Alliances ee-2

by Paul B. Thompson

  Alhana was back in her litter. Helping to shift the stone had left her with barely enough strength to hold up her head, but her eyes were alight with triumph as she was borne past Kerian.

  “We are saved! Our cause continues!” she said.

  True enough, but the cost was high. Nearly two score dead since they’d arrived at Nalis Aren, and thrice that many more hurt. Porthios no longer evinced a deft touch. His tactics had become blunt and brutal, and the Lioness said so.

  “You cannot judge him.”

  Kerian fell in step alongside the litter. “Why? Because he once wore a crown?”

  “Because he suffers more than we do.”

  Alhana could never be less than beautiful, but grime and bruises had certainly taken their toll on her ethereal perfection. It was readily apparent that she, and the rest of them, had suffered, but how had Porthios been harmed?

  “Did you notice how he held his right arm close to his chest?” asked Alhana. Kerian had not. “In shifting the sandstone slab, he broke his wrist.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I toiled beside him. I heard the snap of the bone.”

  Despite herself, Kerian marveled at his fortitude. “But he never said a word!”

  “No. He never did.”

  Unbelievable, Kerian thought. But was it really so strange? She could easily imagine Gilthas doing the very same thing, enduring agony in the service of his people. He’d never complain either.

  She wondered where Gilthas was and how he was faring. The news brought by Hytanthas was at best thirdhand, but if true, then the elf nation was facing the gravest peril it had yet encountered in Khur. And here she was, hundreds of miles from the scorching desert, following a masked lunatic, in company with a former queen who called her “niece” and a band of town-dwelling elves and royal warriors.

  A twisted shape caught her eye. Lying on the hillside below her were the remains of a tower, one of four that had supported the arched bridges encircling Gilthas’s city. This is elf land, she thought with a stab of pride, nurtured and cherished by our race. The lifeless sand of Khur is not. It belongs to the nomads. Let them keep it. Much better to fight for the true elf heartland, here, and not for some alien desert.

  She thought of Nalaryn’s clan, seeking griffons. How she missed the freedom and power of flight on Eagle Eye! Give her a hundred such creatures, and she would sweep the bandit horde out of existence! The image was an intoxicating one, especially after the day’s grim fight. If they could find griffons, as Alhana had suggested, then everything would change.

  Chapter 15

  Another night, another ocean of stars shining down on the embattled elf nation. In a tight column three persons wide, the elves hurried across sand still hot from the sun. Behind them, hulking large against the night sky, Broken Tooth was alive with firelight.

  Gilthas led the column. Like all his people, he was barefoot and bereft of even the smallest scrap of metal. Every bit had been removed and put away lest the slightest glint, the softest clanking, betray the clandestine departure. With Gilthas was the nomad Wapah, who made his way across the ocean of sand with all the confidence of a child of the desert.

  Despite Gilthas’s intention to speak with Wapah immediately Planchet, ably seconded by the healer Truthanar, had convinced him to wait until the next morning. He returned to his small shelter, swallowed the mild sleeping draught Truthanar prescribed, and slept nearly twelve hours. Waken in at midday, he felt better than he had in months. At least he wouldn’t disgrace himself with another collapse.

  From the first, Gilthas believed Wapah’s offer of help to be sincere. His councilors required convincing. He convened the group at the base of the stone cairn, fully intending to signal Taranath on Chisel once a plan for the elves’ departure was reached. Planchet, particularly skeptical, repeatedly asked Wapah about his change of allegiance.

  Wapah explained in his inimitable way: “A sick man craves medicine. A well man does not. Give a well man a specific medicine, and you might kill him. Withhold medicine from a sick man, and he may die.”

  “Which means what?”

  “I do not love the foreigners who dwell in my country.” Wapah’s pale eyes flickered over the group. “But even less do I like what their presence has done to my people. The sooner you are all gone, the happier we shall be.”

  “A lesson you should have preached to your chiefs.”

