“Only if I lead them there—and I won’t,” Leutric said firmly. “Elves are no improvement over the Darkness if the Elves want us dead.”
“That is as true as the fact the Darkness comes for us all this time, Leutric,” Melisha said seriously. “But the hearts of the Elves is a truth we can change. If we—Elves, Unicorns, Brightfolk, Otherfolk, all—are united as one people before the Bones are awakened…”
“That won’t happen,” Leutric said, glancing away for a moment. “And so—”
But when he looked back again, Melisha was gone.
“Unicorns,” he said with a sigh. “I’d trust in hope sooner than in the hearts of the Elves,” he said, louder, as if she still might hear.
* * *
To take the Western Shore was a task that a war band could not accomplish. For that, Runacar needed an army. Because of all he had done already, when Leutric sent word to the Otherfolk that an army was needed, the Nine Races answered in their thousands. Bearward—Woodwose—Minotaur—Centaur—Hippogriff—Faun—all the folk he knew to name had come. Radafa had managed to persuade several Gryphons to join him, though only to scout, not to fight.
Even an Aesalion had come.
* * *
Blackwheat Gate was a manor house in Cirandeiron that commanded a view of both the Delfierarathadan and the ruins of Cirandeiron’s Great Keep. If Runacar had any home now, it was here, but in truth he viewed the manor house as a convenient place to come in out of the rain and train his horses; a place to gather his forces at the beginning of each campaign. It had been beautiful once, but its upkeep required the labor of many hands, and now it was falling slowly into ruin. Still, it should outlast my need for it.
The day was warm and he had moved his desk outside to take advantage of the light. His generals were gathered round: Keloit and his wife Helda dozing in the sun, Audalo reading scrolls from a basket at his side, Pelere doing something complicated with a wax tablet and stylus. Gunyel and Radafa were on the wing above and Tanet … was somewhere. Runacar was going over lists of tally sheets, trying not to grind his teeth while doing so. This “war season” would be unlike any other since he had come west, and it required endless planning.
The Otherfolk had never, not in living memory—not in Gryphon memory, which went back to a time before there were Elves in Jer-a-kalaliel at all—put an army into the field. When the Centaurs had fought, it was because their farms and villages were being overrun. When the Fauns and Minotaurs played deadly pranks upon supply caravans wending through the Flower Forests, they were doing so practically on their own doorstep. The idea of going to a place they’d never been for no reason other than to fight—and carrying food and shelter with them to do so—was something they had no experience of. Certainly the Otherfolk traveled, and for such purposes would carry necessities with them. But they were far more likely to build an encampment out of materials that came to hand than use a tent. Gryphons, Hippogriffs, Aesalions were used to ranging for leagues in search of a meal, and Gryphons literally slept upon the wing.
The Angarussa formed the eastern boundary of Amrolion and Daroldan. On its western bank, Delfierarathadan Flower Forest ran from mountain to desert, thick and wild. North of Daroldan, the Medhatara Range rose up, range after range of impassable icy peaks. In the south, the red sands of the Kashadabadshar promised death to any who attempted to cross them. This was the theater across which Runacar must wage his war, and to do so, he must find a way to supply his force without use of wagons, sledges, oxen, or mules, without a portable city to follow the army as its sanctuary and haven.
“Hello. You’re having a war. That sounds like great fun! What’s a war?” The voice was deep, unfamiliar, and came from something … large.
“A war?” Runacar said in bewilderment. He looked up. There was … someone … perched on the roof, looking down at him.
The newcomer was as large as an ice-tiger. Its body was felinoid, though winged. The wings were iridescent black, with bars of red and yellow. Its fur was the pale grey of wood smoke, except for four blood-red socks. It had a disturbingly Elven face—disturbingly large as well—rather than the animalic muzzle the tigerish shape implied. The furless skin was grey instead of Elven ivory, making Runacar think of dead knights who had lain all winter beneath a lake’s ice before their bodies were found in spring. Its face was ringed with a mane of red and black fur that covered its head and throat.
Audalo instantly got to his feet. “This person is under the protection of King-Emperor Leutric,” he said firmly.
Runacar could see that everyone in the garden—even Tanet had appeared from somewhere—were all on their feet and gazing roofward with identical expressions of wariness. That was not reassuring.
