“Do you see it?” Alhana cried.
“The fog, lady?” asked Chathendor, confused.
“Yes! It looks like a dragon!”
Kerian squinted, staring hard. “It does?”
“Its jaws are opening!”
The cloud dissolved, ribbons of mist snaking apart. Alhana turned sharply to her companions, but they reported seeing only an amorphous bank of fog. Chathendor murmured, “You are very tired, lady. You haven’t rested properly since leaving Bianost.”
Kerian was not so dismissive. “It may have been a vision, an omen meant for your eyes only.”
“An omen of what?”
Kerian could not guess, but once the mist had thinned, she saw an odd yellow gleam over the lake. Alhana saw it as well, but neither of them could say what it was. Only Chathendor, whose aged eyes were too weak to pick it out, realized what it was.
“The Tower of the Sun,” he whispered.
Formerly the seat of the Speaker of the Sun and the center of every Qualinesti’s life and heart, the great monument was awash in the foul waters of Nalis Aren, the sunburst glory of its golden peak reduced to a faint ocher smudge.
Trying to dispel the murk before their eyes and in their hearts, Alhana called for torches. Branches were hacked from the skeletal trees. Kerian feared they would prove rotten, but it was not so. The wood was dry and very hard, almost petrified. It burned readily, with a flame so pale it was nearly white, and gave off little smoke.
Two riders went ahead, carrying torches. Almost immediately their light fell on Porthios, standing in the middle of the road. All of them flinched in surprise, and Kerian looked as though she had a choice obscenity for him, but she glanced at Alhana and stifled it.
“We cannot continue on this road,” he told them. “The bridge that once spanned the White-Rage is destroyed.”
The White-Rage River flowed north out of Nalis Aren. They could not continue their course unless they could cross it. Locating a ford suitable for the wagons would require a long journey north.
In the bleak silence, Porthios said, “Another bridge still stands.”
Kerian slapped her thigh with one hand. “Why didn’t you just say so? How much farther north?”
“Not far, but the only way to get there is.…” His ragged robe swung like a tattered banner as he pointed up the hillside. The way was not only steep, but the ground was torn up and strewn with boulders, making for a difficult climb.
Once more the map was called for. Studying it, they determined that the bridge Porthios had found was reached by Birch Trail, a narrow track that more or less paralleled Silveran’s Way.
Hardly had they decided to ascend to Birch Trail when a rider came galloping recklessly down the broken road. He clattered to halt before Samar.
“My lord! The enemy is behind us!” he cried. “Less than an hour away!”
“In what strength?” Kerian demanded.
The Silvanesti guard didn’t like answering a question from a Kagonesti, but Samar impatiently told him to get on with it.
“Five hundred horse and a thousand infantry.”
Alhana quickly sent Samar off to organize their defenses. He and Kerian galloped away together, trading rapid-fire thoughts on how best to meet the threat. The two of them recently had discovered common ground: neither approved Porthios’s plan to attack Mereklar.
Once the two warriors were out of sight, Alhana realized Porthios had come to stand by her left stirrup.
“We must protect the weapons cache,” she said.
“You must keep out of the way. Let the warriors defend the arms.”
Lifting her chin, she replied, “I choose my place, and my place is with my people.”
Urging her mount forward, she moved into the whirlwind of activity filling the road. Kerian had gotten all the townsfolk who weren’t actually driving wagons to clear off the conveyances and arm themselves. The first cart was beginning the climb up the hillside. Its driver stood on the box, reins in hand, and whistled and shouted to his horses. They started up gamely, but within a few yards, slipped on the thick, loose surface. The cart skidded sideways and overturned. Wrapped bundles of spears and swords spilled out.
Porthios directed the reloading of the cart. Once it was done, he told the driver to cut loose his team.
“What?” the driver and Kerian demanded together.
“With this uncertain surface, elves will fare better than horses. The carts must be dragged up by hand.”
“That’s madness!” exclaimed Kerian.
“Yes. Proceed.”
