The spear felt heavy in his hands, but good, right. Today was the day. Kilter could feel it as he made his way through the dense growth of the Harenwood. He would prove himself a warrior. He would make his father, and his tribe, proud.

He paused and took in his surroundings. The woods were still. There was no moon and the stars were dim. Even his elven sight could not pierce the density of the blackness around him for more than a span. It was the perfect night for the test. He wore his father’s armor, studded with lozenges of obsidian. No spirits would distract him tonight. His face was painted with the war emblem of his tribe. His golden hair had been pulled into a thousand tight braids, and he wore them pulled back from his neck and banded together. He wore a quiver and a hunting knife, the bow slung around him. But he would use them only if his spear failed him. He wanted to see the look in the eyes of the one he killed.

He glanced over his shoulder at the way he had come. He could no longer see the lights of his village. He turned and walked further. He would make sure none could accuse him of cowardice. Running for the village was always an option, but doing so would be to admit defeat, and for a single year he would be forced to do woman’s work, his head shaved. That would not be the life he led, ever.

A small shuffling noise came from his left. Could they have begun already? He had been told they would wait until he had made camp. A lie, perhaps, to snare me into being caught off guard. Invisibly, every muscle in his body tensed. His hand gripped his spear like a clamp. No one was going to catch Kilter Notchwood off his guard. The noise grew louder, and closer. Kilter crouched and made ready for the kill stroke. Whoever was about to make the first move was in for a nasty surprise.

Ahead, the brush parted and a large, dark shape barreled out, charging for the young elf. Kilter raised his spear quick as lighting, and lunged. The shape resolved itself into a werebeast; some sort of bear-like creature covered in fur but with the beak of an eagle. Kilter’s spear took it just below the neck. With a piercing bellow, the beast recoiled. Kilter almost let out a triumphant war cry, but realized with horror that in his surprise at managing to stick the werebeast he had let go of his spear. It still protruded from the neck of the beast, who had risen on two legs to let loose a ululating roar of anguish and pain. Kilter’s spear jutted from its neck, a good ten feet in the air. Kilter readied himself, preparing to jump for it as the beast began to sink back to four legs.

Something large and heavy landed on Kilter’s back and clamped around his neck. All of the training the elder warriors had given him left his mind, and Kilter began struggling like a fish in a net, trying desperately to dislodge his attacker. Whoever it was held on tight, and Kilter felt a knife point gouge his leg. He fell backward with all his force and managed to reach his own knife, jamming it into his assailant’s side. With a howl, they let loose.

Kilter stood and turned to face his attacker, stifling a wince as he put weight on his wounded leg. His attacker also stood, laughing. In the darkness, his features were obscured, but Kilter would have known that laugh anywhere.

“First blood still goes to me,” said Sconter, wiping a hand across his leaking side. “You’re hilarious, Kilter. You were prepared for anything except an actual resident of this forest.”

“I’ll get my spear back, Sconter,” he said. “But I don’t need it to finish you.”

“How are you going to get back your spear?” asked his friend. “The werebeast is gone, and your spear with it.”

Kilter turned and saw that the older elf was right. A sudden sharp pain racked his shoulder.

“Never turn your back on an enemy!” said Sconter. Kilter whirled to face him and quickly ducked under another thrust from Sconter’s spear. Kilter’s knife slashed uselessly against air. He had to find his spear again or Sconter would make short work of him. Killed by my best friend. Fitting.

He turned and ran deeper into the woods, looking all around for a massive shape and listening for groans and roars. Suddenly the forest seemed to come alive around him, and there was noise everywhere. A sudden hiss of snake, cackle of a wikbird, hoot of owl, scampering of squirrel, snarl of wolf. He ignored them all and slowly tried to phase each one from his mind. There, nearly twenty feet away, a moaning roar. The beast was near. He bolted in that direction, his reflexes sharp against the low-hanging branches and diving night birds. He found the beast in a pool of its own blood, his spear still buried almost to the top of the haft in the dumb creature’s neck. He pulled hard, and the spear, along with large splatters of blood and tissue, came free. The creature let loose one last terrible roar, and was silent.

