Alliances ee-2

by Paul B. Thompson

  Kerian knew her grumbling was pointless. Liberating the secret cache from the attic of the mayor’s palace had kept them in Bianost when they otherwise would have made straight for the safety of the woodland. Nobody had expected bandits to return so quickly or in such numbers.

  “Do you fear the enemy?”

  Kerian turned. Porthios was climbing the stairs to the battlement. His ragged robe flapped around his gaunt legs like the wings of the crows that infested the town. She glared at him.

  “Of course I fear them! Twenty warriors and a mob of civilians against an unknown number of trained mercenaries?”

  He looked away, seemingly unconcerned, and her anger grew. She yelled down to the townsfolk below, describing the red and yellow livery of the bandits the Kagonesti had stung. She was told those were the colors of Gathan Grayden.

  Kerian recognized the name. She had learned a lot about conditions in Qualinesti during her brief but turbulent time as a slave. Porthios seemed unimpressed by her description of the bandit leader as the worst of Samuval’s lieutenants. He stared out over the parapet, although there was little to see. Gathan wasn’t foolish enough to parade his army for his enemies to count.

  In fact, Porthios was deep in thought. The strain of taking the town, coupled with finding an unexpected bounty concealed in the mayor’s palace, had set his mind racing. He’d half expected to die liberating Bianost from Lord Olin’s yoke. The future, once confined to a narrow woodland path and a nameless death, appeared much wider. But he had to proceed carefully. He must continue to be bold, or his rebellion would be crushed by Samuval’s superior might. Yet every move had to be considered with care. The entire responsibility lay on his shoulders. Kerianseray was a patriot and a good fighter but hadn’t the finesse to guide the campaign Porthios imagined. His small force must be led with the right attitude.

  A leader must ignore the petty troubles that plague lesser minds. Porthios’s divine encounter in the woodland had taught him that. He could not allow himself to be distracted by tactical problems. He must concentrate on the grand strategy. The god had shown him that only by looking beyond the obvious and the commonplace could he free his people.

  A shout from the Lioness drew his attention to the Street below. The surviving bandits had made their way to other gates and were spurring for the north road. Before they reached the woods, more of their mounted comrades appeared among the trees, along with sizable companies of foot soldiers. A veritable hedge of pikes filled the road.

  “Are they massing to attack?” Porthios asked.

  Kerian slumped, turning to sit on the narrow parapet with her back against the stockade. “No,” she said glumly. “They’re encircling us. Grayden doesn’t need to storm the town. He can’t know how many we are, so attacking the wall would be a waste of soldiers. He’s only got to trap us here till hunger and thirst force us to yield, or until he can overwhelm us.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s what I would do.”

  Grim silence reigned. Then Porthios drew a deep breath.

  “We can’t allow the cache to fall into bandit hands. I’d rather see it destroyed first,” he said. “So we must fight.”

  He stood. Instantly, an arrow whizzed by his shoulder, ripping his sleeve as it passed. Kerian grabbed the front of his robe with both hands and dragged him down behind the sharpened logs.

  “Take your hands off me.”

  She remembered the face under the mask and let go abruptly. With much affronted dignity, Porthios stood again and descended the steps to the street.

  Kerian shook her head. She’d known other warriors like him. Bravest of the brave they often were, but frightening. Placing little value on their own lives, they often didn’t value anyone else’s either.

  She and Nalaryn peered carefully over the barrier. Here and there, elf eyes could pick out bandit archers settling into position among the burned-out ruins of the squatters’ camp.

  Telling Nalaryn to hold his place, Kerian climbed down to the street and followed Porthios back toward the town square.

  Once the setting of slave auctions, executions, and Olin’s unsavory entertainments, the square was again a gathering place for the elves of Bianost. Kerian had thought most of the original inhabitants were long gone, driven out or sold away into slavery. But several hundred had gathered, eager to serve their liberator. The word had spread to gather in the square, and the sudden arrival of Gathan Grayden seemed only to whet their appetite for battle.

