Alliances ee-2

by Paul B. Thompson

  “That’s a broad range.” In the desert, five miles could easily mean the difference between survival and destruction.

  Planchet assured him they would refine the calculations. Gilthas studied the map Planchet held for him then announced his decision.

  “We will go to the first pinnacle. We will occupy each spire in turn, using it as a fortress against the desert tribes.”

  The sun was sinking in the west. Gilthas returned to his horse, and Planchet went with him. Watching them ride away, one of Hamaramis’s younger officers made a disparaging remark about the Speaker’s wits. The old general whirled and struck the offender with his gauntleted hand. The elf hit the ground, blood trickling from his lip.

  “How dare you!” Hamaramis rasped. Heat and the shouting of commands had taken a toll on his voice, but fury was clear in every hoarse word. “The heir of Silvanos is not to be insulted!”

  The young officer, a Silvanesti protйgй of the late Lord Morillon, arose with much wounded pride. “I ask forgiveness,” he said stiffly. “But you yourself said going there would be like jumping into prison.”

  “So it may be. And if the Speaker commands it, jump we will!”

  The chastened captains dispersed to their waiting troops. General Taranath remained with Hamaramis. “You fear this development?” Taranath asked, his gaze following the insolent Silvanesti.

  Hamaramis shrugged, wincing at the pain in his shoulders. “It’s difficult to know the future. I am no seer,” he rasped.

  “I said that once to Hytanthas Ambrodel. His reply was, ‘The future always arrives, whether we want it or not.’”

  “I miss young Hytanthas. One of many fine officers we’ve lost.”

  Taranath did not correct the old general. Hytanthas had been sent by the Speaker to find his missing wife. No word had come from him in months, but as far as anyone knew, Hytanthas was not dead.

  A ragged blare of trumpets brought the mass of exhausted elves to their feet. They prepared to resume their trek.

  Hamaramis and Taranath solemnly clasped hands. This close to destruction, each parting felt like the final one.

  * * * * *

  They succeeded in achieving the heights. As Planchet’s scouts had reported, the Lion’s Teeth were scalable, especially for those as motivated and agile as the elves. For days they had been clinging to the windy fortresses. Days of scalding sun, chill nights, and an ever-shrinking water supply. Two-thirds of the elves, including the Speaker and Planchet, camped on Broken Tooth. A much smaller band was dug in on the much steeper neighboring peak, Lesser Fang. Beyond them, the remaining elves had taken refuge on Chisel. By means of signal mirrors, those on Chisel notified the Speaker they had found a small spring bubbling in a cleft on the pinnacle’s side. It was difficult to reach in the best of conditions and nearly impossible under the constant sniping of nomad archers, but Taranath, in command of the elves on Chisel, rigged a chain of leather buckets to haul water from the spring under cover of darkness. Those on Chisel would not go thirsty but had no way of sharing their life-giving find.

  Daily the desert floor around the pinnacles echoed with the sounds of battle. General Hamaramis and the remaining cavalry fought to keep clear the gaps between the steep mountains. The nomads no longer sought or accepted pitched battle. Instead they tried to ambush small parties of elf warriors, sniped at the peaks with arrows, then vanished into the blazing desert when Hamaramis brought the weight of his army to bear. The Speaker ordered bonfires burned atop the peaks every night. The bonfires served a dual purpose: not only dissuading the nomads from sneak attacks, but signaling to the elves on the adjacent peaks that their comrades were holding out.

  One night, just before midnight, the beacon atop Lesser Fang went out. Word was sent to the Speaker, and he convened a hasty council. It was held atop the cairn they had constructed on Broken Tooth. The cairn afforded them an unobstructed view of the black outlines of Lesser Fang, Chisel, and Great Fang. Great Fang, highest of the pinnacles, blocked any view of Ripper and Pincer beyond.

  “Perhaps they ran out of fodder for the flames,” said a Silvanesti councilor. Oil was more precious than steel at that moment, and little wood could be had for fires. Dried dung was the usual fuel in the desert.

  “We cannot assume that,” Planchet said. The warriors around him murmured in solemn agreement.

  “You’ve heard nothing?” Gilthas asked.

  “Nothing at all, sire.”