“You were a stupid, mal-formed thing that got involved in something too big for even you,” said Kilter, and then he turned, knowing that somewhere in the darkness, Sconter was tracking his movements. Sconter, and who could say who else?

He kept low and moved quietly, his senses attuned to each noise. Now that he wasn’t plunging through the brush, the birds and other animals were starting to settle again, but he still had to strain to listen.

And there it was; the echo of his own footsteps continuing for a half-second after he stopped moving. Someone was tracking him, and whoever it was, they were close. He stood perfectly still for several moments. The noise started again before he moved a muscle. This attacker didn’t think he was paying attention. Good, let them think it. The warrior was almost upon him, and Kilter could sense a presence from the right, behind him. He slowly gripped the handle of his knife.

A tenth of a heartbeat later he whirled, spear high, knife slashing. The blade connected and an older warrior sprang up into view. It was Iver, the old bastard. He brought the tip of his spear straight toward the old elf’s heart…

…And felt it deflected casually by Iver’s syskar. The thin metal blade slashed along the inside of Kilter’s arm and the young elf felt a stinging sensation followed quickly by a warm feeling. Mentally he counted. First and second blood had gone to Sconter. Third was his, but fourth now had gone to Iver. This was not what was supposed to happen. In a rage, he lashed at Iver with the knife, desperate to drive the score further his way. Almost too late, he dove down and rolled to his left as a second thin blade nearly took off the tip of his ear. Sconter had followed him, and almost had taken next blood.

His movements blurring, he tore his bow from his back. Before either attacker knew what was happening, both had feathered shafts protruding from their bodies. Iver he had taken in the shoulder, Sconter in the leg. He leapt, grabbed a low-hanging tree branch and swung himself up, leaping from branch to branch and diving for the next tree. He knew his brethren could easily be hiding up here, but the trick was to get above them as well. He hurriedly climbed higher, slowing his heart rate and listening to all noises about him as he climbed. At the top of this tree, he leapt to the next, the tallest tree for yards in every direction. Cloaking himself in the boughs, he secured himself a spot and looked down and around. The moon was still hiding, curse the white bitch. But the stars were seemingly brighter, and from here, the gloom was less. He looked below him. One brother, two, three. Aside from Iver and Sconter, there were seven in total. He smiled as he watched Koyer reach the bottom of the tree he was in, and begin to climb. They likely thought him in escape mode, trying to extricate himself from foes he could not match. As Koyer climbed, Kilter made note of each position of his brethren. Sconter and Iver he need not worry about as both were still trying to cut the arrows from their bodies. Liner, Malter, Tilker and Trouter were each poised near likely places of flight. Koyer grew closer and closer.

As silently as a shadow, Kilter sprang from his branch and fell freely toward Koyer. They collided and both fell, Koyer uttering a shout, but Kilter silent. In the midst of the fall, Kilter’s knife found Koyer’s elbow, and he sliced. Something wet and warm, but not his own, hit him in the face, and he let Koyer’s body cushion his landing. Not even a heartbeat passed before he was on his feet again, disappearing into the shrubs and sticking Tilker in the meat of his buttocks. He ignored the big elf’s snarl as he circled around to where he saw Trouter barging through the brush from his hiding spot. Kilter’s spear took him in the ribs but before he could react, Kilter turned and put an arrow through the palm of Malter. He finally had the upper hand.

Liner was nowhere that he could see, but he suddenly felt an arrowhead bury itself in his left shoulder. He turned and fired back at Liner, but the small, skinny elf was already gone. Liner was the only one he had not blooded, and until he did he could make no effort at a kill. He grabbed at Malter, who was still pulling the arrow from his hand, and held him before his body with his knife to Malter’s throat.

“You’re starting to do well,” said Malter through clinched teeth.

“I’m only warming up,” said Kilter. He led Malter forward into the brush from which Liner had come. One foot. Two. Finally he heard the hiss of an arrow, and Malter groaned as it sank into his stomach. Leaping over Malter as the older elf fell, Kilter hurled himself forward and tackled Liner before he had a chance to nock another arrow. He grabbed Liner’s hand and drew a quick slice across Liner’s palm.