  Wapah was unfazed by Planchet’s coldness. He shrugged. “Alas, the Weyadan is beyond lessons. She has fallen from balance and no longer sees the hard edges of truth, only a single vista of vengeance. But peace and purity cannot be bought with blood. The former exists in each of us and is not a chattel to be coveted. And blood, once spilled, only calls forth more blood, until no more remains.”

  Gilthas allowed the discussion to continue for only a few I minutes more. By means of mirrors, they signaled Taranath that they were coming. Taranath’s reply came soon thereafter. He had gathered and saved every drop of water he could store for just such an event. His people would be ready when the Speaker arrived to lead them away.

  One grave matter remained. The nomads were always watching the elves. Their view of the summit of Broken Tooth wasn’t perfect, but they could not fail to detect the exodus of so many. It was Planchet who suggested a solution. Someone must stay behind to stoke campfires, make noise, and let themselves be observed atop the plateau.

  Hamaramis and the Speaker agreed but wondered who would volunteer for such a task. Those remaining behind stood a good chance of falling into the hands of the nomads.

  “I have a band more than willing.” Planchet tapped the back of his left hand with one finger, a gesture instantly understood by all: he meant the male elves who had been branded by the nomads.

  “How many volunteered?” asked Hamaramis.

  “All of them.”

  Gilthas shivered. It wasn’t illness that caused his reaction. Hundreds of elves had been cruelly maimed, their left hands rendered nearly useless. When an opportunity presented itself for them to aid their people, every one stepped forward.

  “They needn’t all stay,” Hamaramis said. “The diversion can be accomplished with two hundred.”

  “And me,” Planchet said.

  Gilthas shook his head. “No. You’re too valuable to me, and to the nation.”

  “More valuable than any of the others who would stay behind?”

  Yes! Gilthas wanted to shout, but he did not. Hamaramis and Planchet argued briefly. The old general agreed that a leader was required but said any junior officer would fit the bill. Planchet stubbornly insisted there was no need to command a young warrior to take on a task for which he himself had volunteered. Hamaramis finally gave up and stomped away, radiating annoyance. Planchet turned to his king.

  “Great Speaker, grant me this boon.”

  Planchet had been with Gilthas since his days as the so- called Puppet King in Qualinost. The valet-cum-bodyguard had been handpicked by Gilthas’s mother, Lauralanthalasa, to serve her son. His background included service to the dark elf Porthios. Throughout occupation, exile, and battles beyond counting, Planchet had always been there, the solid center in Gilthas’s turbulent life. Even before the estrangement from Kerianseray, the young king had relied on Planchet’s sage council, his unwavering support. How could Gilthas let him sacrifice himself? How could he refuse?

  With a heavy heart, Gilthas granted his wish but said severely, “Swear on your ancestors’ house you will escape and find your way back to us. Swear it, Planchet!”

  Unexpectedly, Planchet went down on one knee. He swore the oath. Gilthas rested a hand briefly on his friend’s bent head, a lump rising in his throat.

  During the afternoon and evening the elves prepared for their departure, and Planchet prepared to remain. He purposely chose the two hundred most disfigured, crippled, and handicapped out of the many volunteers. In addition to their maimed hands, most had wounds from sword, spear, or arrow. They would be most likely to s
low the rest of the column down during the escape.

  An hour before midnight, Planchet gathered his band at the northeast corner of Broken Tooth for the Speaker’s review. Every elf stood as straight as he was able. Two hundred right hands rose as one, the salute of the Branded. Planchet lifted his right hand too.

  “The Band of Deceivers stands ready to carry out our mission, Great Speaker,” he declared.

  “No, you are not deceivers.” Gilthas thought for a moment. “You are the Sacred Band, heroes of our nation!”

  No rousing cheer greeted his declaration, AU were conscious of the need not to draw nomad attention to their activities. Planchet would have left it at that, but Gilthas could not. He stepped forward and embraced his friend. For a handful of seconds, he allowed himself to lean into Planchet’s solid strength, then he stepped back.

  Planchet saluted, lifting his sword to his face. “Farewell, sire. Preserve the line of Silvanos and Kith-Kanan at all costs.”