  The human blood in his ancestry meant Gilthas’s senses were not quite as acute as those of a full-blooded elf. If Planchet and the others did not hear anything from Lesser Fang, then there was nothing to be heard. Despite that, Gilthas leaned forward over the rickety wooden railing atop the cairn platform and peered into the blackness toward Lesser Fang. He strained to see until tears came to his eyes, but neither sight nor sounds reached him.

  “We must know!” he said, driving a fist into his palm. Not for the first time, he wished for the presence of a mage or seer. Since the elves’ exile, these had been in short supply, targeted by both the minotaurs and the Knights of Neraka to blind the elves’ resistance and spread fear and despair.

  Two young warriors volunteered to go to Lesser Fang, to find out what had happened. The peak was only a quarter of a mile away, but the two would have to descend Broken Tooth, cross open desert, then climb the steep side of the neighboring peak, all in darkness while evading vigilant nomads.

  Gilthas saw no other option. He warned the ardent young elves not to waste their lives. “If the enemy has taken the mountain, come back at once. Don’t attempt a rescue. Come back and report what you find to me.”

  They saluted and hurried away. The ever-present wind atop the peak freshened, swirling around the cairn. Gilthas coughed. The spasm didn’t stop, but grew stronger. Faithful Planchet laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “You are ill, sire.”

  Gilthas shook his head, drawing a shaky breath. “It’s only the chill night air. It dries my throat.”

  The valet didn’t believe that for a moment, but it did give him a reason to urge the Speaker to leave the exposed sentinel post. The two of them descended, but Gilthas would not return to camp.

  “I will remain here, in the lee of the cairn,” he said.

  His tone told Planchet that the valet’s mothering would be tolerated so far but no further. Planchet gave in with good grace.

  “An excellent idea. We will call you if there are any developments.” He climbed back up the stone pile.

  Gilthas pulled his affre close about his throat. The coughing was becoming more and more difficult to stop once it began. Sometimes he coughed up flecks of blood.

  He knew what ailed him. Consumption wasted the body and rotted the lungs. Legend held a consumptive grew more beautiful as death drew near. The glimpses he’d caught of his reflection told him he was not beautiful. He was a good fifteen pounds lighter than when he had dwelt in Khurinost. His eyes were heavily shadowed, yet red rimmed, and despite the sunburn on nose and cheeks, his pallor had grown markedly. No, certainly not beautiful, so he must still be full of life. But his cough was becoming more frequent, and his eyes were more sensitive to the brilliant light of the Khurish sun than they had been. Deep in his chest, there was a hollowness, a sort of dead emptiness, as if a block of wood rested there.

  Sweat suddenly broke out, and he loosened the neck of his robe. He knew the unnatural heat would pass quickly, leaving him even more chilled than before, but while it lasted, his body burned as though roasted over a fire.

  Leaning against the cool stones of the cairn, alone for the first time in days, Gilthas allowed his thoughts to drift to other times and places. He imagined Kerian’s reaction to his illness. You’re not sick, she would declare, her strong features softening as she looked at him. You just need rest, good food, and lots of hot baths.

  His wife was a great believer in the nearly miraculous powers of hot water and soap, probably because she’d been an adult before having easy acces
s to either. Limitless hot water, a well constructed tub, and rose petal soap represented the height of civilization to the Lioness, among the very few things worth leaving her beloved forest for.

  A bead of sweat ran down Gilthas’s forehead. He wiped it away. His skin was hot to his own touch. Wind swirled around the makeshift tower at his back, setting the hem of his geb flapping and raising gooseflesh on his arms. He shivered, although the sweat still trickled down his face. This was a particularly intense episode of the fever.

  A rustling noise drew his attention away from his bodily ills. Leaves tumbled over the stony ground at his feet. He blinked, wondering if he could be hallucinating. Nothing grew on Broken Tooth, not even weeds. He picked up a leaf. It was an ash leaf, green and supple. Where could they be coming from?

  Another sound interrupted his musings. His councilors on the lookout post above were exclaiming in surprise. Stepping away from the cairn, Gilthas looked up. A cloud of bats was whirling overhead. Some of the elves were swiping at the darting creatures, trying to shoo them away.