“Well done,” said Liner. “You lost first and second blood, but you’ve gained ground quickly.”

“Don’t distract me with praise,” said Kilter. He ducked to the left just in time for a thin blade to whip past where his head had been only minutes before. He rolled onto his back and sprang to his feet.

“Sconter,” he said. “So it’s down to you and me.”

“As it was meant to be,” said Sconter. Before he was finished speaking his own spear slashed and forced Kilter to jump backward. Recovering his feet, Kilter engaged with his own spear and the two clashed together in a flurry of sharp metal. Finally Sconter disengaged and backed up a step.

“You recovered well after that first engagement,” he said. “But you’ve lost this one. I’ve always been the better fighter.”

“You’ve always been the bigger talker,” said Kilter, leaping into the air and coming down spear first. The blade tore at Sconter’s back, but his friend’s spear sliced into his leg as a result.

“Unimagina—” Kilter cut Sconter off mid-word with a sudden stroke to his back. For just a moment, Sconter wavered, but it was enough. Kilter leapt onto him, and the two of them went down. Kilter’s knife went to Sconter’s throat. In his blood rage, Kilter almost really did slice open his friend’s veins.

“You’re dead,” he said. He held the knife there a moment longer, then stood.

Laughing, Sconter climbed to his feet as well. “Indeed, brother. An excellent kill.”

The others were staggering their way out of the trees now, each smiling, clasping his hand, congratulating him. They lifted him into the air, supported by their strong shoulders and arms, and carried him back to the village, singing robustly, “A warrior comes, a warrior comes.”

Kilter did not sing. His face was stone. It would not do for his father to see a young boy’s grinning expression. He had performed as a warrior, and now he would live as one. His wounds ached, and he took joy in the pain, for he knew that each warrior who carried him bore a mark that he had made.

He looked ahead, and his heart swelled to see the entire village waiting for him by the pillars that marked the entrance to the woods. His whole tribe would see his glory tonight. Even his father would see that he had become a man, and a true warrior.

Doni was near the front. He felt his features wanting to smile at her. That could not be. Later he would smile, but surely she understood that for right now he could not. Surely she would understand that.

As the warriors who carried him neared the pillars, a cheer went up. A path opened up in the crowd and the drums began, their rhythm sending a message to Sovari that a new warrior had been born. He was lowered to the ground before the pillars, and a headdress of bamboo and bone was placed on his head, a cape made from the skin of a werelion draped from his shoulders. He walked forward alone, solemn and serious, while his heart pounded to the rhythm of the drums. He felt like running, but that would come later. Now he had to show everyone gathered that he was a warrior, no longer the boy they had known.

The path rounded to the village green where a series of torches burned. Now he heard the pipes, and saw the tribe’s leader, tall and powerful standing beside the village elder. Varner Arrowfire watched his progress with a cool, even look. Crester Treehollow leaned on his staff for support and openly smiled. Kilter wanted to search the crowd for his father, but he could not betray his warrior’s visage. He strode forward, stopping only when he stood before Varner.

“Who stands before me?” asked Varner.

“Kilter Notchwood of Arrowfire Tribe,” said Kilter. His voice sounded so childish in his ears. He hoped it didn’t to the others gathered.

“And what brings Kilter Notchwood before the leader of his tribe this day?” asked Varner.

“I claim my right to call myself a warrior,” said Kilter. Yes, now his voice sounded a little stronger.

“Has Kilter Notchwood passed the test set to him?” asked Varner, pitching his voice above the crowd.

“He has, great leader!” shouted Sconter’s voice from behind. “He has blooded seven warriors single-handedly, all of them his elders, and completed a kill.”

“Indeed,” said Varner. His expression was still cold. Kilter did his best to match it. “Shall we consent to Kilter Notchwood’s claim?” The villagers all shouted their approval. “So be it.” Varner marched forward and removed the headdress and cloak. “The boy Kilter will shed his armor.”

