The Wilder elf named Elspeth had been with Valthonis since the beginning. She was one of the Faithful, though one who was often overlooked.
When Valthonis had elected to exile himself from the pantheon of gods, he had done so to maintain the balance, disrupted after the banishment of his dark counterpart, Takhisis. Choosing to be mortal, he had taken the form of an elf, joining these people in their own bitter exile from their ancestral homelands. He did not ask for followers. He meant to walk his hard road alone. Those who accompanied him did so of their own accord, and people called them the Faithful.
All the Faithful had vivid memories of their first meeting with the Walking God-recalling even the hour of the day and whether the sun was shining or the rain was falling, for his words had touched their hearts and changed their lives forever. But they had no memory of meeting Elspeth, though they knew she must have been with him then, simply because they could not recall a time she hadn’t been.
A woman of indeterminate age, Elspeth wore the simple, rough tunic and leather breeches favored by the Wilder elves, those elves who have never been comfortable in civilization and live in lonely and isolated regions of Ansalon. Her hair was long and white and hung down about her shoulders. Her eyes were blue crystal. Her face was lovely, but impassive, rarely showing emotion.
Elspeth maintained her isolation even in company with the other Faithful. The Faithful understood the reason why-or thought they did-and they were gentle with her. Elspeth was mute. Her tongue had been cut out. No one knew how she had come by this terrible injury, though rumors abounded. Some said she had been assaulted, and her attacker had cut out her tongue so that she could not name him. Some said the minotaur rulers of Silvanesti had mutilated her. They were known to cut out the tongues of any who spoke out against them.
The most terrible rumor, and one that was generally discounted, was that Elspeth had cut out her tongue herself. No one knew why she would do such a thing. What words did she so fear to speak that she would mutilate herself to prevent their utterance?
The members of the Faithful were always kind to her and tried to include her in their activities or discussions. She was painfully shy, however, and would shrink away if anyone spoke to her.
Valthonis treated Elspeth as he treated the other Faithful-with reserved, gentle courtesy, not aloof from them, yet set apart. A barrier existed between the Walking God and the Faithful that none could cross. He was mortal. Being an elf, he did not age as did humans, but his constant journeying took its toll. He always slept outdoors, refusing shelter in house or castle, and he walked the road every day, walked in wind and rain, sun and snow. His fair skin was weathered and tanned. He was lean and spare, his clothes-tunic and hose, boots and woolen cloak-were travel-worn.
The Faithful regarded him with awe, always mindful of the sacrifice he had made for mankind. In their eyes, he was still almost a god. What was he in his own eyes? None knew. He spoke of Paladine and the Gods of Light often, but always as a mortal speaks of the gods-worshipful and reverent. He never spoke as having been one of them.
The Faithful often speculated among themselves whether or not Valthonis even remembered that he had once been the most powerful god in the universe. Sometimes he would pause in a conversation and look far away, into the distance, and a frown would mar his forehead, as though he was concentrating hard, striving to recall something immensely important. These times, the Faithful believed, he had seen some glimmering of what he had once been, but when he tried to retrieve the memory it slipped away, ephemeral as morning mist. For his sake, they prayed he would never remember.
At such times, the Faithful noted that Elspeth always drew a little nearer to him. Any who chanced to look at her would see her sitting still, unmoving, her eyes fixed upon Valthonis, as if he was all she saw, all she ever wanted to see. His frown would ease, and he would slightly shake his head and smile and continue on.
The numbers of the Faithful changed from day to day, as some decided to join Valthonis on his endless walk and others departed. Valthonis never asked them to remain, nor did he ask them to leave. They swore no oath to him, for he would not accept it. They came from all races and all manner of life, rich and poor, wise and foolish, noble or wretched. No one questioned those who joined, for Valthonis would not permit it.
The Faithful all remembered the day the ogre emerged from the woods and fell into step beside Valthonis. Several clapped their hands to their swords, but a glance from Valthonis halted them. He went on speaking to those around him, who found it hard to listen, for they could not take their eyes from the ogre. The gigantic brute lumbered along, scowling balefully at all of them and snarling if any ventured too close.
