At the crest of the knoll, they found Lord Odovar. The foolhardy, courageous marshal had been laid beneath a broad elm tree, arms crossed reverently on his chest. His armor was deeply scarred,, and he bore many terrible wounds.

“He died fighting like a bull,” said a nearby warrior, badly wounded himself in an earlier fight. “The savages tried four times to capture him, wading out with nooses and nets, but hip-deep in water, Lord Odovar slew so many they drew back and rained arrows on him until they killed him.”

The hardened warrior put his head down and wept, and Tol grieved for the loss as well. So much had happened to him since that day in the onion field when he’d first met Lord Odovar. After the terrible head wound he’d received from Grane, the marshal had grown into a harsh and impatient man, yet he represented Tol’s first taste of a wider world, the world beyond the narrow confines of farm and family. Staring down at the still form, Tol silently thanked Odovar of Juramona for giving him the chance to make a better life for himself.

“A good death!” Makaralonga declared. “I would wish for the same.”

Tol blinked away his tears and looked up at the brawny chief. “Yet you surrendered. Why?” he asked.

The chief of the Dom-shu tribe, favoring his wounded shoulder, sat down heavily on a slab of sandstone.

“I could see you are a great warrior. There is no shame being beaten by a man like you.”

Later, when Makaralonga saw Tol scrubbed clean, the chief was surprised at his conqueror’s obvious youth, but showed no shame at having been captured by one so young. In fact, the knowledge only made him prouder.

“This one will be known to the gods some day,” Makaralonga declared. “And when they speak his name, they will say, ‘His first victory was over Makaralonga of the Dom-shu.’ ”

Egrin and Pagas led the survivors of the Panther and Eagle hordes out of the Great Green. Collecting their people and baggage from Zivilyn’s Carpet, they rode back to Caergoth to report the death of Lord Odovar, their sighting of the traitor Morthur Dermount, and not least of all, their repulse by the surprisingly well-armed and well-led forest tribes.

The news they brought was not unexpected-nor warmly received. Elsewhere, too, the war was not going as Prince Amaltar and his advisers had anticipated. Wanthred, leading the Firebrands alongside the Corij Rangers, had been attacked on three sides at once. His men had to resort to setting part of the woods ablaze in order to stage a fighting withdrawal under cover of the flames. The pillar of smoke from the conflagration could be seen all the way back to Caergoth.

Further south, two hordes under the dashing Lord Tremond had fared better. They penetrated deeply into the wilderness, sacking a dozen small settlements and taking hundreds of prisoners. In the shadow of his success, blame for Odovar’s and Wanthred’s failures was laid squarely at the feet of those two commanders.

Tol was present when Egrin disputed this injustice before the prince. Lord Urakan, the general of all the armies of the empire, angrily dismissed Egrin’s explanations. Urakan, looking nearly as regal as the prince himself in the burgundy velvet robes he favored, berated the accomplished warrior as if Egrin were a blundering neophyte, using abusive language Tol had never heard before. Behind the enraged Urakan, Crown Prince Amaltar slouched silently on his high-backed throne.

When Egrin tried to point out the hidden dangers of the Great Green, Lord Urakan cut him off.

“You failed, that’s all that matters!” Urakan stormed, black brows drawn down in a ferocious scowl. “Odovar let the foresters hoodwink him into an obvious trap, and you failed to extricate him!”

“My lord. Your Highness,” Egrin said to the general and the prince, “it is true Lord Odovar did not take adequate precautions against ambush. He was a loyal and formidable warrior, but not a skilled tactician. However, it was because of one of Lord Odovar’s chosen men that we were able to fight our way back with valuable information and captives.”

With a bow to the prince, Urakan said dismissively, “A shield-bearer claims to have seen Lord Morthur Dermount in the forest. The prisoners Warden Egrin brought out of the forest, Highness, are hardly compensation for the shame of our losses!”

Egrin did something unprecedented; he bypassed Urakan, his superior, and spoke directly to the prince.

“Your Highness, our two captives are of considerable importance. One is the chief of a major tribe in the northern forest. The other is-well, he may have dynastic importance.”

“How dare you!” Urakan’s face went purple with rage at being disregarded. His hand reached for the hilt of his sword, but he was wearing no weapon in the presence of the prince. He declared, “I will have satisfaction for this insult!”

“You’ll have no such thing,” Prince Amaltar said, sounding bored. He gestured for the burly general to stand aside. “Warden, bring the prisoners to me, and I will judge for myself.”

“They await Your Highness’s pleasure,” Egrin said, bowing. He snapped his fingers, and the two captives were hustled in.

Makaralonga hobbled forward, weighted down with heavy chains on his wrists and ankles. Despite his disheveled appearance-his garments muddy and bloody-his expressive face and noble bearing were still impressive.

Slightly behind the forester chief was a second prisoner, likewise shackled, but with his head and shoulders covered by a canvas hood. Two guards guided the hooded captive, while a second pair kept an eye on Makaralonga.

The chief stopped beside Egrin. He openly gawked at the elaborate tent and richly dressed folk around him. When he spied Tol in the crowd, he bowed his head gravely to the young man. He did not bow to Prince Amaltar, much to Lord Urakan’s anger.

“Are you the chief of the grasslanders?” Makaralonga. asked.

Amaltar smiled thinly. “I am his first-born son.”

“Ah! As the chief of the Dom-shu, I will treat only with the chief of your people.”

“Impertinence!” Urakan fumed. “By the gods, your head will decorate a pole above this tent before nightfall!”

Prince Amaltar, accustomed to the quick temper of his general, ignored him, and said to Makaralonga, “I regret my father, the emperor, cannot be here to deal with you, Chief. In his place he has sent me.”

Makaralonga acknowledged this with a shrug. Tired of standing in his heavy chains, he gathered the links in his hands and sat down on the thick carpet.

Chamberlain Valdid gasped at the forester’s liberty. Before he or Lord Urakan could object, Amaltar gestured to the second prisoner.

“You said this man’s capture had dynastic importance, Warden. Let’s see his face.”

“As you wish, Highness. But he is not a man.”

The hood was whisked off, revealing the Silvanesti warrior captured in the glade sacred to Reorx. Dazzled by sudden daylight, the elf blinked and squinted. His blond hair was lank and unwashed, his face smudged with dirt, yet his bearing was one of haughty disdain.

A loud murmur rose from the crowd behind Tol. Lord Urakan was stricken speechless by the sight of the Silvanesti.

“What does this mean, Warden?” demanded Amaltar, shaken at last out of his habitual calm.

“This elf, Kirstalothan by name, was taken in arms at a place called the Isaren Glade, near where Lord Odovar and I were ambushed. He was found in company with Grane, who evaded capture. In the glade was a shrine dedicated to Reorx, and these ‘offerings.’ ”

At Egrin’s signal, Tol and Narren approached, carrying two sacks. These they dumped on the carpet at the prince’s feet. Bronze arrowheads, spear points, and blades clattered out.