Kilter unlaced his leather hauberk and vambraces and dropped them where he stood.

“The boy Kilter wore his father’s armor,” Kilter said, loud enough to be heard throughout the crowd. “A warrior makes his own.”

“As you shall make yours, in time,” said Varner. “Now, kneel before the elder of your tribe.”

Kilter knelt, and Varner stepped back to allow the ancient, hobbling Crester to shuffle toward Kilter. In his other hand, he held a leather skin. He stopped less than a foot from where Kilter knelt, and with shaking hands, lifted the skin and pulled out its cork.

“A boy knelt,” he said. His voice sounded crusty and tired. It barely echoed five feet behind them. “A warrior rises.” He held the skin over Kilter’s head, and a red-black liquid poured over him, through his golden braids and over his forehead, over his shoulders. The blood of a pig or oxen, standing in for the blood of his forebears, washed clean his boyhood, and renewed him as a warrior. He stood and faced the tribe, arms held wide as red dripped from his face and arms. From behind, he heard Varner’s voice echo over the crowd.

“We welcome among us today, a newly born elven warrior, reborn in the blood of his forebears, echoed in the glorious song of Sovari. From this day forth he will live by the edicts of Sovari, to stand with his brothers in defense of his tribe, to dedicate his life to the search for our ancestral city of El’Katahmbrah, and to seek vengeance against the mortals who drove us from it!”

Another cheer erupted, and the drumbeat resumed. Tribe member after tribe member clasped hands with him, and passed by congratulating him. Shirtless and covered both in his own blood and the blood that was used anoint him, he moved forward into the surging crowd. Sconter ran up to him and grabbed him bodily, lifting him into the air and spinning him around.

“My brother!” he cried. “Now the two of us stand anointed together, warriors in truth, champions of the Blood!”

“The Blood sings within me,” said Kilter.

“It does, my brother, so it does,” said Sconter. A mischievous smile cross his lips. “You know, I almost had you there. At the beginning. That werebear truly shook your concentration. There was a moment where I could have landed a kill stroke, but I refused.”

“Are you claiming my victory was false?” Kilter’s eyes narrowed.

“Not at all. I’m certain quite a few warriors stand here today, anointed and honored, all because the warrior they faced did not take a shot that they could have. I just hope you remember after this day that when facing a true enemy in combat, you will not assume they would do the same.”

“Never,” said Kilter. In his mind, the enemy was always a mortal man. He had never truly faced elven foes of a feuding tribe determined to truly end his life. He wondered what he would do if he ever did.

Doni was next. She threw her arms around him and held him tightly. “I knew this day would come,” she said. He smiled at her, finally able to express his feelings. “Come and dance with me, my brave warrior.”

Indeed, the drumbeats had intensified and the pipes were back, joined now by stringed lutes and the chanting of the tribe’s women. A bonfire sprang to life and more and more elves had stood to dance within its glow. Kilter felt exhausted, and he was feeling his wounds more and more, but Doni was so beautiful…

“Not now, rapturous temptress,” said Sconter, appearing once more. “Kilter will fall down in just a few moments if he’s not treated soon.” The witch-healers were moving among the crowd now, offering sips of wine to the warriors he had wounded and applying salves and poultices. The chief healer herself was making her way towards him.

“Well, I suppose there’s not much they can do for you,” said Kilter to Sconter. “You’re dead.”

Sconter laughed uproariously and beckoned the chief healer to Kilter’s side. He drank deep of the wine offered him and lost himself in the music as his wounds were tended. Spirits capered among the tribe’s members; flame-footed fire spirits hopped from the bonfire and danced circles around the figures of the elves. Music spirits floated from the pipes and shimmered in the air in time to the rhythms. Even a few of the werebeasts had joined in the celebration, shifting their forms to the delight of the children. He half expected to see dark elves erupt from the earth and take part in the celebration themselves.