Those who knew ogres said he was a chieftain, for he wore a heavy silver chain around his neck and his filthy leather vest was adorned with innumerable scalps and other gruesome trophies. He was huge, topping the tallest among them by chest, head, and shoulders, and he stank to high heaven. He remained with them a week and in all that time he spoke no word to any of them, not even to Valthonis.
Then one evening, while they were sitting around the fire, the ogre rose to his feet and stomped over to Valthonis. The Faithful were immediately on their guard, but Valthonis ordered them to sheathe their weapons and resume their seats. The ogre drew the silver chain from around his neck and held it out to the Walking God.
Valthonis placed his hand upon the chain and asked the gods to bless it and gave the chain back. The ogre grunted in satisfaction. He hung the chain about his neck and, with another grunt, he left them, lumbering back into the forest. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Later, when stories began to filter out of Blode how an ogre wearing a silver chain was working to ease the misery of his people and trying to bring an end to violence and bloodshed, the Faithful remembered their ogre companion and marveled.
Kender often joined them on the road, jumping about Valthonis like crickets and pestering him with questions, such as why frogs have bumps but snakes don’t and why cheese is yellow when milk is white. The Faithful rolled their eyes, but Valthonis answered all questions patiently and even seemed to enjoy having the kender about. The kender were a trial to his followers, but they strove to follow the example of the Walking God and show patience and forbearance, and they reconciled themselves to the theft of all their possessions.
Gnomes came to discuss schematic layouts of their latest inventions with the Walking God, and he would study them and try as diplomatically as he could to point out the design flaws most likely to result in injury or death.
Elves were always with Valthonis, many remaining with him for long periods. Humans were also among the Faithful, though they tended to stay for shorter periods of time than the elves. Paladins of Kiri-Jolith and Solamnic knights would often come to speak to Valthonis about their quests, asking for his blessing or forming part of his entourage. A hill dwarf traveled with them for a time, a priest of Reorx, who said he came in memory of Flint Fireforge.
Valthonis walked all roads and highways, stopping only to rest and sleep. He ate his frugal meals on the road. When he came to a town, he would walk its streets, pausing to talk to those he met, never remaining in one place long. He was often asked by clerics to give sermons or lectures. Valthonis always refused. He talked as he walked.
Many came to converse with him. Most came in faith, to listen and absorb. But there were also those who came as skeptics, those who wanted to argue, mock, or jeer at him. The Faithful had to practice restraint at these times, for Valthonis would permit intervention only if people became violent, and then he was far more concerned about the safety of those around him than he was for himself.
Day after day, the Faithful came and the Faithful went. But Elspeth was always with him.
This day, as they walked the winding roads through the Khalkist mountains, somewhere in the vicinity of the accursed valley of Neraka, the silent Elspeth startled the Faithful by leaving her customary place on the fringes of the group and, creeping close to Valthonis, fell into step behind him. He took no notice of her, for he was conversing with a follower of Chislev, discussing how to reverse the depredations of the Dragon Overlords on the land.
The Faithful noted Elspeth’s action and thought it odd, but took no further notice of her. Only later did they look back and wish, to their sorrow, that they had paid more heed.
Galdar had mixed feelings about his assignment. He was going to be reunited with Mina, and he wasn’t certain how he felt about that. On the one hand, he was glad. He had not seen her since their enforced separation at the tomb of Takhisis, when she had given herself into the arms of the Lord of Death. He had tried to stop her, but the god had torn him from Mina’s side. Even then, he would have searched for her, but Sargas had given Galdar to understand that he had more important work to do for his god and his people than chase after a silly chit of a human.
Galdar had heard news of Mina after that, how she had become a High Priestess of Chemosh, beloved of the Lord of Bones, and Galdor had scowled and shaken his horned head. Mina’s turning priestess was a grievous waste. Galdor could not have been more shocked if he’d heard that the renowned minotaur war hero, Makel Ogrebane, had become a druid and gone about healing baby bunnies.
Because of this, Galdar was reluctant to meet Mina again. If the woman who had boldly and courageously ridden with him on dragon back to do battle with the dread Dragon Overlord Malys was now a bone-waving, spell-chanting, grave-robbing follower of the sly and treacherous Chemosh, Galdar wanted nothing to do with her. He didn’t want to see her like that. He wanted his memories of her to be of the conquering soldier, not some lying priest.
