The Last Satyr: The Company is Formed Part 1
Rest and Grief

“The satyr's keeper once saved my elves. It is my turn to return the favor,” Graybeard answered him after a time.

“With boys?” asked Amien.

“With whatever. The elves are dying. They will soon disappear and I with them. Before I am gone, I owe a debt to Sar. He fought for my elves. I must fight for his satyrs. And perhaps—just perhaps—if I can save his satyrs, I can save my elves. I believe they lived close together for a reason. There was a time when the satyrs seduced elves’ women as the satyrs have no women of their own. That is how the satyrs reproduced. Without elf women, there would be no satyrs. Since the satyrs disappeared though, the elfish women have grown cold—not only to themselves but to their husbands. I’ve never heard of an elf child being born since.”

“That is grave,” agreed Amien.

“But it shouldn’t be your concern. So why do you ask?”

Amien spoke honestly. “Belam died a humiliating death in the service of a mere satyr boy. Did you not hear his last words? Neither one of us signed on for that.”

“There is no humiliation to die in the defense of children.”

“He disagreed with that to his dying breath.”

“He disagreed with the place and the means of his death,” said Graybeard. “Few men do not. Belam did not disagree with defending children. If he had not tried to defend young Joe, he would still be alive. It was his choice to do so and one he would still do again. His only disagreement was to die by goblins.”

“But there will be no songs sung to his death,” noted Amien. “It is as he said. His body lies in that mountain, chopped to pieces, and already forgotten. Of what use is it for men to die for satyrs? Our human numbers do not dwindle. Our keeper owes them no favors.”

“If it’s any consolation, Belam did not die serving the satyr. He died serving young Joe, a human the same as yourself, and who was his captain of the guard.”

“That’s right. He did,” Amien agreed with a slight nod, taking comfort in that. “And young Joe is my captain, too.”

“And who knows who Joe will grow up to become? Who knows who Belam might have saved today? Someday young Joe may be your king.”

“My king?” smiled Amien in reply. “I am my own king.”

“Yes. You are.”

Amien seemed amused he noticed. “And why do you say that?”

“It is in your manner. It was in Belam’s too.”

“Does my manner offend you that I seek to justify my dying for satyrs?”

“You have already found your justification in young Joe, your captain, the same as Belam did. And you are sworn to the elves, and Ronthiel is an elf. It is not the justification of your death that disturbs you, it is the place and means of your death that concerns you, just as it concerned Belam.”

“Am I that selfish?”

“Only you can answer that.”

They went back to watching the boys.

Normally, by now the boys would be homesick, but there was no time or thought for that now, as none had any desire to return the way they had come. Instead, they were curious about this new land and wanted to listen in on Graybeard and Amien talk and so soon arrived to do so, but Graybeard sent them all off in search of dry firewood amongst the fragrant trees for the night's campfire and the boy to catch fish. Before sending Ronthiel off to do so, he had him sit and join them.

“Take this down,” he instructed the elf, that he might prepare a message for his crow to fly back to Linthiel. “Noble Belam has died for his captain of the guard, killing scores of the enemy.”

He carefully worded the news without mentioning the attackers were goblins or his captain was a mere boy. Ronthiel did as asked, attached it to his crow’s leg, and released the bird for home before collecting firewood with the others. Duravane would see to it that the men of the south learned of it.

Amien watched the bird fly away and heard the boy say in leaving to Graybeard. “If the crow made us seven, we are definitely six now.”

“The bird might return,” said the other. “I have an odd feeling that we are still seven. The luck of the number might still be with us, or then again—perhaps not.”

"Do you always say things both ways?" asked Amien of Graybeard.

"Does not a coin have two sides?" came his answer.

“The bird will not return,” Ronthiel informed them.

The other lads came gaily back and made their fire; the boy returning with a fine catch of rainbow trout. After a biscuit and fish dinner, the boy declared they should all have a smoke and Graybeard relented and, knowing the boys only pretended to smoke, gave them each a pipe from his pouch which they all swore only contained his one before. He then filled their pipes and presently they all stretched themselves out on their backs and began to puff with wondrous enjoyment, the smoke having a very pleasant aroma as they took turns blowing rings.

“This is a fine way to end the day!” said Marroh of smoking his first tobacco. “If I’d known a pipe was this good, I’d have learned it long ago instead of chewing.”

“So would I,” said Joe. “It’s not as difficult as they say. The boy is pretty good at blowing smoke rings, too. Why don’t you teach us?”

“Well, I can blow one pretty good all right,” said the boy. “But Graybeard can blow some that put mine to shame.”

“Really?” they all eagerly asked Graybeard. “Can you show us?”

After much begging, the old keeper entertained them with smoke rings of birds, squirrels and even faces, each more impressive than the last. For the first three, Amien tried to keep up with him, and with good effort, but by the fourth ring he knew he was out of the competition.