  What cost was left to pay? Gilthas didn’t allow his bitter thought to show on his face as he walked slowly down the line of volunteers, meeting the eyes of each, saying thank you. When he was done, he addressed the group one last time.

  “May E’li bless you all. We shall meet again!”

  Taking his place at the head of the column, he followed Wapah down the steep trail to the desert floor. Their first destination was Chisel, to collect those holed up with Taranath and replenish their water supply. Very little food remained, but they could do without food far longer than they could go without water.

  Yet it was not the peak before him, but the one behind that drew Gilthas’s eyes over and over. On Broken Tooth, campfires glowed and cooking pots clattered. Small groups of figures were periodically silhouetted against the starry sky. If he hadn’t known there were tens of thousands of elves behind him, he would have believed they all were still on the summit.

  After the constant wind atop Broken Tooth, the desert seemed still as a tomb. The air cooled rapidly with the sunset, but sharp rocks and the heat stored in the sand, made the elves’ barefoot progress painful. The few horses and other animals they possessed were muzzled with strips of cloth, shod hooves likewise wrapped. All their carts they’d left on the plateau. The elves could descend more rapidly without them, and creaking cartwheels were very noisy. Most of the heavy impedimenta they had carried since leaving Silvanesti and Qualinesti lay abandoned on Broken Tooth. The remaining burdens were carried on backs, in litters, or in simple travois. Like the elves, Wapah led his horse.

  They passed north of Lesser Fang in utter silence. Wapah thought it likely his people would station lookouts there, although he had no way of knowing exactly where they might be. Dawn was only four hours away when they reached Chisel. Wapah held up his hand. The command to stop was relayed silently down the column. Every elf knelt and waited.

  Hamaramis came forward to the Speaker. “Taranath’s signal?”

  “Not yet.”

  Gilthas’s column could not make a sound or show any light, lest the nomads nearby discover them. It was entirely up to Taranath to time the meeting correctly and signal them.

  Wapah calmed their fear of discovery by reminding them the nomad camps were all south of the Lion’s Teeth. Mounted patrols would be abroad, but by dawn the elves would be shielded by Great Fang, largest of the peaks, which lay northwest of Chisel. By day, they could take cover in the caves that riddled Great Fang. Each night they would move farther north and west. The last of the Lion’s Teeth, Pincer, was thirty miles from the mouth of Inath-Wakenti. When they left Pincer’s cover, they would face their greatest danger.

  Many interminable moments passed before a smoky red light flared on the side of Chisel. The light bobbed up and down a few times then plunged. Striking the rocks below, it burst into a shower of sparks.

  The Speaker signed for everyone to stand. Limbs weakened by age, deprivation, and wounds had stiffened in the cold night air. From all along the line of refugees came muffled groans and gasps. Hamaramis frowned, but Gilthas could only shake his head ruefully. They were not the race of bygone years, whose grace and elegance had set the standard for the world. One day they would be again, he vowed. Within the shelter of Inath-Wakenti, they would grow strong. Elf civilization would rebound, becoming greater than ever. He believed it. He had to.

  A double line of riderless horses emerged from the darkness. Each pair was led by a closely cowled elf warrior. The animals were laden with waterskins. The lead elf halted before Gilthas and whispered a greeting. Lord Taranath, he said, had sent water for the Speaker’s company.

  With hushed words and hand signals, the water caravan I was brought forward. Soon, spring water was being doled out to elves who hadn’t tasted fresh water in many days.

  Wapah circled back. “This delay is not wise,” he insisted. “We should move on.”

  “My people have suffered much. Let them drink,” Gilthas said.

  Taranath rode out of Chisel’s shadow into the starlight. With him was the balance of the remaining cavalry.

  “Great Speaker!” he said. “I rejoice to see you!”

  “Rejoice more quietly, if you please,” Gilthas warned, although he was smiling. He clasped Taranath’s hand.