He disliked this assignment for another reason. It involved gods and Galdar’d had a belly full of gods during the War of Souls. Like his old enemy-turned-friend, Gerard, Galdar wanted as little to do with gods as possible. His feelings were so strong that he had almost refused to take the assignment, even though this would have meant saying “No,” to Sargas, something not even the god’s own children dared.
In the end, Galdar’s faith in Sargas (and his fear of him) and his longing to see Mina won out. He reluctantly agreed to accept the assignment. (It should be noted that Sargas did not tell Galdar the truth-that Mina was a god herself. The Horned God must have considered that too great a test for his faithful follower.)
Galdar and the small minotaur patrol under his command spent considerable time scouting the enemy, determining their numbers, appraising their skill. A cautious and intelligent leader, Galdar did not immediately assume, as did some of his race, that just because they were dealing with elves his soldiers would have an easy time of it. Galdar had fought elves during and after the War of Souls, and he had come to respect them as a warriors even if he didn’t think much of them in any other regard. He impressed upon his troops that elves were skilled and tenacious fighters, who would fight all the more fiercely because of their loyalty and dedication to their Walking God.
Galdar laid his ambush in the wilds of the Khalkist mountains. He chose this region because he calculated that once the Walking God was far from civilization the numbers of his followers would dwindle. When Valthonis traveled the major highways of Solamnia, he might have as many as twenty or thirty people accompanying him. Here, far from any major city, close to Neraka, a region of Ansalon most people still considered cursed, only the most dedicated remained at his side. Galdar counted six elven warriors armed with bow and arrow and sword, a Wilder elf who bore no weapons, and a druid of Chislev clad in moss green robes who would probably attack them with holy spells.
He set the time for the ambush at twilight, when the shadows of night stealing among the trees vied with the last rays of the sun. At this time, tricks of the waning light could fool the eye, make finding a target difficult even for elven archers.
Galdar and his troops hid themselves among the trees, waiting until they heard the party moving along the trail, which was little more than a goatherd’s path. The small band was still some distance away, time for Galdar to give his minotaur band some last-minute whispered orders.
“We are to take the Walking God alive,” he said, laying heavy emphasis on the word. “This command comes from Sargas himself. Remember this-Sargas is the god of vengeance. Disobey him at your peril. I for one am not prepared to risk his wrath.”
The other minotaurs agreed wholeheartedly and some glanced uneasily at the heavens. Sargas’ retribution against those who thwarted his will was known to be as swift as it was brutal.
“What if this so-called Walking God chooses to do battle, sir?” asked one. “Will the Gods of Wimps fight for their own? Should we expect lightning bolts to strike us down?”
“Gods of Wimps, is it, Malek?” Galdar growled. “You lost the tip of your horn to a Solamnic knight. Was she a wimp, or did she kick your sorry ass?”
The minotaur looked chagrined. His fellows grinned at him, and one nudged him with an elbow.
“So long as we threaten no harm to the Walking God, the Gods of Light will not intervene. So the priest of Sargas assured me.”
“And what do we do with this Walking God once we have him, sir?” asked another. “You haven’t told us that yet.”
“Because I don’t want to burden your brain with more than one thought at a time,” Galdar told him. “All you need worry about now is capturing the Walking God. Alive!”
Galdar cocked an ear. The voices and the footfalls were drawing nearer.
“Take up your positions,” he ordered and dispersed his men, sending them running to the ditches on either side of the road. “Don’t move a muscle and keep upwind of them! These blasted elves have a nose for minotaur.”
Galdar crouched behind a large oak tree. His sword remained sheathed. He hoped he would not have to use it, and rubbed the stump of his missing arm. The wound was an old one. The arm was fully healed, but sometimes, strangely, he felt pain in the limb that was not there. This evening the arm burned and throbbed worse than usual. He blamed it on the damp, but he had to wonder if it hurt because he was thinking of Mina, recalling their first meeting. She had reached out her hand to him and her touch had healed him, given him back his severed limb.