The creature on the roof pouted toothily. “I’m not going to break him! I want to play.” It spread its wings and glided to the ground, and when it landed in front of him, Runacar was able to identify it at last. Because he could see its tail.
As long as an ice-tiger’s, it ended in a black, chitinous, clublike barb—a scorpion’s sting. That poison barb could pierce Elven armor and bring instant death. This was an Aesalion, and according to Lannarien’s Book of Living Things, Aesalions had the ability to influence the emotions of their victims, broadcasting terror or grief and then settling down to be entertained by the results. Of course, Lannarien also said that all Aesalions were male, so Runacar wasn’t sure how much of the entry was true.
“Is a war fun?” the Aesalion asked.
“No. It is not,” Radafa said, coming in for a hurried landing. “You are far from home, Drotha. I thought the Aesalions had chosen to stay in the east.”
“I got bored,” Drotha said simply, looking at Radafa. “And I heard you were going to have a war. So I came to see what that was.”
Drotha’s great head swung back toward Runacar, and now Runacar was caught in the Aesalion’s gaze. He’d thought, at first sight, that its eyes were as black as any Elf’s, but now he could see they were not. They were green—violet—yellow—blue—red … He took a step backward, feeling the sour taste of fear in his throat. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. It had all been a trap. These weren’t his friends. They’d lured him here, lulled him, so Drotha could come and kill him. He had never wanted so badly to run in his entire life—but if he ran, the Aesalion would pounce, would sting, would rend the flesh from his bones …
“Fear is the komen’s first enemy. Fear of pain, fear of defeat. Fear is the enemy that must be defeated before the komen steps onto the battlefield. And it will ride with him on every battlefield.”
Runacar took a deep breath. He could not marshal his wits enough to speak, but he vowed he would not run. He had stood on Ishtilaikh when the mazhnune had risen, and he would not run.
“Leutric will not wish to learn you are our enemy,” Audalo said with deceptive mildness, and suddenly the fear Runacar felt was gone as if it had never been. Drotha’s eyes were black once more.
“If you break your toys, you don’t get to keep playing with them,” Runacar said evenly, holding Drotha’s gaze. “Play nicely and I’ll let you come with me to the war.”
“Rune!” Pelere protested.
“Deal!” Drotha cried. He bounced across the clearing like the largest housecat Runacar had ever seen and stopped so close Runacar could feel the heat of his body. He beamed at Runacar merrily and quite madly.
“Is this wise?” Tanet asked, his voice almost a whisper.
“No,” Runacar said. “It’s war.”
And so Drotha came to live at Blackwheat Gate, and the planning for the campaign went on.
* * *
The Otherfolk would come when Leutric called, but they would not follow an alfaljodthi. Runacar’s knowledge of war had given Leutric this decade of victories, and it was Runacar’s generalship that would give the Otherfolk the Shore, but not all of them were as sanguine about Runacar’s change of heart as King Leutric was. Cooperation among the various peoples of the Otherfolk
was a new thing that did not even predate Vieliessar Farcarinon’s initial claim of the Unicorn Throne.
For this war, Runacar needed numbers, and if that meant others were his army’s generals, well, his pride had been trampled into the dust long ago. So his war band became his captains, and his apprentices became his generals, and those who came to fight followed them, not Runacar. Runacar, Warlord to King-Emperor Leutric, became merely an advisor to Pelere, Keloit, Tanet, Audalo, and others. If he could convince them of the value of his ideas, they would present the plans to his captains—who, in turn, would consider them before attempting to persuade their followers to obey.
And that was only the beginning. When they reached Great Sea Ocean, his generals must win the agreement of the Ocean’s Own to join in the war. The Nisse, Keloit said, were sorcerers nearly as powerful as the Bearwards. The negotiations with the Queen of the Nisse—who was, so far as Runacar understood matters, the Empress of the Ocean’s Own—had been going on for moonturns, and all that Leutric had gained was the promise of a meeting.
Still, Runacar had little choice in the matter.
“Take the Shore, and we’ll hold everything from here to the Mystrals. The High King will never get them back.”
“We will attack from the south,” Runacar said firmly.
