Tomas raised his sword and another died. Again the golden blade was raised, and he looked into the face of his victim. Eyes round with fear, a young boy, no more than twelve years old, stood waiting for the blow that would end his life.
Suddenly time expanded for Tomas, the moment frozen in his mind. He studied the shock of dark hair and the large brown eyes of the boy. The child crouched awaiting the death he saw over him, his head shaking no, as his lips formed a single phrase over and over.
In the faint light of the clearing, Tomas saw an old ghost, the specter of a friend long forgotten. A remembered bond, from his earliest memories as a child, reassociated itself with his consciousness. Images blurred, past and present confused, and he said, “Pug?”
Within his mind, pain exploded, and another will sought to overwhelm him.
Pug! it shrieked.
Kill him! came a raging answer, and within him two wills battled.
No! screamed the other.
To everyone in the glade, Tomas stood frozen, shaking with some inner struggle, his sword still held high, waiting for release.
These are the enemy! Slay them.
He is a boy! Only a boy!
He is the enemy!
A boy!
Tomas’s face became a mask of pain; his teeth clenched, and every muscle drew taut, stretching skin tightly over skull. His eyes grew round, and perspiration began to flow from under his helm, down his brows and cheeks.
Martin stumbled to his feet. He moved slowly, every gesture bringing pain from the battering he had taken.
Tomas’s hand slowly moved downward, each inch a shaking, trembling passage as he warred within. The boy was transfixed, unable to move, his eyes following the movement of the blade.
I am Ashen-Shugar! I am Valheru! sang a voice within, in a torrent of anger, battle madness, and bloodlust.
Against this sea of rage stood a single rock, a calm, small voice within that said, simply, I am Tomas.
Again and again the sea of hate crashed over the rock of calm, each time engulfing it, then sliding back, to come again. But each time the tide diminished and the rock stood clear, rising above the mad surf. A shattering of something, the thundering of ages lost and passing, rocked Tomas’s mind. He reeled, then swam within an alien landscape, seeking a pinpoint of light he knew was his way to freedom. Tides swept him along, and he battled, struggling to keep his head above the strangling black sea. A shrieking, evil wind blew overhead, and to his ears it sang a song of woeful meter. He struck out, and again he saw a pinpoint of light. Again the tide engulfed him, forcing him away from his goal, but this time it was weaker. Once more he struggled toward the light. Then came a surge, a last, terrifying assault culminating in a total attack upon him I am Ashen-Shugar! There came a breaking of the will, something snapping like the dead branch of a tree under the weight of newly fallen snow, like the sound of old winter ice breaking at spring’s touch, as if the last assault took too great a toll.
The black sea lost its fury and subsided, and he was again standing upon firm ground, a single rock I am Tomas. In the distance the pinpoint of light began to expand before his eyes, racing forward to engulf him.
I am Tomas.
“Tomas!”
He blinked and saw he was again in the glade. Before him crouched the boy, waiting to die. He turned his head and saw Martin, sighting along a cloth-yard arrow, drawn hard against his cheek. The Huntmaster of Crydee said, “Put down your sword, or by the gods, I’ll kill you where you stand.”
Tomas’s gaze wandered about the glade, and he saw the dwarves with weapons drawn, as had some of the older elves. Calin, still shaking, had his sword out and was slowly advancing upon him.
Martin watched Tomas closely, not fearing him, but respectful of his awesome strength and speed. He waited and saw the flicker of madness still in Tomas’s eyes, then, as if a veil were lifted, saw them clear. Abruptly the golden sword fell from his hand, and the pale, nearly colorless eyes filled with tears. Tomas dropped to his knees, and a moan of terrible anguish was torn from his lips, and Tomas cried out, “Oh, Martin, what have I become?”
Martin lowered his bow, watching as Tomas gathered his arms about himself. Into the glade came Tathar and the other Spellweavers. They approached Tomas and then surveyed the others in the glade. So terrible were Tomas’s sobs of anguish, so filled with sorrow and remorse, that many of the elves discovered they also wept.
Tathar said to Martin Longbow, “We felt the fabric of our spells torn asunder a short while ago, and came at once. We feared the Valheru had come, rightly it seems.”
Martin said, “Now?”