The limb he’d lost again, trying to save her.
He wondered if she remembered, if she ever thought of their time together, the happiest and proudest time of his life.
Probably not, now that she was a high muckety-muck priestess.
Galdar rubbed his arm and cursed the damp and listened to the voices of elves coming closer.
Hunkering down among the dead leaves and shadows, the minotaur soldiers gripped their weapons and waited.
Two elven warriors walked in front, four came behind. Valthonis and the druid of Chislev walked in the center of the group, absorbed in their conversation. Elspeth kept very close to him, almost at his heels. Usually she would have been far in the rear, several paces behind the rear guard. This sudden change added to the uneasiness the others felt at being so near the accursed valley of Neraka where the Dark Queen had once reigned. They had questioned Valthonis about why he had chosen to come here, to this dread place, but he would only smile and tell them what he always told them in answer to their questions.
“I do not go where I want to go,” he would say. “I go where I need to be.”
Since they could elicit no information from the Walking God, one of the Faithful took it upon himself to question Elspeth, asking her in a low voice what was wrong, what she feared. Elspeth might have been deaf, as well as mute, for she did even glance his way. She kept her gaze fixed upon Valthonis and, as the elf later reported to his fellows, her face was drawn and tense.
Already uneasy and nervous about their surroundings, the elven warriors were not quite caught off guard by the sudden attack. Something struck them as wrong as they passed beneath the leaves of the overhanging tree limbs. Perhaps it was a smell; minotaur have a bovine stench that is not easy to conceal. Perhaps it was the breaking of a stick beneath a heavy boot, or the shifting of a large body in the underbrush. Whatever it was, the elves sensed danger, and they slowed their pace.
The two in front drew their swords and fell back to take up positions on either side of Valthonis. The elves following nocked their arrows and raised their bows and turned to stare intently into the shifting shadows in the trees.
“Show yourselves!” one of the elves shouted harshly in Common.
The minotaur soldiers obeyed his command, clambering up out of the ditches and surging onto the road. Steel clanged against steel. Bowstrings twanged and the druid began to chant a prayer to Chislev, calling on her for blessed aid.
Valthonis’ voice cut through the chaos, ringing out loudly and forcefully. “Stop this! Now.”
He spoke with such authority that all the combatants obeyed him, including the minotaurs, who reacted to the commanding tone out of instinct. A heartbeat later they realized that it was their intended victim who had ordered them to cease and, feeling foolish, sprang again to the attack.
This time Galdar roared, “Stop in the name of Sargas!” The minotaur soldiers, seeing their leader striding forward, reluctantly lowered their swords and fell back.
The elves and the minotaurs eyed each other balefully. No one attacked, but no one sheathed his blade. The druid was still praying. Valthonis placed a hand upon the man’s shoulder and spoke a soft word. The druid cast him a pleading glance, but Valthonis shook his head, and the prayer to Chislev ended in a sigh.
Galdar raised his only hand to show he bore no weapon and walked toward Valthonis. The Faithful moved to interpose their own bodies between the Walking God and the minotaur.
“Walking God,” said Galdar, speaking over the heads of those who blocked him, “I would speak to you-in private.”
“Stand aside, my friends,” said Valthonis. “I will hear what he has to say.”
One of the elves tried to argue, but Valthonis would not listen. He asked the Faithful again to stand aside and this they did, though reluctantly and unhappily. Galdar ordered his soldiers to keep their distance and they obeyed, though with lowering looks at the elves.
Galdar and Valthonis walked into the trees, out of earshot of their followers.
“You are Valthonis, once the god Paladine,” stated Galdar.
“I am Valthonis,” said the elf mildly.
“I am Galdar, emissary of the great god known to minotaur as Sargas, known to those like yourselves as Sargonnas. My god bids me speak these words: ‘You have unfinished business in the world, Valthonis, and because you have chosen to ‘walk’ away from this challenge there is new strife in heaven and among men. The great Sargas wants to bring this strife to an end. This matter must be brought to a swift and final resolution. To facilitate this, he will bring about a meeting between you and your challenger.’”