  The cavalry went ahead to screen the slow-moving column from surprise attacks, and Gilthas led the rest forward. They would be well hidden by the peak of Great Fang by the time dawn began to lighten the sky. The next obstacle would be to cross the mile-wide gap between Great Fang and Ripper. Hamaramis counseled waiting for night to cross the open desert, but Gilthas considered delay risky. The nomads might discover them at any time.

  Wapah also advised they keep moving. The deception on Broken Tooth wouldn’t fool the Weyadan for long, and she would come looking for her hated foes. He said there was a wadi north of Great Fang. It ran northwest and would conceal them from riders on the desert plain above. However, using it would take the elves away from the shelter of the Lion’s Teeth.

  “We must quit the peaks sooner or later,” Gilthas said. “We will follow where you lead, Wapah.”

  “It is a wise man who travels the lighted path.”

  “And wiser still is he who keeps his sword in his hand,” countered Hamaramis.

  The elves set out again. If all went well, they would reach the pass into Inath-Wakenti in three days.

  * * * * *

  Breetan Everride and Sergeant Jeralund entered the city of Mereklar at the end of a mile-long procession of foot soldiers. Virtually the entire army of Gathan Grayden was marshaled in the city. Jeralund cast a practiced eye over the assemblage of men, goblins, even a battalion of ogres hired out of Kern, and estimated the total strength at forty thousand. It might not be a cohesive force, but it was a formidable one.

  The great concentration of might had been prompted by the debacle at the Lake of Death, where forces commanded by Lord Haym, bandit governor of Mereklar, had been bloodily repulsed. The time for economy was over. Lord Gathan intended to crush the elf rebellion once and for all, even if it meant using every able-bodied warrior in the region. Aside from a few small garrisons remaining in towns such as Shrivost, he had stripped his realm of every soldier he could find. The Knights of Neraka could seize western Qualinesti with no more than a palace guard if they chose. Breetan intended to use the Order’s Mereklar envoy, Tagath Ellimer, to send a message saying just that.

  Ostensibly a “commercial advisor,” one who saw to it Nerakan traders were treated fairly by local merchants, Ellimer’s actual job was to acquire information that might be of interest to the Order.

  Mereklar was larger than Samustal but couldn’t begin to hold forty thousand soldiers. Most were camped in a sprawling crescent of tents on the high ground south of the city. The smoke, smells, and noise that rose from the sea of canvas almost blotted out those from the city below it. Grayden would have to move soon. He didn’t have the resources to support so large an army for long unless it could forage (that is, plunder) the countryside as
it marched. Unfortunately, his goal was Breetan’s too, and she had no desire to contend with him for I her prize.

  Rumors were flying thick and fast about where the elves were heading. Current betting heavily favored New Ports and the sea. One outlandish rumor Breetan had heard was that a fleet of elf ships was sailing down from the north to reinforce the rebellion.

  At Tagath Ellimer’s pleasant home, she and Jeralund were fed well and plied with excellent wine. Ellimer was a portly, merry-eyed fellow who laughed a lot and wore an extravagant mustache. Behind his jolly veneer, he was shrewd and ruthless. According to Jeralund, he once had been considered the greatest duelist in Neraka.

  “The town’s aboil,” Ellimer said, pouring rose-colored wine into Breetan’s goblet. “Haven’t seen so much excitement since the demise of Beryl.”

  “Does Gathan know where the rebels are?”

  The envoy laughed heartily. “If he knew that, Lady, the army would be there, not here!”

  “Do you think he’ll catch the elves, my lord?” Jeralund asked.

  Ellimer sat back, paunch hanging between his knees. Draped in dark blue serge, with a massive gold chain hanging low from his thick neck, be looked like an ancient potentate posed on his throne.

  “Lord Gathan will kill many. His army will sweep in and flush out every living soul but the rebels he seeks. That’s assuming the evil in the Lake of Death doesn’t rise up and claim his host first.”

  That was what Breetan had hoped to hear. She would not besmirch the Everride name with another failure. The Scarecrow was her trophy and no one else’s.

  “If you ask me,” Ellimer said, although no one had, “the rebels aren’t heading east to New Ports. I believe they will complete their circuit of the lake.”