All the warriors he had been challenged by were now up and dancing. He looked down and saw that all his wounds were patched, and he had in fact been lost in the music and spectacle for a good long while. Doni was looking at him expectantly. The sight of her actually did set the blood in his veins to singing. He leapt to his feet and joined her in the dance. He saw Sconter flash him a grin. He had waited long for this night, and now the victory was claimed and the reward was his. Every part of his reward. As the music grew, the dancing increased in frenzy and Doni’s face took on a cast that he had never seen on her before. Her eyes were wild. Her smile was hungry. Gradually, she was leading him away from the other dancers until they were behind the smoke house, where her impassioned face flew toward his and she smothered him with a fierce kiss. He returned it, and they crashed into the pile of hay. The blood had been wiped from him, but he was still shirtless. Before he knew what was happening, Doni was undoing the laces of his breeches, and seemingly in a single fluid move had tossed her leathers behind her.

“My brave warrior,” she breathed. “My strong, fierce warrior.” He had dreamed of this moment night after night, frustrated at the slow passage of the moments that would lead to this one. Somehow he had always imagined himself throwing her to the hay and mounting her like a savage beast. But before he could even react she was on top of him, hungry with need, and as he lay there helpless against her fury of passion, she took him into herself and began to rise and fall, a look of utter desire on her face. He realized that she, too, had impatiently waited for this moment, just as frustrated as he that this consummation could not have arrived sooner. He finally took hold of her body with his trembling arms as she thrust against him, taking him deeper in. He could not have said how long they stayed like this, looking into each other’s eyes as she rode him with intensifying ferocity, but finally, after a few moments, after a few lifetimes, he filled her with his seed and she threw back her head, howling with pleasure.

The music was still pulsing through the air, and the spirits that had gathered to bless their union returned to the fire. She looked at him and smiled, seeming now as exhausted as he, but wondrously happy. He kissed her deeply, and without a word, both dressed and staggered back to the fire. Sconter, Trouter and Coster welcomed him with knowing looks as she hurried off to rejoin the women.

“She has spoken of nothing else but this night,” said Coster. “I hope she thinks you were worth it.”

“Kilter’s no slouch,” said Sconter with a laugh. Sconter could have no way of knowing that Kilter had taken his vow seriously. This was his first time ever.

“Give me many nephews, then,” said Coster with a stony face. Then he winked. “A-hah! My brother has finally arrived! Welcome, Kilter Notchwood! Do the Blood proud.”

“Ah, if I know my dear friend Kilter,” said Sconter. “He will devote himself to the search for El’Katahmbrah this very night, and leave your poor sister alone from this night until his last.”

“Sconter, you devil,” said Trouter with a laugh. “Would you hold our good Kilter here to a standard that even our vaunted tribal leader has been unable to meet?”

Coster’s expression grew serious. “Laugh if you will,” he said. “But it would be a grand thing if someone finally took our pledge and meant every word, and was content to do more than mouth it.”

“Thinking of striking off in search of that fable yourself, Coster?” said Sconter. “Perhaps you’ll even bring the Sun elves back, and restore to us the power of the song.”

“Perhaps I will,” said Coster. “And soon, at that.”

Sconter stopped laughing. “You’re serious.”

“About that? Always. And so should you be. Our blessed heritage has been lost to us and standing between us are hoards of soft, pink animal-things that would eradicate us as soon as look at us. Do I wish to plow my way through their ranks to regain our rightful heritage? Would I spill the blood of every mortal man, woman or child to accomplish this? On the Blood, I would. And so should all of you.”

Kilter shook his head. His father had told him that the ruins of El’Katahmbrah were across the barren plains of the Ragged Lands. Could Coster survive that blasted wasteland?

Before he could answer, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Of course. I cannot even think of Father without calling him to me. He turned, and met Halker Moonhunter’s expressionless grey eyes.

“So,” said Halker. “My son is a warrior now.”

“I am, Father,” said Kilter.

“So you think,” said Halker. “Come with me.”

He turned sharply and stalked off. Kilter glanced at his friends, but none of them offered any consolation. He turned and hurried after his father. He saw the old stump duck into their family’s tent, and he followed. Halker’s back was to him when he entered.

“How many?” was all he said. Kilter took a moment to respond.