The elves proceeded. Once the horses were cut loose, two elves grabbed the traces and two more got behind to push. Straining, they hauled the cart up eight feet. The wheels sank into the loose ground, but by heaving and rocking, the elves advanced the cart to a level spot above Silveran’s Way.
Those watching cheered until Porthios snapped, “Why are you standing? There’s work to do!”
Kerian watched in amazement as elves seized wagons and carts and started up the sharp grade. The first cart was dragged a further twenty yards. Its elves announced the discovery of another road, narrower than Silveran’s Way but in better condition. They had found Birch Trail.
The caravan comprised thirty-one carts and thirty-five wagons. There weren’t enough elves in the militia to haul all of them up at once, so as teams reached Birch Trail, they had to slide back down the hill and take another turn.
Kerian left them to it and headed down the road to find Samar and the guards, preparing to defend against five times their number of bandits.
“Orexas has them hauling the wagons up by hand,” she reported. “The horses can’t make it.”
Samar glanced at his own mount. “How do we get up there?”
“We don’t.” Kerian drew her sword and rested the flat of the blade against her shoulder. Another rider joined them. Her eyes widened. “You’re in no shape to fight!”
Hytanthas Ambrodel, pale and wan but sitting straight in the saddle, shifted the sword he carried. “I’ll not be carried up a hill like freight,” he replied testily. She could not argue with that.
Soon enough the tramp of many booted feet reached their ears, loud even in the deadened air of Nalis Aren. Another sound played counterpoint: the high crack of whips. Kerian knew the meaning of that.
“Goblin infantry! Stand by to receive an infantry attack!”
By sections, the warriors wheeled about and rode back sixty yards, halting near the end of the caravan. Coming toward them was a phalanx of goblins in black-painted armor. Behind each of the four companies, a human officer rode on horseback. On foot in front of him were half a dozen sergeants, driving the goblins forward with whips.
When the goblins spied the mounted elves, the foremost company halted and their ten-foot pikes dropped briefly. Then, with a concerted shout, they lurched forward again.
“Any tactical suggestions?” Samar asked, seating a helmet on his head.
“Kill them.”
Smiling grimly, Samar raised his sword and shouted, “Elves! By section, charge!”
It was hard for the goblins to gather much momentum while marching uphill, but the downhill slope gave the elves extra impetus. The sight of the Silvanesti hurtling toward them caused the front ranks of goblins to miss a step, despite the whips driving them onward.
The two forces collided. The elves beat aside the goblins’ pikes so they passed harmlessly overhead. The first two ranks of goblins fell beneath the weight of the horses. Kerian stood in her stirrups and laid about on both sides. The result was simple slaughter. The goblins’ shields were slung on their backs, in marching order. Without protection, the creatures were defenseless once their pikes were deflected.
Despite the redoubled efforts of the sergeants and their whips, the rear ranks backed away. Goblins along the edges of the formation were shoved off balance and went tumbling down the hill, smashing into stones and tree trunks. The entire first company broke, retreating into the
ranks of the second.
Samar gave the command to withdraw. Bloody but intact, the elves rode back to where they had started.
Wiping sweat from her eyes, despite the unnatural chill around the lake, Kerian saw a flock of dark birds take flight from trees higher up the hillside. They were carrion birds, the kind that collected at every battlefield, but something had frightened them into flight.
“Ambush!” she cried.
Her warning came a fatal second too late. A swarm of arrows plunged down among the guards. Some found their marks, and elves fell. The remaining guards scattered, with some trying to ride up the hillside at the concealed archers. Their mounts met with no more success than had the cart horses. A second volley whistled down, and many of the riders struggling up the slope dropped from their saddles.
Something bumped Kerian’s horse, and she heard a gasp. Samar swayed in the saddle, an arrow lodged under his left arm. He’d thrown himself in front of her and taken a missile that would have hit her. He slumped over and she yelled at him to hang on. At her command, Hytanthas grabbed the reins of Samar’s horse and led the wounded elf away.
Surrounded by dead and wounded, Kerian turned her back on the bandit army. She lifted her buckler aloft to ward off plunging arrows and shouted, “Elves of Bianost, rally to me! Fight for yourselves! Fight for your people!”