“Impressive,” Amien admitted, conceding defeat, “but can you manage a smoke ring in the shape of a perfectly roasted chicken?”

That brought smiles all around and the boys watched the old keeper to see if he would. To the boys, what the keeper could do with smoke was a true marvel, and they’d have eagerly paid to see the show.

As the sun slowly set, they grew sleepy and the talk around the fire died down. One by one, their eyes closed, and they fell asleep.

Amien watched them sleep and nodded towards Graybeard. “That was good of you,” he said.

“What was?”

“To take their minds off Belam’s death.”

“As you said, they are only children although really, down deep, all of us are.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you and I had to take our minds off his death too,” the old keeper answered, his voice a low murmur carried away by the wind. “We need what rest we can get for the moment. For if Lloth is behind us, we cannot be far enough ahead. Tomorrow, we move.”

“How long before she gets through?”

“Not long. It grows dark. The sunlight will no longer keep her in the mine now.”

“Shouldn’t we flee now? Before she gets out?”

“Thinking you can put distance between her in the dark? No. You do not know her mind. She'd get us for sure. Darkness is what she thrives in. We will trust the fire to keep her away. I should not wander too far away from it though if I were you and keep your weapon ready.”

"Should we tell the boy?"

"I think he already knows."

About midnight, young Joe woke up the boy. It was his turn to keep the watch. He got up as Joe turned in. The others were all asleep. There was a brooding oppressiveness in the chill night air that seemed to bode of something bad to come. The boy huddled himself and sought the friendly companionship of the fire, knowing the dull deadness of the breathless night in the trees ahead was stifling. Satyrs were not at home in trees. They felt as crowed in as if in an underground mine. He sat still, intent and waiting on whatever it was. The solemn hush continued. Beyond the light of the fire, everything was swallowed up in the blackness of total darkness.

The fire would die soon, so he needed to get more wood to maintain the watch.

By the light of the moon, the boy walked down towards the smooth black waters of the lake. For whatever reason, there were always dead trees to be found beside a lake and he set about collecting dried branches, checking upwards now and then for bats. But he saw none and heard nothing.

He walked further away from the camp then he intended. Their campfire was quite a way off behind him now. Not that he minded. With the mountains so near, the open spaces of fewer trees lay above him. There, it was almost like home to a satyr. Even now, alone in the dark, he savored the country, particularly when he knew waited ahead for him tomorrow. Tomorrow, the boy would go under trees so thick that even the sunlight failed to shine through them. There was no avoiding it, he realized. It was the only way they could continue east. So he put his back to the lake and gazed up longingly towards the Mithril Mountains one last time.

As he wandered further, the trees grew thicker, embracing him in their spectral fingers. An elusive movement caught his peripheral vision. Yet it stopped as suddenly as began. When nothing moved again, he dismissed it, attributing the unease to the unfamiliar terrain.

The boy collected the needed firewood, getting an armload. Just as he turned to go back there was that flicker of motion again, startling him.

He thought he caught sight of something; something swift and vast that slid silently along over the rocks towards him. He froze. What was that?

Whatever the thing was, it had just as suddenly stopped, stock still. Against the darkness, he could not make anything out, leaving him wondering if he had even seen it all. It stood still now. Whatever it was, the darkness swallowed it up no matter how big and horrible it was. He was left imagining he had even seen it.

When nothing moved again, he warily headed back towards the camp. He told himself not to be afraid. It was not a displacer beast. It was not a displacer beast. It was not -

And then he heard it—the same sound he had heard inside the mines earlier. The sound of a sharp claw on cold, bare rock.

His head whirled towards that sound, eyes big as can be, and caught a faint glimpse of two oval red gleams of light for eyes watching him. The displacer beast!

He broke into a run then, still carrying the firewood, wild panic seizing him.

Reaching the fire, he spun around, dropping the firewood. He was ready to give warning to the others to grab their weapons. Yet nothing was chasing him. There was nothing out there but dead silence.

“What’s the matter with you?” grumbled Marroh from under his covers.

“I thought I heard something back there.”

“If there’s anything out there, then I have ears of wood.”

Yet the boy studied the dark long and hard. The memory of those two piercing red eyes lingered, haunting his thoughts. It seemed too real to him.

By the flames, the shadows danced, contorting into eerie shapes just beyond sight that played tricks on his imagination. The crackle of the fire drowned out what might be just nearby. Was Marroh right?

Hard as he looked, it was true. There was nothing out there. And just to be sure, he put a few more branches on the fire, but the extra added light revealed nothing.

He questioned the legitimacy of his own senses.

Clutching his knife, he sat on the outskirts of the fire’s glow, casting wary glances into the enveloping darkness, still not trusting Marroh's dismissal. True, he might have imagined the moving shadow as cast by the trees. The red eyes might only be sparks from their own fire. But that sound?

He'd heard that claw before. He'd heard it in the mine.

The boy’s heart knew terror.

For, deep inside, he knew they were not alone.