“Three,” he finally said.

“Three,” repeated his father. “You allowed your enemy to land a blow against you three times.”

“I blooded all of them,” said Kilter. “And achieved my kill.”

“And I am to applaud you for playing at war and yet still dropping your guard?” Halker turned to him. “Every wound you take in battle is a testament to laziness, to inattention. One is a lesson. Two is foolishness. Three is…three! You stand here expecting pride from me merely because that puffed up Varner Lackwit proclaimed you a warrior?”

“The tribe proclaimed me a warrior, Father,” said Kilter. “All of them. All but you.”

“Then the tribe is growing weak,” said Halker. “The quality of what makes a warrior is being allowed to decline.” He gave Kilter a withering glare. Kilter dropped his eyes. “Who took first blood?” asked Halker.

Kilter felt awash in shame. “Sconter,” he muttered.

“Louder, boy.”

“Sconter Fleetlance,” said Kilter, gritting his teeth. Halker looked at him as though seeing a stranger. A sad, pathetic stranger. He did not speak for several long moments.

“So,” he said at last. “My son. My one remaining son allowed a laughing popinjay to land first blood, then allows two more opportunities for a victory to slip by him, and yet here he stands expecting me to join with the village in naming him warrior.” He took a step closer. “Do you know how many hits your brothers took in their tests?”

“None,” mumbled Kilter.

“Say again?”

“None!” he shouted. “They gave no quarter and took no defeat.” His father had told him this repeatedly in the weeks leading up to his test.

“That is right,” said Hawker. “They were warriors. They exemplified everything a warrior should be and yet! And yet…even they could not stand against the warriors of Scattertail Tribe, the Blood traitors. We spit on their name and they spit on our corpses. You want to honor this tribe. Your name? Our Blood?”

“Yes!” said Kilter, trying not to let his tears fall.

“Then you will remember every word of the task our weak, ineffective leader placed on you, the same one he places on all new warriors and then never makes them live up to it. You want to be a warrior of the Blood then you will be a warrior of the Blood! You will find El’Katahmbrah, and restore the power of the song. You will kill any pink mortal or Blood traitor who stands in your way and more besides. And you will do so until you are successful, or you die in the attempt. Then I will consider you warrior. Not before.”

“You never asked this of Malter or Brunter,” said Kilter.

“Nor would I of you, had you not performed so poorly in your test,” said Halker. He turned his back once more. Hanging from the top of the tent behind where his father stood were two bone fetishes. The fetishes his brothers had worn into battle. The fetishes that had been brought home to him by Coster Flintscale after their brutal defeat at the hands of Craler Scattertail and Ulmer Sandrunner’s forces. The day Kilter realized that the elves of Elvenskald, Blood traitors though they might be, were truly the greater force. Why would the gods ignore the purity of the Arrowfire tribe against the evil of Blood traitors who lived among and even lay with mortals? They didn’t even take warrior brides.

“Father,” he said.

“You may leave now,” said his father. “You know what I expect. I do not plan on setting eyes on you again until you have accomplished it.”

Kilter turned and left the tent. Now he did let his tears fall freely. Nothing would ever be good enough for the old hypocrite, who never fought in the feuds or wars anymore even though he was younger than Varner by more than two centuries, who had never divulged just how many hits he had taken during his test. For all I know, you invented my perfect brothers. He had been a small boy when his brothers had died. He had not been there for their tests. His mother was only a girl then, and Father would not take her to breed until twenty long years after the death of his warrior bride. He saw in Kilter her weaknesses, but Kilter wasn’t so sure the weakness was hers.

He found Sconter still deep in conversation with Coster. “Where have you been, little brother? The conversation is only now becoming interesting!”

“Father wished to speak to me,” said Kilter. The rest they did not need to know. Tonight he would sleep in the woods, and the gods help any werebeast who came upon him. Tomorrow morning he would begin making his armor, and he would not stop until it was three times as large and impressive as the armor his father had given him for the test. The moment he was finished he would strike off north, and would come back with bloodied spear in hand or with it beneath him.

