“Jalila, stay alert.”
She nodded sharply and stepped away from the horses to get a better view. Iric’s mount was scored, long gashes running along one leg. The tendons in that leg were gone. It would never run. With a flash of his blade, Colath ended its life. Elven cull it might be but he wouldn’t leave it to the savagery of the creatures here. Dead, it could suffer no more miseries and might buy them some time.
“Iric,” he said, “you ride with Jalila.”
Both were smaller and light, not so much weight as putting Mortan up behind her. Her horse could carry both, although not for as long.
“When we go, grab a torch from the fire and ride hard,” he said and swung up onto Chai’s back.
His bow would be of little use. Even with Elven-sight he couldn’t see far and clearly enough to make his shot count sure. It was sword work or nothing and hope your sword was long enough.
Alic leaped for his horse with Mortan shadowing him to his own mount. Once she was sure they were set, Jalila swung up on hers and reached for Iric.
Dropping Chai’s reins, Colath let the horse have her head, leaning down swiftly to snatch up a burning brand as he went by the fire and sweeping it alongside to drive off any boggarts before righting himself and leaning into the race.
Chai took up the challenge, living up to her name. She was swift, leaping forward to clear the rocks completely and racing into the night.
The others were behind him, flames streaming from the torches. Fire wouldn’t matter in the mad charge except light and as a weapon. He sent an elf-light ahead of them to give the horse light enough to see.
Dawn was too far off, the first dim promise of it nearly an hour away.
“At all and any cost one of us must make it to Aerilann,” he called to the others.
Somehow.
Somehow all of them would if he had any say in it.
The chancellor stood waiting, eyeing Daran High King, Lord of all Men. A man of severe and harsh mien, his graying dark hair was brushed back from his forehead and held in place by his workaday crown of state. It was a far less elaborate version of the heavily jeweled one he wore in Council, Court or when passing Judgment. This one was lighter, adorned only by three slightly thicker ridges of gold, to mark his status as First of the Three. In profile Daran was a hawkish man, his deep-lidded eyes offset by the high bridge of his long nose. The light wasn’t kind to him, deepening the marks and scars on his face caused by a bout of the pox when he’d been a boy.
It had been a chastening lesson, humbling even him.
A small group of men, the masters of the treasury, stood at one end of the room, waiting to give their accounting.
The chancellor had already given his and awaited the decision.
“King Olend, was it?” Daran asked.
One of the lesser Kings, Olend ruled the independent monarchy of Marakis to the east, near the deep deserts.
The chancellor nodded. Daran knew, he was merely repeating the information, considering the request, the political ramifications and benefits.
It was the first such appeal, although Daran had reports that indicated it wasn’t likely to be last or the only one. Apparently it was a very active time along some parts of the borderlands. Perhaps it was the mild winter, allowing passage and more freedom for some of the less savory denizens of that place. It didn’t matter. If he answered this request, there would be more.
He glanced at the waiting masters of the treasury. They would tell him, he was certain, that the funds didn’t exist. They would, however, find the necessary resources if he demanded it. He wouldn’t. It was the responsibility of each lesser King to find the coin for such protection. Within their kingdoms, they were the sole authority save for him. Moreso Marakis.
To him fell other responsibilities. For his own people, he stood in judgment over the lesser Kings, settling the disputes that inevitably rose among them and making sure they ruled fairly. Rarely did he interfere, although he would and had suggested or cautioned. Occasionally – as in the setting of the boundaries – he would step in to prevent a dispute. As High King, he also maintained the armies, such as they were. It had been so long since there was a war that only the Navy still had a real purpose, defending the coast against pirates – thieves and murderers who’d escaped punishment by fleeing to sea. Enacting the edicts of the Council and sitting among the Three to set those edicts. Delegates from the three races sat on the Council and the Three listened to them before they rendered a decision that affected all.
He also maintained this city, Doncerric, the King’s City, and all who lived within it.
Therein lay the problem.
It was also the seat of the Council, both High and Low, where the Council Chambers stood.
Although all three races had in the end agreed that a council was necessary – ten years of hard work and seemingly endless negotiations – neither of the other two had wanted to host it. Nor would the Dwarves have suffered to have the Elves do it. The bitter envy those people had for their fairer cousins wouldn’t tolerate any favor shown to Elves above their own race.
The Elves, on the other hand, hadn’t seen it as a favor either.
Most of them, anyway.
They wouldn’t tolerate the other races in their precious Enclaves, either, which were damn near sacrosanct and holy to them. Even he hadn’t been in one of those fantastic places, only on the outskirts. Seeing one, he’d understood the enchantment some of his people felt for the lands of those haughty people. High King of all Men he might be, to the Elves he was nothing more than another First among equals. It grated on him somewhat to be addressed the way they addressed any other but he swallowed it in the face of the greater need.
It had fallen therefore to Doncerric to play host to the Council.
A proper place had to be chosen.
Elon’s decision.
Elon of Aerilann, an Elf.
His reluctant ally, most of the time where it regarded the Alliance, and his occasional adversary, where Daran’s own people were concerned.