  Porthios walked ahead of Kerian. As he entered the square, his pace slowed. The crowd of elves shifted toward him, determined to get a closer look at their benefactor.

  The scene felt oddly familiar to Kerian, reminding her of Gilthas’s progress through the tent city of the exiled elves in Khur. The Speaker of the Sun and Stars was regarded as the noblest being in the world, but while his grateful subjects were welcome to approach the kindly Gilthas, none tried to accost Porthios. Curiosity and gratitude brought them near, but his forbidding demeanor arrested their enthusiasm. Scores lined the way, but not one hand reached out for his ragged robe. Their expressions were different too.

  She had nearly reached the fountain in the center of the square before she identified the difference. The Speaker of the Sun and Stars represented a lofty ideal. Porthios was a reflection of each of them, the rage and shame of every elf in the subjugated lands, personified in one gaunt, shabby frame.

  The slave pens had been torn down by the mob. Since then, debris and garbage had been removed from the central fountain. Seeing that, Kerian wondered aloud about restoring the flow of water.

  An elf standing on the stone platform by the obelisk said, “There is no water.”

  “What, none? None at all?”

  He explained the feeder pipes were broken or choked with garbage. “Olin never bothered to keep them up. For months, all water has been carried in.”

  “In from where?” asked the Lioness, eyes narrowing.

  “From the springs in the meadow south of town.”

  The squatters’ camp had grown up when traders became tired of tramping in and out of the stockade for water. They moved outside to be closer to the springs.

  Kerian gestured peremptorily for Porthios to accompany her. Conscious of being watched by hundreds, he followed. They ascended the steps of the mayor’s palace.

  Out of earshot of the crowd, she hissed, “Did you hear? The bandits have us cut off from our only water supply!”

  “There are rain cisterns under the streets. We’ll drink that.”

  Heatedly, she pointed out the cisterns were likely nearly dry after the long summer drought. Any water in them would be stagnant, an invitation to disease.

  “Then we will fight and win before we get thirsty,” Porthios said.

  The Lioness’s famous temper nearly broke. Porthios had achieved amazing things, but his bland indifference to their safety made her furious. All the old enmity between city lord and woodland elf welled up inside her for the first time since leaving Khur. This arrogant, mutilated noble was gambling with all their lives!

  There was no telling what she might have done had not fate intervened in the person of one of Nalaryn’s Kagonesti, a female called Sky. She jogged up the steps, calling for Kerian and the Great Lord. They were wanted back at the north wall.

  Kerian clutched her filthy hair with both hands. “What now?” she groaned.

  “The bandits are fighting,” Sky said and took off.

  Kerian took that to mean Nalaryn’s band was in peril. She headed down the steps without even looking to see whether Porthios followed.

  The crowd of elves in the square peppered her with anxious questions. She fended them off but quickly realized that was a mistake.

  “The bandits are coming back,” she announced, not breaking stride. “If you value your liberty and love your race, follow me and bring a weapon. The battle is now!”

  There were only a few cries of fear. In a body, the elves grabbed whatever
makeshift weapons they could find and streamed after the Lioness.

  Near the stockade, Kerian heard the telltale sounds of battle. Entering the last street inside the wall, she was surprised to see Nalaryn’s Kagonesti crouched below the parapet. They did not appear to be engaged, so who was fighting?

  She raced up the steps. Behind, the elves of Bianost gripped unfamiliar weapons, their strained faces turned upward.

  “What’s going on?” Kerian demanded.

  One of the Kagonesti pointed wordlessly. Kerian put an eye to a chink between the logs and peeked out. She drew a breath in sharply.

  Beyond the wasteland of squatters’ shanties a considerable battle was indeed taking place. Gathan Grayden’s soldiers, some on foot and some mounted, were milling around their leader’s fluttering standard. No one on the stockade could identify his foe through rising clouds of ash and dirt, but Nalaryn offered a bleak and logical opinion. The rats who’d fled Olin’s town had carried word of his downfall in all directions. The newcomers were probably troops of another bandit lord who sought to grab Olin’s former territory.

  “This may be a well-chewed bone, but they’ll fight like rabid dogs to possess it,” he said.