“Well, now, I do,” said Coster. “A newly anointed warrior should find this very interesting. Why is it, do you think, that we charge our warriors with seeking El’Katahmbrah, with hunting down the pink animal and any Blood traitors until the ruins are found and the song restored to us, and yet year after year, we only leave the safety of our village to make war on other tribes?”

Kilter considered this. “Is it not that the other tribes are Blood traitors?”

“Some are,” said Coster. “And some declare us to be so.”

“How can that be?” said Kilter. “We hold strictly true to the edicts of Sovari.”

“Not so strictly,” said Coster. “No. Not as much as all that.”

“In what way do we not?” asked Kilter. “We live apart from mortals. We send any who come here to the Houses of the Dead. We call none warrior who have not been anointed by the Blood of their forebears.”

“Yet we seek not the ruins of the great city,” said Coster. “We have not restored the song. We do not consume the flesh of mortals.”

Instinctively, Kilter recoiled. “None do,” he said. “The city is a legend. Warriors who leave to search for it leave their tribes unprotected.”

Coster sighed. “And there, we have our problem,” he said. “We are all of us Blood traitors now. The edicts are clear, yet we follow them only when and where we choose to. In different ways, all of us have forsaken the sacred edicts of the elven warrior.”

“You’re starting to sound like Father,” said Kilter. He hardened his face and did his best to forget that disapproving stare.

“Perhaps more of us should speak so,” said Coster. “More of us should recall our heritage.”

“So what do you propose?” said Sconter. “Tomorrow we wake before dawn, armor up and cross the Narrows into the Secali plains and raid and pillage our way to the Ragged Lands? And never mind packing any food supplies. We simply eat any mortals we come across!”

Sconter and Trouter had a good laugh at that, but Kilter did not join in, and Coster wasn’t laughing either. After a moment the big elf stood and left the fire.

Sconter laughed harder after that. “He’s drunk,” he said, indicating Coster’s retreating form.

“Is he,” said Kilter. He still didn’t feel like laughing. He was watching Coster as he went back to those dancing around the fire. The spirits capered around him and tried to get him to join them, but Coster walked on. He knelt where the women were gathered around Doni, whispered something to her, and then disappeared into the night.

“Kilter. Kilter.” Sconter had been calling him. “Wake up, warrior brother. Has the night played with your head?”

“Oh, um…” Kilter began. “I just…It’s late, and I should be getting some sleep. Tomorrow is my first day as a true warrior of the Arrowfire tribe.”

He stood and walked in the same direction he had watched Coster leave in.

“Kilter, your tent is that way.” The voice was Sconter’s, or Trouter’s. Or someone’s. At this point it didn’t matter. He would tell none of his war brothers that he had been evicted from his own tent on what should be the happiest night of his life. He certainly wasn’t going to his warrior bride and tell her what had happened. Soon the two of them would share a tent, but on this night, while no one had expected them to hold on the consummation, they were not officially joined until his first full day as a warrior, so spending the night under her father’s roof was not an option. Not that he would have asked anyway.

Coster seemed to have disappeared. Following the big elf had led Kilter out of the celebration and on the outskirts of the village itself. He faced the woods, wondering if he should go in there and find somewhere to sleep, or go in to find Coster. He still wore no shirt, and was unarmed, having left his spear and knife back near the fire. Going into the woods would be foolish. Best to turn back and at least put on the armor he had worn. Nodding to himself, he stepped into the trees.

“Kilter,” he heard Doni’s voice from behind. “Where are you going? The others saw you leave. Why would you go back into the woods?”

“I…” he said. He hadn’t expected Doni to follow him. “I think your brother went this way. There’s something I wish to discuss with him.”

“Coster went back to our father’s tent,” she said. “What would you say to him? I know you spoke to him after…after our union.” Color touched her face. Perhaps even she had not expected the hungry passion she had displayed.

Kilter found that he could not look her in the eye. He was feeling unworthy of her, unworthy of anything. Less than an hour ago he felt he could take on the world. But his father had ruined that for him the way he ruined everything. He brings nothing but misery to my life and yet I still seek his approval. The thought filled him with shame. Warriors did what was necessary, not what would bring them approval. Surely his father knew that. But still, he felt he had to talk to Coster and see just how much the edicts meant to the older elf.

