Faerie beasts, displaced and dispossessed from all corners of the Between, flashed their teeth and their claws and their weapons. But they were afraid to draw any nearer to the Mound. Then one stepped out from amid their number, and the thing within Daylily recognized him as a figment from her dreams, and Daylily herself, what was left of her, desperately fighting for use of her own eyes, recognized him, and her heart leapt, then sank at the sight.
Foxbrush, on trembling feet, strode out from that shadowy throng and stood just within the light of the Bronze. It cast upon his face weird highlights that could not warm his pallor. He awkwardly held a lance of crude make in both hands, as though he wasn’t quite certain whether the pointed end should be up or down. So rather than make a decision, he raised it above his head, and with that motion silenced his fey army.
“Warriors of Cren Cru!” he shouted, though his voice cracked and he was obliged to clear his throat. “Give back what you have stolen and leave this land forever.”
“No!” shouted one voice from among the Faerie beasts. Nidawi stepped forward then, a rabid child frothing at the mouth. “No, kill him! Kill them all!”
Foxbrush bowed his head and whispered nervously, “I’ve got to at least make the offer. It’s traditional.”
“Burn tradition! Kill my enemy!” Nidawi shrieked. And the other Faerie beasts shrieked in a building, roaring echo. Then, before Foxbrush could recover himself enough to speak a word, his army broke from his command and flowed down into the valley of Cren Cru. They threw themselves at the wall of bronze light and the warriors ringing there.
The warriors waited by their stones. And as the Faerie beasts set upon them, the warriors slew them. Agonized screams of death replaced the screams of battle and bloodlust as the Faerie beasts fell before that unbreachable wall.
Foxbrush, however, remained at the top of the incline, lying facedown where he had been knocked in the rush, both arms stretched out before him, still grasping the lance. He pulled his head up, spitting out dirt and turf, and saw the bloodshed below. They were dying in droves, and the warriors remained unharmed beside their stones.
“This won’t do.”
The voice was Eanrin’s, speaking near Foxbrush’s ear. Foxbrush felt two strong, long-fingered hands grab him by the shoulders and pull him to his feet. He stood gasping for the remnants of air that had been knocked from his lungs. Eanrin studied the carnage below, and his lip lifted in a snarl. “This won’t do,” he repeated. Then, “I’ve got an idea. Follow me, little king!”
With that, he gave Foxbrush a push to start him moving before darting on ahead so quickly that Foxbrush, staggering, very nearly lost him. But for the first time, something glimmered beneath Foxbrush’s feet, and he thought he saw, however briefly, the Path of which everyone had spoken. However it was, he stumbled down the incline, following the trail of the crimson-clad poet, who darted between the Faerie beasts into the space between two great bronze stones. The light from the stones had dimmed in the onslaught, and now their individual glows did not reach so far as to touch one another, leaving small gaps of darkness. Into this darkness, Eanrin plunged, and Foxbrush, gripping his lance, his shoulders hunched and his head low, prepared to follow.
But then one of the warriors turned from his fight and, seeing the flash of Eanrin’s cloak, sprang after him. This was a savage warrior with a long black braid whipping behind him, his skin shiny with sweat, his clothing splashed with browning blood.
And Foxbrush hesitated for one moment as the words flashed through his brain:
First let pass the man in red,
Then let pass the brown . . .
How he hated poetry!
Something struck him from behind. Whether foe or friend, it did not matter, for the blow caught him hard between the shoulders, once more knocking all the breath from his body. He staggered under the impact and fell headlong through the dark shadow, landing within the inner circle.
Someone grabbed him by the back of his head, yanking his chin back. He felt the sharpness of a stone cut him behind the ear. A half second more and his throat might well have been slit.
But Eanrin leapt at Sun Eagle and knocked him to the ground, and the stone dagger flew wide. Foxbrush, gasping and clutching the wound at his neck, twisted around to see the cat-man and the dark-skinned warrior grappling upon the ground. Sun Eagle got the upper hand, kneeling on Eanrin’s chest, grasping his throat in a choke hold. But Eanrin, who was stronger than he looked, brought his knee up sharply into Sun Eagle’s back, dislodging his hold.
Foxbrush, using his lance for support, got to his feet and prepared to join the fray, uncertain if his help would be welcome. But something caught the tail of his eye, and he turned.
Daylily, still wearing the bloodstained gown of Eldest Sight-of-Day, stood at the door of Cren Cru’s Mound, surrounded by empty-eyed children, one of them caught in her arms.
But it wasn’t Daylily who looked out of her eyes. Her mouth opened, and words poured forth: