“Seeing ghosts again, Renwar?” another soldier asked, drawing Konowa’s attention back. The man had a weasely face and stood a bit apart from the rest of the group.

“Zwitty,” Konowa said, the distaste clear in his voice. Zwitty’s desire for distance now made sense-Konowa still remembered the craven indifference with which Zwitty had killed an Elfkynan warrior at Luuguth Jor.

Zwitty jumped to attention. “Yes, sir. Just commentin’ on the fact that young Renwar there has a habit o’ seeing things the rest of us don’t.”

“That’s a load of shite and you know it,” Arkhorn said. “Ally ain’t seen nothing the rest of us haven’t. He just happens to see ’em a little sooner than the rest of us. Kind of odd when you consider the lad’s got the vision of a gopher, but if he says something crawled into the water, then I for one got no plans for going swimming later.”

To a man, the soldiers shuffled a few more feet away from the water’s edge. Konowa had instituted a tradition of allowing the Iron Elves a brief bit of relaxation after assaulting each island, including a swim and a celebratory cookout on the beach. Tradition was going to be broken tonight.

“I sensed five of Her elves on the island,” Konowa said, pointedly changing the subject.

“And I counted five of them gone right back to Her,” Arkhorn replied. “Those gold pieces of the Prince’s are going to get stale before we ever find one of them buggers to have a talk with.”

A headache named the Prince of Calahr blossomed behind Konowa’s eyes. He would have to explain again, for the umpteenth time, why the Iron Elves had not managed to capture one of Her elves alive. So be it. They’d find enough of them on Her mountain once they got there and the Prince could talk to his heart’s content, or until he was torn limb from limb.