  Gilthas told them to stop. Bats and leaves appearing from nowhere in the lifeless desert? These had to be omens. Whether good or bad, he didn’t know, but they should take care not to antagonize whatever forces were at work. Perhaps the elves were near enough to Inath-Wakenti that the power there was affecting their surroundings.

  Gilthas choked suddenly. The wind had hurled a leaf directly into his open mouth. Instinctively he spat it out then abruptly bent, picked up another, and placed it on his tongue. His eyes widened. He hadn’t imagined it; the ash leaf tasted very good, like asparagus, his favorite vegetable.

  The councilors descended to find their king crouched on the ground, stuffing green leaves into his mouth. Before Planchet. could protest, Gilthas thrust a handful of leaves at him.

  “Try them! They’re good!”

  With the air of an elf humoring an insane request, Planchet bit the tip of one leaf. He could hardly credit the sensations in his mouth. The taste was bright and crisp, like a fresh radish. Planchet loved radishes, especially those grown in the meadows surrounding Bianost, from whence he hailed.

  “Gather them up!” Gilthas commanded. “We have fresh food!”

  Even the haughty Silvanesti councilors went to work with a will, gathering the leaves still falling from the sky.

  Word of the unexpected bounty flashed across the mesa. Elves sleeping fitfully on cold stone awoke. Confusion changed to laughing astonishment as each of them tasted the leaves. The more alert rigged blankets and tarps to catch a greater harvest.

  For an hour, the wind blew ash leaves over the crowded mountaintop. The elves gathered all they could until the wind died out and no more leaves fell.

  Gilthas surveyed the scene with quiet delight. “What do you make of this, Planchet?”

  “A miracle from the gods, sire.” Planchet ate another leaf. He and the Speaker had compared their experiences, but no matter how many leaves they tried, each tasted like asparagus to the Speaker and like radishes to his valet.

  Into the celebratory scene came the two scouts returning from Lesser Fang. They arrived, gasping for breath from having run all the way back.

  Their ashen faces told Planchet their report would be better given to the Speaker in private. Before he could suggest that, the scouts blurted out their news.

  “They’re gone, Great Speaker! All of them!” said one.

  The other added, “There is no one on Lesser Fang!”

  Gilthas took a step back, visibly shaken. Thousands dead? It wasn’t possible. Not since the elves’ arrival in Khur had the nomads achieved such a victory.

  “Did you find evidence of a fight?” Planchet said sharply.

  Some, they said. The rocky path up the north face of the pinnacle held the bodies of eight slain nomads. At the top, threescore elves had fallen defending the plateau. Gilthas questioned that figure, wondering where the rest had gone. One scout suggested that the bulk of elves, fearful of being overrun, had evacuated to Chisel. That did not seem likely. The beacon on Chisel was burning as before. If something grave had happened, the Speaker was certain Taranath would have signaled him, perhaps by lighting a second bonfire. No such sign had come from Chisel.

  Still, that possibility had to be investigated. Fresh scouts were dispatched to make the dangerous trek to Chisel. The Speaker also ordered the army be recalled. Hamaramis kept it hidden unless it was engaged. This night the army was lying among the high dunes southwest of the Lion’s Teeth, a half- hour’s walk from the base of Broken Tooth. One of the few horses on Broken Tooth was saddled and a rider sent to fetch the army.

  “This is impossible,” Planchet insisted. “Sire, we would have heard something! If they all were massacred, we would have heard it!”

  Gilthas laid a hand on his distraught valet’s shoulder. He agreed with Planchet, but there was little more that could be done until daybreak. With Planchet at his side, be walked among his anxious subjects, reminding them of the miracle of the ash leaves and reassuring them about their missing brethren. The elves on Lesser Fang likely had been surprised by the nomads and decided to escape to Chisel or hide in the desert, but they Would be found.

  The Speaker’s reassurances and his presence comforted his subjects. With lightened hearts, the elves finished storing away the bounty of leaves then settled down to sleep for what remained of the night.

  Despite the confident face he showed his people, Gilthas was deeply worried about his missing subjects. He didn’t suspect the Khurs, but a more mysterious cause. Only with Planchet had he shared Kerian’s report of the disappearance of many of her warriors in Inath-Wakenti. Perhaps the elves on Lesser Fang had been spirited away by a similar unknown force.

  Kerian herself had vanished near Khurinost, after riding to face certain death at the hands of the nomads. None of the desert-dwellers they’d captured and questioned had been able to give them any information about her. Privately Gilthas thought that a good sign. If the Khurs had captured or killed the fabled Lioness, they’d have boasted to the heavens about it.

  No word at all had been received from Hytanthas and the five experienced trackers Gilthas had sent to look for Kerian. For all Gilthas knew, the six searchers were lost too.

  The starlit pinnacle was quiet. A breeze, weaker than the leaf-bearing wind but colder, had everyone reaching for blankets, rugs, spare gebs and affres, anything to ward off the chill.

  Planchet had spread Gilthas’s bedroll under a canvas lean- to. The shelter was barely larger than the bedroll it covered, but it kept the constant wind at bay. As Gilthas lay down on his lonely bed, he knew in his heart that his wife was alive. The day she died, the colors of life would fade, the tumult of the living world would still, and wherever Gilthas Pathfinder was, he would know she no longer drew breath.

  Oddly comforted, he lay down amid bales of ash leaves and was soon asleep.

  Chapter 10

  The dining room of the mayor’s palace in Bianost once more hosted a gathering of elf notables. Unlike meals of decades past, this was no rich repast, carefully planned by kitchen artists. Kerian, Alhana, Chathendor, and Samar were seated at one end of a table meant to hold many times their number. The fare was simple, and the diners served themselves-all except Alhana. Chathendor performed that duty for her. Long experience had taught her that protesting was pointless. By the amber glow of candles and oil lamps, the diners discussed their options.

  Since the arrival of Hytanthas Ambrodel, tensions had only increased among the liberators of Bianost. Hytanthas was ensconced among the wounded, tended by healers and slowly regaining his strength, but Porthios remained missing. In his absence the townsfolk had turned to Alhana for guidance. She pointed out that Kerian, as wife to the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, should rightly hold that place. Blunt as always, the Lioness told her not to worry about such niceties: “None of us is king or queen here. If it comforts the townsfolk to look to you, that’s fine-as long as it’s understood I take the lead in m
ilitary matters.”

  This was said with a pointed look at Samar, who bristled just as Kerian must have known he would. Alhana stepped in to forestall the disagreement that always seemed to hover in any encounter between her trusted commander and the Lioness. With an apologetic glance at Samar, Alhana agreed.

  Alhana said they should follow Porthios’s original plan: abandon Bianost as soon as possible and take the huge cache of weapons into the forest for safekeeping. She and the Lioness were in accord on that point. For once, however, Samar did not side with his queen. He favored seizing another bandit-held town deeper in the forest, such as Frenost. Another coup like Bianost, he insisted, would rally every elf in the nation and seriously demoralize the bandits.

  Kerian shook her head. “It won’t work,” she said.

  Pushing away her empty dinner plate, she leaned down and lifted a heavy roll of vellum from the floor next to her chair. Unrolled, it proved to be a fine map of Qualinesti, painted in four colors and showing details as fine as individual wells, houses, and footpaths. She had found it in a heap of documents the bandits had been using as tinder to start cook fires in the kitchen. More startling than that casual disregard for so fine a document was the notation on the back of the map: “Copied by Favaronas, royal archivist, Qualinost. Year VI,” meaning the sixth year of Gilthas’s reign.

  The sight of Favaronas’s name had been a jolt, reminding Kerian of Inath-Wakenti, and Khur in general. What had happened to the timid librarian and the good warriors who’d accompanied her to the Vale of Silence? She’d been too busy lately to spend time contemplating their fate. Standing in the kitchen of the mayor’s palace, clutching the heavy map, she summoned their faces, but the panoply was quickly overwhelmed by her husband’s face, smiling in his exhausted, gentle, yet unyielding way. She had banished it by kicking over the pile of manuscripts and books.

  “The capture of Bianost was due to surprise and the woeful unpreparedness of Olin and his troops,” she declared, speaking to Alhana at the table’s head. “The bandits are aroused now, and their defenses will be strengthened everywhere. We don’t have the numbers or experience to storm a fortified town, much less besiege it.”