In twos and threes, volunteers crawled out from under the remaining wagons. They were terrified, faces pale as snow, but Kerian was proud of them. They were none of them warriors, yet they came.
“Yes! Well done!” she cried. “We won’t let them sting us like this! Rally to me! Let’s flush out those hornets!”
Theryontas and a dozen elves armed with a mixture of weapons formed up behind her. Another volley of arrows rained down. Heeding the Lioness’s warning, shields came up and the elves warded off the arrows—all but one. One elf found the thrum of missiles in flight too much for his curiosity. He peered over the rim of his shield and took a shaft in the face.
“Keep your shields up!” Kerian dismounted and ran to the uphill side of the road. “Stay together! Let’s go!”
With the remaining guards holding off the scattered goblins, Kerian led her small band up the slope toward the hidden archers. More elves were cowering behind boulders and bushes. The Lioness told them to follow. By the time she reached the thin line of trees along Birch Trail, Kerian had close to sixty followers. A few were armed with bows. She set them to sniping at the archers half hidden down the trail.
While the groups traded arrows, she led a band of twenty higher up the hillside under cover of boulders, broken masonry, and twisted trees. At the first level spot, she directed them to crouch and follow her as she worked her way toward the bandit archers.
Unfortunately, one member of her band was too eager. Impatient with the Lioness’s careful approach, Theryontas went rushing down the slope. He’d taken no more than three steps before an archer put a black-fletched arrow in his chest. The two elves who followed him also were struck down. Kerian gave the order, and the Bianost elves attacked the archers—seventeen humans in dark red brigandines. Most of the humans were still sniping at the elves below and didn’t react in time. They quickly fell to the furious elves.
The enraged town elves would have killed every one, but Kerian halted them. She wanted to question the two remaining archers.
One, with a heavy dark beard, had a slash on his neck and could not speak. The other, a clean-shaven, teenaged boy, was so terrified Kerian had to ask his name twice before he stammered out the answer. He was Wycul, part of the Frenost Free Company, a mercenary band loosely affiliated with Gathan Grayden’s host. The main body of the army had marched to Mereklar after receiving reports of uprisings in that town. The Free Company and the goblin infantry had been ordered to follow the outlaw elves wherever they went. The goblins weren’t happy about entering the environs of the Lake of Death. There were things there that ate goblins, they said.
A horn blared from below. Several of Alhana’s guards were waving to catch Kerian’s attention. She ordered her little company back down to Silveran’s Way. They helped themselves to the dead men’s weapons. Bearing the bodies of Theryontas and their other fallen, and with Wycul supporting his wounded comrade, they descended.
With the defeat of the archer trap, the goblin infantry had fallen back out of sight, leaving the ruined road strewn with dead. Horses trotted back and forth, looking for their fallen riders.
Two of Alhana’s royal guard met Kerian at the edge of the road. “Lady! A catastrophe!” exclaimed one. “Our royal mistress—!”
Fearing the worst, Kerian was already sprinting for the trees. She left the two human captives with the riders.
Alhana was not dead. She lay unconscious on the ground, her head cradled in Chathendor’s lap. They were surrounded by anxious elves, but the rise and fall of Alhana’s chest brought a relief so strong Kerian’s knees felt weak. Samar lay unconscious beside Alhana. The wound under his left arm was tightly bound. He’d lost much blood, and his face was waxen, but he breathed. Kerian could see no visible wound on Alhana.
“What happened?” she demanded.
Chathendor said, “An arrow struck her horse. It bolted and she was thrown.”
Carefully, Kerian touched the back of Alhana’s neck. She thanked the gods Alhana’s neck wasn’t broken, but when her questing fingers found a wet spot above and behind her left ear, Kerian grimaced. A heavy blow could cause bleeding inside the skull, resulting in slow death. Alhana couldn’t be moved for fear of worsening her condition. Yet the elves were in a terribly exposed position, athwart the road, with active mercenary bands at their heels.