“Kilter, speak to me,” said Doni. His cheeks burned and his eyes felt wet. I will not let her see that. He turned away. It was only after his back was turned to her that he understood the message he had accidentally sent. Doni’s face was a mask of tears when he turned back, and seeing them, his own began to fall.

“I’m sorry, Doni,” he said. “I’m sorry, it’s nothing to do with you. I…” Before he could stop himself, a full confession made its way out of his mouth. “I have been reminded tonight that whatever the tribe may call me, I’m still a miserable failure. I let my guard down tonight, Doni. First blood wasn’t mine, and I almost failed the test moments into it.”

“You don’t think that’s true of many warriors?” she asked. “That’s why they allow five hits against you.”

“All that means is that I let my guard down three times. My brothers both survived their tests without a scratch.”

“This is your father talking,” she said. “He got to you again.”

“He always does,” said Kilter. “The truth of it is, he’s right. I am a failure. I feel it in my bones every day. I have moments of triumph, but they never last. I need…I need to find some way to prove to myself that I’m not a failure. That I deserve to be called a warrior.”

“Then don’t allow yourself to be defeated by your pompous, cowardly father,” said Doni. “You’re better than him. He sees that, and that’s why he never shows you any love or pride.”

“I know that,” said Kilter. “But every time I fail, any time I’m less than perfect, I see his face in my mind. It’s like I keep proving him right.”

“So what do you intend to do to prove him wrong?” asked Doni. “And why does that involve my brother?”

“I’m sure it has to do with a conversation we had by the fire,” called Coster’s deep voice from behind them. “Sister, leave us. There is something your warrior and I must discuss.”

Without a word, Doni bowed to him and left. Kilter suddenly felt Coster’s eyes boring into him. The tall elf sauntered forward, never taking his eyes from Kilter.

“You would prove yourself,” he said. “In a way that no warrior in the last three generations has. Not even myself.”

“I would,” said Kilter. “I want to travel north, and find the ruins of El’Katahmbrah. I want to unlock the secrets of the song and give us that great power again.”

“And vengeance against the mortals who took it from us,” said Coster.

“Yes, of course.”

“Why?”

Kilter paused. He had not expected this question.

“Why what?”

“Why would you do this? You are under no real obligation. They’re just words said, just as the blood the elder pours on you belonged to an animal, not our forebears.

“They’re more than just words.”

“Your father believes that, yes?”

“Yes,” said Kilter. “He said I should honor them.”

“To please your father,” said Coster. “You would be the first elf in centuries to arm yourself, cross the lands of mortals on a mission of war and restore the Green elves to their rightful place in this world.”

“Yes,” said Kilter fiercely. “I would!”

Coster’s face grew cold. “Then don’t bother,” he said.

Kilter was stunned. “Why do you say this?”

Coster turned for a moment, then rounded on Kilter with fire in his eyes. “Your father is nothing, do you understand? My father is nothing. I am nothing! When a warrior considers his vows, he decides whether or not he will live up to the tasks given him. He seeks Sovari’s wisdom. He fasts. He quests for visions. He looks at his own heart and listens for the singing of the Blood. He does not fret and worry about what his friends may think or if it will make the elvenmaids swoon or whether he will make his father proud. These are a boy’s thoughts, not a warrior’s. If the Blood song is telling you to undertake the edicts, then you must follow, as a warrior’s duty is to the Blood and the edicts. But if you wish to find some way to invalidate your misgivings, to shore up approval of your family…then you are unworthy. The question is, if you do this, why are you doing it? What is your task? To live by the words of the edicts? To show you believe them to be more than only words? Or to please a simple old elf?”

Kilter wanted to reply. He wanted to tell Coster that he was wrong, that his father’s approval meant nothing to him. But he found himself unable to speak.

“When you find the answer,” said Coster. “Let me know.”

Next Chapter: Interlude: Il Scavo