It was Flower Moon in the tenth Wheelturn since the Battle of the Shieldwall Plain—nearly War Season, a quiet ghost in Runacar’s mind whispered—and the fire in the great stone fireplace of Blackwheat Gate’s Great Hall sent out a welcome heat. Once its mantel and surround had been carved with fanciful representations of Gryphons and Minotaurs: those ornaments had been smashed to anonymity.
“Even coming up from the south we’ll still run into Amrolion sooner or later,” Pelere said, tapping the stone floor with her forehoof in an absent gesture. “We’ve pushed them into Daroldan’s lap with those raids you said were so useless, but that doesn’t mean they’re gone.”
“No,” Runacar agreed. He ran a hand absently through his hair. There was no one left to read the stories of victories woven into his battle-braids and no one to braid it for him, so he wore it in a simple queue. “And that’s the point. Push them hard enough up into the Medharthas, and Amrolion and Daroldan will abandon the Shore to come east—and end up in Hamphuliadiel’s lap. And before they do, they’ll squall loud enough to get the High King’s attention.”
“If she’s still listening,” Helda commented dryly. “It’s been a decade, you know,” the Bearward Healer pointed out.
“She’s listening,” Runacar said grimly.
“They won’t get far if they run,” Audalo rumbled. He shook his head and the great curved horns branching from his brow flashed in the firelight.
“Oh, but they will,” Runacar said, smiling ferally. “They can’t go west—there’s nothing west but ocean, and the Ocean’s Own hold that. Eastward, there are only a few roads through the Flower Forest, and none of them designed for the passage of large numbers. They know the Flower Forest is deadly to them, and they won’t risk breaking out through it until they have no other choice. So we’ll give them no other choice.”
“They could just keep going north—and not cross the forest at all,” Keloit pointed out. Now that he had reached his full growth, he truly towered over Runacar. Keloit was one of Runacar’s most able generals, but he was here also as his mother’s deputy, for among the Bearwards, the women led. What Keloit knew, his mother would soon know, and what Frause knew, all the Bearward Spellmothers would know.
“Into the Medhataras? Idiot!” Andhel said. “Nobody goes there and lives.” The Woodwose gave Runacar a deadly glance, as if agreeing with him was physically painful.
“Which is why—when they run—they’ll turn east through Delfierarathadan, or run along its northern edge,” Runacar said patiently. “They won’t want to, and that’s why they’ll go north first. But they can’t go west, and we’ll be in the south, so their only hope will be to go east.”
“So they enter Delfierarathadan and don’t come out,” Audalo said, puzzled. “But you just said they do. How is this a victory for us, Rune?”
“It’s a victory for us because as they flee we will strip them of everything they have. Seed grain, saplings—every herd beast, every hunting hound, every horse and mule—we’ll take them all. Two War Princes and all their people will enter the Western Reach as poor as Landbonds. And they will go to the Sanctuary of the Star.”
“So we want to give the green-robed witches an army, do we?” Tanet said mockingly. “I may dance at your funeral yet, Houseborn.”
“You may,” Runacar said, “but not this Wheelturn. I’m not going to give Hamphuliadiel an army. I’m going to give him an enemy. Daroldan and Amrolion are sworn to Vieliessar. They won’t ally with Hamphuliadiel. They’ll fight him.”
“I’ll help!” Drotha crowed. “If they don’t want to fight, I’ll make them!”
“So the idea is that we chase them,” Pelere said, tactfully ignoring the Aesalion. “That clears the Shore, but then we have a great herd of them next to Arevethmonion.” The Centauress pondered for a moment, swishing her tail absently. “Hm. Yes. That could work.”
It was not decided that easily. The Otherfolk did not view time the way the alfaljodthi did: their sense of it was tied to the Wheel of the Year and to the long cycles of slumber and rebirth that were the heartbeat of the Flower Forests. Runacar was resigned to spending another Wheelturn gathering a force and convincing it that his strategy was sound, but he was overly pessimistic. At the start of Rain Moon, the Otherfolk army assembled itself in the shadow of Caerthalien Great Keep and headed west.
Runacar had even managed to recruit a second Aesalion.