  Kerian watched as lancers in bright breastplates charged through Grayden’s disordered ranks. His attention had been focused entirely on the town. He had not expected an attack from elsewhere. The mercenaries formed squares to hold off the cavalry, but they were isolated from each other and unable to do anything but fight to stay alive.

  Before the sun set, the battle was over. Grayden himself, surrounded by his best retainers, abandoned the field. His men he left to the mercies of the victor, and like Olin’s mercenaries before them, the bandits broke and scattered. The last Kerian saw of Gathan Grayden was his standard, borne away by a warrior on a black horse.

  The townsfolk, watching the melee through gaps in the logs at ground level, set up a cheer when Grayden’s soldiers fled. Kerian silenced them with a thunderous command. The cure might prove worse than the disease.

  A block of mounted warriors trotted toward the stockade. The Kagonesti nocked arrows and awaited the order to loose. The approaching column numbered perhaps three hundred.

  It was either fight or surrender, and for her part, Kerian had no intention of allowing herself to be chained again. Better to die right here and now.

  She gripped her captured sword tightly. Only a modest archer, she left that art to those far more capable. Soon there would be plenty of fighting to go around.

  The mounted column halted at the edge of the burned-out section of shanties. A smaller contingent of two score riders came on.

  Still peering through the gap between the timbers, Kerian muttered, “I wonder if the Scarecrow has a secret weapon.”

  “Only my mind, and my vision.”

  He was not two feet behind her, looking out over the notched parapet with customary nonchalance. One day he was going to stop an arrow. She said as much.

  “But not today. Can you not see? Those are elves.”

  Had he showered the assembled defenders with steel, he could not have astonished them more. Kerian rose partway from her crouch, looking over the top of the timber bulwark. The riders’ armor was commonplace half-plate; their helmets open-faced. Mercenaries from Beacon to Rymdar wore the same harness. Neither did their horses’ trapping reveal any distinctive elven style. What did Porthios see?

  The contingent halted just within bowshot. A cloud slid across the sinking sun, and when its shadow covered the field, Kerian finally saw the riders’ insignia. Their bright breastplates bore a symbol inlaid in silver. In full light the contrast was too poor to see at a distance.

  The symbol was a star, the eight-pointed star of Silvanesti.

  At the forefront, the ranks parted, and three riders emerged, leaving the others behind. The riders on each end were male, one in a commander’s helmet and mantle, the other a well- dressed noble. Riding between them, mounted on a white mare, was a female elf of great beauty. Her riding clothes were jasperine, a fine white cloth woven with gold and red highlights. She put back her hood, revealing black hair.

  Kerian stared. The rider looked like… but it couldn’t be. It was too unlikely.

  The elderly noble accompanying her hailed them. Atop the log wall, no one breathed, much less answered.

  “Great Lord, will you speak?” whispered Nalaryn. There was no reply. For the first time, the unfailingly confident, supremely smug Porthios was speechless. When Kerian saw his state, she knew her guess about the woman’s identity was correct. His eyes were wide. His bony shoulders trembled.

  “I cannot!” Hoarse, agonized, the words fell from his lips like blood from a fresh wound. He made choking sounds. “I cannot!”

  Everyone was staring, especially the local elves. What new threat could so unnerve the bold savior of Bianost?

  Then, astonishingly, Porthios turned and scrambled down the ladder. He stumbled at the bottom, almost falling on his face, regained his balance, and whirled away, parting the amazed townsfolk like a plow turning fresh soil.

  Outside the stockade, the noble called out again. Kerian sheathed her sword and headed for the ladder.

  Nalaryn stayed her with a hand on her arm. “Are they friends?” he asked.

  “They are gifts from the gods!”

  She went to the sally port door cut into the stockade gate. Some of the Bianost elves, not understanding the situation, protested. She offered only brief reassurance before flinging open the door and stepping outside.

  The white-clad elf woman guided her horse closer. Kerian gripped her sword hilt and stood stiffly at attention, aping the posture of a palace guard.

