "For all of her intelligence, Rusella is simply a raven." Taen watched as she stared at the sky. "There is an easy way to find out, though," she said after a moment and dismounted abruptly from her horse. Before Taen or anyone else could gainsay her, the druid took the shape of a falcon-a bright red-gold kestrel-and launched herself into the air with wind-swift wings. She cleaved through the air like an arrow, soaring higher and higher, until Taen lost sight of her.
The half-elf cursed. Then, quickly gathering the reins of Marissa's horse, drew close to Borovazk. The Rashemi sat thoughtfully on his stallion.
"The little witch is powerful, yes?" asked Borovazk.
"Yes, she is," Taen replied, unable to keep the worry out of his voice.
"Then do not fear, little friend," the ranger said. "She will return to us and we will know what is following." Borovazk drew the curved length of his polished horn bow from its resting place across his back.
Taen nodded but said nothing. He kept scanning the sky, waiting for some sign of Marissa's return. A few moments later, the sharp-noted screech of a hunting falcon echoed across the plain, followed by a fast-moving speck circling high in the air. The speck drew closer and closer to the ground, until it finally alit with a rustling of wings and pinions. The air shimmered and Marissa stood once more in their midst.
"Ice trolls," she gasped, as if winded from her brief flight. "Five of them. They are heading our way fast." She grabbed the reins of her horse from Taen and swung quickly into the saddle.
From behind him, Taen heard Borovazk say something harsh in his native tongue.
"Well, little friends," Borovazk said with a fierce grin on his face, "it looks like we have some fun today. Ice trolls must be very hungry to hunt this close to vale. They do not like the heat."
"Can we outrun them?" Roberc asked. The halfling sat astride Cavan confidently, loosening the knot that held his red-hilted short sword in its scabbard. At the first mention of being followed, he had donned the gold-winged helm that he always wore into battle. It gleamed brilliantly in the midmorning sun.
Borovazk grunted. "Is unlikely that we could outdistance them," he replied. "Melting snow, slush, and mud is slippery even for Rashemi horses. No, little friends, it looks like we must fight."
Unlike many of those who adventured across Faerun, Taen did not enjoy warfare. The prospect of battling trolls in the hinterlands of Rashemen was not a thing to set the blood singing through his veins. Still, he recognized the necessity of it-even welcomed it, if it would silence the nagging voice of doubt that whispered to him of his own failures. Protecting Marissa and his other companions from danger just might do that.
"We should find a better place to stand our ground," he said.
"Borovazk agrees," came the ranger's response. "Come, I know of such a place close by." With that, he kicked his stallion into a fast trot and motioned for them to follow.
Unlike the sheer plains they had traveled across from Mulptan, the land close to the Immil Vale rolled gently up and down. The ranger led them to the top of one such slope, carefully dismounting and walking his stallion. The ground was soft and muddy, covered with the thick slush that had been their companion for the past two days.
Taen nodded his approval as they gathered at the top of the slope. Their position gave them a good vantage point for spotting and bringing down their enemy with ranged weapons and spells, while the soft earth would slow any attack should the trolls manage to get close enough to attack.
" 'Ware their spittle, little friends," Borovazk cautioned as he placed five dark-wooded arrows point down in the soft earth. The color of their fletching shifted from bright red to orange then back again while the ranger spoke. "It will freeze the very blood in your veins."
Even though he and his companions had fought trolls before, Taen appreciated the advice on dealing with this "homegrown" variety. Deftly, he riffled through the various small pouches hanging from his belt, sorting and sifting through the items that he would need. When he had completed that task, he turned to Marissa.
The druid had sent Rusella winging off into the distance and gazed out upon the plain. She had thrown back her hood, and her red hair rustled wildly around her face. Taen knew the measure of her power and knew that they had faced such threats and worse before, side by side. Still, he had been avoiding her since the night she had spoken to him about the past. He owed her an apology and much more; he wanted to do it now in case he never had the chance again.
The half-elf gently reached out a hand and placed it on Marissa's shoulder. The green-eyed druid gazed upon Taen and smiled. His tongue felt heavy, ungainly.
"I… I wanted to say thank you," he spoke finally, "for trying to help me the other night. You know I-"
"I do know," she interrupted, switching to the liquid phrases of Elvish, "but don't we have more important things to worry about at the moment, Taenaran?" Her teasing tone brought a smile to his face even as the sound of his elf-given name tore at his heart.
He wanted to reply, even started to, but Borovazk's voice boomed out across the slope.
"They have come, little friends," the ranger shouted. "Now is time to have some fun, yes?"
Taen gave the druid's shoulder a quick, final squeeze and turned to face their monstrous enemies, hoping against hope that he wouldn't have to draw his sword.
Chapter 4
The Year of the Morningstar
(1350 DR)
The children were throwing stones again.
Sharp-edged and round, the tiny missiles hissed through the air, biting Taenaran's skin. The young half-elf dodged as best he could, skittering through the lush undergrowth of the forest and cutting between the thick trunks of oak and ash trees that rose like woodland giants into the sky. Still, the stones found their target-for they were elf-thrown and true.
Tears spilled from his eyes as he ran, warping and bending the landscape. Taenaran tripped over an outstretched tree root and tumbled to the ground. He wanted to give voice to the hurt that was welling up inside him, but he wouldn't allow the other children the satisfaction of hearing him wail like the voeraen, the elf toddlers who stayed close to their mothers and fathers.
That thought nearly undid his young resolve-for he had neither blood father nor blood mother among the elves of Avaelearean, which was, he knew from past experience, the cause of today's problems. They had been playing "Hunt the Drow" in the wide forest when a few of the older children started throwing rocks at Taenaran and calling him a drider, a horrifying creature spoken of in whispers by the adult elves, made up of both drow and spider. It wasn't long before the others had joined in, so he ran-from the sharp bite of stones and the sharper bite of the Elvish words the children had flung at him like arcane arrows. "Round Ear." "Monkey Face." " A Tel'Quessir Bastard." These were the names that followed him wherever he went. If they weren't spoken aloud, he could see them in the eyes of the elf children, and even in the eyes of some of the adults of Avaelearean.
With a heaving sigh, Taenaran wiped the dirt from his clothes as best he could and stood up. The other elf children were still hunting in the forest, calling out his name, and worse. For once, his human heritage helped him. Though he was younger than the others, some of whom were born almost two decades ago, the half-elf's muscles were thicker and more developed. Now they carried him away from his tormentors faster than they could follow.