* * *
The Gryphons, the Hippogriffs, and both Aesalions—to persuade Juniche to tolerate Drotha’s presence and Drotha to tolerate Juniche’s presence might be the greatest achievement of all Runacar’s campaigns—were already airborne.
Runacar closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. It was perhaps an hour before dawn. Late in the springtide. Perfect weather and a perfect time for war. For a moment he could almost believe that none of it had happened—no Vieliessar, no Winter War, no shattering defeats. He could close his eyes and imagine his brothers and sisters here somewhere, each commanding their own grand-taille, while Bolecthindial Caerthalien, War Prince of Caerthalien, led the army as a whole.
The fantasy was strengthened by the fact that—for the first time in a very long time—Runacar wore armor and rode a destrier. When the war band had taken Caerthalien, he had found the armor he now wore in one of the Great Keep’s unlooted storerooms. It had clearly been the prized possession of one of his greatfathers, and Runacar had asked Keloit and Helda to store it in their hidel in anticipation of a day such as this. It was beautifully made, some forgotten Craftworker’s masterpiece, gold enamel over engraved and gilded plate. Wearing it, Runacar glowed like the sun come down to earth. Pelere’s family had woven the fabric of his surcoat and saddlecloth as luck gifts and crafted his war-cloak from velvet that was another of the many spoils of war. From sword to spurs, he was armed and armored as befit the hero of a wondertale.
As for his mount, the Alliance had not taken with it every horse in the West when it had marched, and by a few Wheelturns after The Battle of the Shieldwall Plain herds ran wild all across the Western Reach. The breeding programs of centuries had been cast into disarray, but enough pure-blooded animals had remained for Runacar, with the help of the Otherfolk, to capture a few likely mares and breed them. Hialgo had been the result. The destrier had seen four summers. He was a pale grey, the sort of animal a General of Armies might ride, and his training had been worthy of his breeding.
Arilcarion had once written that a true knight should not only be able to wage war but ornament it; they must be able to forge every element of their gear, from destrier to the standard they would carry into battle, and when the battle was done, they must be able to memorialize it in poetry and song. Arilcario
n’s ideal was one that most Elvenkind could only aspire to, but Hialgo was the equal of any Caerthalien-bred beast Runacar had ever ridden—better, perhaps, since the great grey stallion had lived among Otherfolk from the moment of his birth, and the forms, sounds, and scents of Gryphons and Bearwards did not disturb him in the least.
Hialgo’s saddlecloth, Runacar’s surcoat, and the war banner he carried were all emblazoned with the symbol of the King-Emperor’s Great House. There was no such symbol, of course, so Runacar had needed to create it himself. After long deliberation, he had chosen a Vilya, proper, surrounded by a moon, argent, a star, argent, and a single leaf, vert, all on a cobalt field. Leaf and star, ocean, tree and sky: the things all the Otherfolk held dear were represented here.
He thought the banner would annoy the War Princes of the Western Shore a very great deal.
He sighed deeply, opening his eyes. His family was dead, and now Runacar led an army not out of legend, but out of nightmare, and did not examine his motives all that closely. He raised his arm and flourished the banner, raising its staff and pointing it forward. Hialgo danced in place, eager to go, and behind him Runacar felt the army begin to move.
* * *
They gave the Sanctuary of the Star a wide berth, though not wide enough, by intention, that they would not be seen and noted. Perhaps the size of the array would be large enough to give the Astromancer more than a few sleepless nights. Runacar sincerely hoped so. Radafa told him that Areve was expanding again and that Arevethmonion seemed to have diminished since the last time the war band had scouted this way. Perhaps they were pushing it back so that the Sanctuary Road no longer ran through it: he could not imagine that any gaggle of Green Robes, no matter how misled, would want to make the whole thing go away. It blocked expansion to the east, true, but there was plenty of room at the other nine points of the compass.
How many more souls can that village hold—or should I be asking, how large can it grow? It already holds the population of a great army—and I know exactly how many hectares of farmland are needed to feed a great army. How will they go on farming if it takes them from sunrise to sunfall to reach their fields? And if they build homes closer to their fields, they will not be one village, but many villages that no longer live beneath the Astromancer’s eye, and I do not think Hamphuliadiel will like that.
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