With Alhana and Samar down, and Theryontas dead, the Bianost elves looked to the Lioness for leadership. She acted quickly.
“Everyone will ascend to Birch Trail. The rest of the carts and wagons will be left here, their loads divided and carried up the hill. Scavenge wood from the empty wagons to make litters for the wounded.”
Elves hurried to carry out her orders. Chathendor’s tear-filled eyes lifted from his mistress’s still face. “What do we do, lady?” he whispered to Kerian. “Will she live?”
“She will. I won’t allow her to die.”
Porthios approached. For once, Kerian was extremely glad to see him.
He commanded the royal guards to block the road, to protect Alhana, who must remain where she was. His voice and bearing were such that the warriors obeyed without demur. He had less success with Chathendor. The old chamberlain would not be sent away with the wounded.
“I do not leave my lady,” he said flatly, and Porthios was forced to acquiesce. It was that or have the old elf lifted bodily.
The unconscious Samar was borne away, and Kerian prepared to go as well, knowing she could be of no use here. Before she departed, she cast one last worried glance at Alhana and said quietly to Porthios, “You’re a healer? It will take one of uncommon skill to save her.”
“I healed myself when I was nothing but blood and shattered bones. I will heal her too.”
Porthios’s voice rang with conviction. Kerian nodded, but in her heart, she was certain Alhana Starbreeze would not survive the coming night.
13
Gilthas stood on the extreme edge of the plateau, inches from a thousand-foot drop. Warm air rose from the desert, stirring his hair. The wind of the previous day had raised a mighty cloud of dust into the sky. The sun, shining through the haze, was a dully glowing scarlet orb, like an iron left in a forge fire.
A branding iron, he thought, gazing at the morose sky.
Spread on the plateau behind him were hundreds of his kith, captured by the nomads then released. They had been returned without the water, food, weapons, and tools that had been with them on Lesser Fang. Already supplies were reaching critical levels, and this added burden made the situation all the more difficult. There wasn’t even the compensation of a renewal of their fighting strength. The nomads had maimed every male elf.
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br /> Just when Gilthas thought he had plumbed the lowest depths of injustice and suffering, the bottom of the abyss was lowered again. So many elves purposefully maimed. Not even the Knights of Neraka had stooped to such tactics. It was a blow worthy of a dragonlord, only none had ever thought of it.
Was the choice of the left hand intentional? Did the nomads know that most elves, unlike the majority of humans, were left-handed? Or had they considered themselves merciful, branding the lesser-used hand?
Gilthas nearly choked on the thought. In the end, it didn’t matter. The horror of the deed made such fine distinctions irrelevant.
The nomads who escorted the freed elves to the foot of Broken Tooth kept assuring the elves that they were not responsible for the branding.
“You bear the mark of the Weya-Lu,” they said. “We of the Mikku and the other tribes did not do this.”
So all was not harmonious among the various tribes. That might be useful later.
Hamaramis arrived at Gilthas’s vertiginous perch. The old general was followed by a group of young warriors. All were dusty and burned by sun and wind, and all burned just as fiercely with a desire for revenge. The expressions on their faces prompted Gilthas to cut Hamaramis off before he even started speaking.
“I will not hear plans for revenge, General. If you have other military matters to discuss, I will listen.”
Hamaramis’s face worked for a moment, then he burst out, “Sire, something must be done! Every elf on this summit knows what happened, and every one expects us to strike a blow for justice and for honor!”
He sounded like Kerian. Gilthas felt a great weariness drag at his limbs. With as much patience as he could muster, he said, “All that would accomplish is more death. Find another option.”
Hamaramis’s lieutenants openly seethed with resentment but did not speak.
“Our situation grows ever more dire, Great Speaker. If we don’t fight our way off this peak, we’ll never leave here alive.”
That was only too true. They were fundamentally weaker than when they’d first scaled Broken Tooth and could not remain much longer in idle safety. The nomads were displaying unusual staying power, keeping out of reach yet remaining close enough to menace any force that dared descend to the desert. The capture of Lesser Fang had infused the Khurs with new confidence and weakened the resolve of many elves.
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