“I hope you do think I am being argumentative, Emissary, but I am afraid I know nothing about this strife or the challenge of which you speak,” Valthonis replied.
Galdar rubbed his muzzle with the side of his hand. He was uncomfortable, for he believed in honor and in honesty, and in this he was being less than honest, less than honorable.
“Perhaps not a challenge from Mina,” Galdar clarified, hoping his god would understand. “More of a threat. Still,” he went on before Valthonis could reply, “it hangs between the two of you like noxious smoke, poisoning the air.”
“Ah, I understand now,” Valthonis said. “You speak of Mina’s vow to kill me.”
Galdar glanced about uneasily at his minotaur escort. “Keep your voice down when you mention her name. My people consider her a witch.”
He cleared his throat and added stiffly, “I was told by Sargas to say that the Horned God wants to bring the two of you together, that you may resolve your differences.”
Valthonis smiled wryly at this, and Galdar, embarrassed, kept on rubbing his muzzle. Sargas had no intention the two should resolve their differences. Galdar had no love for any elf, but he scorned to lie to this one. He had his orders, however, and so he said what he’d been told to say, though he was making it clear he wasn’t the one to say it.
The two were interrupted by one of the Faithful, who called out, “You have no need to parlay with this brute, sir. We can and will fight to defend you-”
“No blood will be shed because of me,” said Valthonis sharply. He cast a stern glance at the Faithful. “Have you walked the road with me all this time and listened to me speak of peace and brotherhood and yet heard nothing I have said to you?”
His voice rasped, and his followers were abashed. They did not know where to look to avoid his angry gaze, and so averted their faces or stared at the ground. Only Elspeth did not look away. Only she met his gaze. He smiled at her in reassurance and then turned back to Galdar.
“I will accompany you on the condition that my companions be allowed to leave unharmed.”
“Those are my orders,” said Galdar. He raised his voice so that all could hear. “Sargas wants peace. He does not want to see blood spilled.”
One of the elves sneered at this, and one of the minotaurs growled, and the two leaped at each other. Galdar flung himself at the minotaur and socked him in the jaw. Elspeth grasped the sword arm of the elven warrior and pulled him back. Startled, the warrior immediately lowered his weapon.
“If you will walk with us, sir,” Galdar said, shaking out his bruised knuckles, “we will act as your escort. Give me your vow that you will not try to escape, and I will not chain you.”
“You have my word,” said Valthonis. “I will not escape. I go with you of my own free will.”
He bade goodbye to the Faithful, giving his hand to each and asking the gods to bless them.
“Do not fear, sir,” said one softly, speaking Silvanesti elven, “we will rescue you.”
“I have given my word,” said Valthonis. “I will not break it.”
“But, sir-”
The Walking God shook his head and turned away, only to find Elspeth blocking him. It seemed she longed to speak, for her jaw trembled and low, animal sounds came from her throat.
Valthonis touched her cheek with his hand. “You need say nothing, child. I understand.”
Elspeth grasped hold of his hand and pressed it to her cheek.
“Take care of her,” Valthonis ordered the Faithful.
He gently freed his hand from her grasp and walked to where Galdar and the minotaur guard stood waiting for him.
“You have my word. And I have yours,” said Valthonis. “My friends depart unharmed.”
“May Sargas take my other arm if I break my oath,” said Galdar. He entered the forest, and Valthonis followed. The minotaur guard closed in around them both.
The Faithful stood on the path amidst the gathering gloom, watching their leader depart. Their elven sight allowed them to keep track of Valthonis for a long while and, then, when they could not see him, they could hear the minotaur crashing and hacking their way through the brush. The Faithful looked at one another. The minotaur had left a trail a blind gully dwarf could follow. They would be easy to track.
One started after them. The silent Elspeth stopped him.
“He gave his word,” she said, using signs, touching her hand to her mouth, then to her heart. “He made his choice.”
Grieving, the Faithful began to trace their steps, returning the way they had come. It was some time before any of them realized that Elspeth was not with them. Mindful of their promise, they began to search for her and at last they found her trail. She walked the same path the Walking God had been traveling-the road to Neraka. She refused to turn aside, and mindful of their promise to care for her, the Faithful accompanied her.