  “Greetings,” the rider said. Her voice was warm and honest. “I am glad we arrived in time. The bandits were spread thin trying to surround the town. We were fortunate to rout them.”

  Feeling very shabby and unkempt, Kerian passed a hand over her cropped hair and offered a bemused smile. Although the rider had spoken Qualinesti, Kerian answered in Silvanesti. She was not fluent, but more proficient than when last they’d met. “We are glad of it, too, Highness. I’d hardly expected to be rescued by family,” she said.

  The lovely face went blank for a handful of seconds, then:

  “Kerianseray?”

  The name was a disbelieving whisper. Kerian’s smile broadened into a grin.

  Nalaryn emerged with his foresters. The Kagonesti chief asked who the noble lady was.

  The mounted elf smiled at him. “I am Alhana Starbreeze, at your service.”

  Chapter 8

  Smoke drifted across Bianost’s town square, fed by the still- smoldering ruins of houses all around it. Moving in and out of the swirling smoke, Kerian and Nalaryn led Alhana Star- breeze toward the mayor’s palace. Alhana was accompanied by Samar, Chathendor, and a small honor guard. The bulk of her warriors remained behind to patrol outside the stockade and make certain Gathan Grayden and his bandits did not recover their nerve and return.

  At the foot of the steps to the mayor’s palace, Kerian turned to face the square and Alhana. The residents of Bianost looked on with great interest. The white-clad elf lady was certainly very beautiful, but few of them knew who she was or why their mysterious leader appeared so stricken by the sight of her.

  And stricken Porthios was, more deeply affected than he had been in many a day. He had not expected to see his wife again this side of death. He stood at the top of the steps, staring. More than ever he resembled a scarecrow, and his silent immobility only enhanced the likeness. His robe hung around his emaciated frame in limp, loose folds. The rough sash that cinched its waist had loosened, and the garment’s hem dragged on the stones.

  Alhana and her two lieutenants reined up, and she called, “Who commands here?”

  The townsfolk turned to look at Porthios. It required no great leap for Alhana to realize the ragged figure was the leader she sought. She waited for him to speak.

  He did not. In a swirl of ra
gged cloth, he turned and disappeared into the mayor’s mansion. Alhana blinked. She had expected at least a comradely greeting. The masked stranger’s sudden departure left her speechless. Her escort was deeply affronted, and a worried murmur went up from the crowd.

  Kerian could understand Porthios’s shock. He had been saved from destruction by his own wife. He’d probably not seen her since his terrible disfigurement. Perhaps he’d allowed her to think him dead. But whether it was shame for his disfigurement or shame at having been saved by the wife he’d abandoned, Kerian was annoyed by his silent rudeness. Alhana and her soldiers deserved better.

  Etiquette and diplomacy were not her strong points, but Kerian stepped into the breach. Her earlier reference to Alhana as family had been more in the nature of mild teasing. Gilthas was Porthios’s nephew, but Kerian and Alhana had never been particularly close.

  Still, raising her voice and lifting her sword high, Kerian proclaimed, “Greetings, Alhana Starbreeze. Welcome to Bianost! Your timely intervention saved us all!”

  Alhana made a gracious reply then introduced Samar and Chathendor.

  Samar stared at Kerian as though he could not credit the evidence of his eyes. “We thought you were in Khur, with the Speaker,” he exclaimed. “How did you get here?”

  “That is a long and tangled tale, which will keep.” Kerian introduced Nalaryn. Samar knew him by name and reputation. Nalaryn had been a famous scout before the war.

  To Alhana, Kerian said, “You’d better come inside. There is much to discuss.”

  Alhana glanced at the doorway through which the masked fellow had vanished. Much to discuss indeed, she thought.

  She dismounted. In a body, the common folk of Bianost knelt. Although they were Qualinesti and she Silvanesti, they offered silent tribute. Lifting her hem, Alhana climbed the steps with solemn grace. Kerian followed.

  At the top of the steps, Alhana paused. The moment of reverence had passed. Weary townsfolk resumed clearing away the broken and burned remains of the slave market.