Elon had already known the place he would choose. It was on the second level, below the High King’s castle. It commanded a view over the plain there and the lands that rose and spread out beyond it.
The Kingdoms.
That place, Elon had said, so those who governed should all remember who they ruled, what they ruled and that they ruled for all and not just some.
Thus, the Chambers had been built. The Dwarves had contributed their Builders, the stone, gold and their skill with iron.
Elon had designed the Chambers themselves, while others contributed to the Council Building.
As with all things Elven, the Chambers were a perfect balance of purpose and art.
With Elves even the simplest things like a belt-knife were crafted with the finest skill and exquisite form.
A cloak pin wasn’t a simple clasp but was wrought into intricate and elaborate shapes. Expert warriors gifted with sword and bow could also play a lute with mastery.
As with many things Elven, Elon had had much to do with all of it, making suggestions, giving advice and smoothing the tensions between the three races.
Elon, both blessing in disguise and thorn in his side.
Elon, who had negotiated with the Dwarves to build the Chambers and the Council building with their magic, some help from the wizards, and the labor of men.
So the Chambers and Council were complete.
That last only a few years ago, in fact.
Daran’s crowning glory.
The houses there had had to be purchased from their current owners, lest it create discontent, the land leveled and made ready. All that fell to men. It had been costly but not that costly. Those funds had come from the Treasury.
If he acceded to this demand of Olend’s, it wouldn’t be the last such request, the last such drain on the treasury. The others would expect the same. It would also set a bad precedent. He wouldn’t allow the lesser Kings to think the Treasury would be their i
nsurance against poor planning and lack of prudence. Once that began the Treasury would be hostage to every disaster, from floods to famine.
In the end, he shook his head.
“Send to Olend. Remind him that such things fall within his purview, not Ours. Tell him that if the situation is so dire he can’t handle it himself perhaps I should send the army. They need the practice.”
They did, spending most of their time drilling, occasionally hunting down bandits in the hills or helping the Hunters with goblin and troll raids.
It would also be a great deal more expensive in the long run, as Daran could tell him, since a good piece of the Treasury went to maintaining it.
Hosting the army while it ran through the lands leading to the Great Desert would fall upon Olend’s people. Shepherds, goatherds and such, growers of figs and olives. Feeding the army and housing them. The rule of thirds would hold – the third best of anything the household had to offer would go to the army. The third best sheep in this example, or third best lamb or goat, cattle if they had them. A third of the food. As well, no General wished to spend his time in a tent if it wasn’t necessary. They were cold in winter and hot in summer. No, the General in question could and would requisition housing as well, for him and his lieutenants. Either in that King’s own castle, or from some landowner near the field of battle. Some of his Generals were accustomed to some degree of luxury, being the spare heirs – the sons and daughters of some of those self-same lesser Kings. Not all but some.
If the situation was truly so dire Daran would know soon enough. There would be another request.
He waved the chancellor away and that man went silently.
The chancellor’s own feelings on the matter were mixed. Rumors were whispered through the city that something unusual was happening in the high reaches, in the mountains along the borderlands. Nothing much yet, wild stories but they had reached his ears. It was enough to worry him.
He said nothing to the King. It wasn’t his place.
Daran turned away as soon as the man left. He scowled briefly at the masters of the treasury. Not yet.
He looked out the window to the distant rolling sea beyond.
It was a mild day but then all days here were mild. That was why this city had been chosen. Here on this rocky cliff above the sea, rather than in the mountain fastnesses or in the depths of the heartland. In winter, travel could be difficult in those locales. This place was temperate at all times so that all could reach it. Daran missed seasons.
The eyes of the masters were on him and growing impatient, though they wouldn’t show it.
With a sigh of bitter resignation, he turned and signaled them to come.
King Olend listened to the messenger, and waved his Leaders of Hunters and Men of the Desert, as his folk called Woodsmen, to silence, before sending the young man on his way.
“The Army,” Talik said, angry and outraged. “Of what good is the army in hunting salamanders and basilisks, ogres and orcs? They have no experience with such, they’re only trained in fighting men.”
As leader of the Hunters, he had cause enough to complain. His men were tired, as were the Men of the Desert who were trying to take up the slack for them. Both were losing people now not so much to the creatures they fought but to accident and injury caused by weary men and women making mistakes. Even now one was laid up with a broken leg. Another had slipped while honing his blade and cut himself on it. That’s how tired they were.
Walking to the window, Olend looked out upon the waving palm trees, the fig and olive trees that surrounded his castle far beyond the high sandstone walls.
“It may come to that, Talik.”
“I still say, what good will they do?”
He agreed. They wouldn’t. Still, they were tired these men of his, stretched nearly to their limit.
“I’ll give you some of my Guard. While they may not be any better with basilisks and such, they’re at least familiar with them, they know how to stand watch and stay awake and how to use a sword. That may at least allow your people some little rest.”
“What else can we do?” Aron asked. His tone was bitter.
Olend shook his head. “I don’t know. We’ll try this for a time. We have little choice.”
Chapter Three
It’s been too long, Elon thought, standing with his hands clasped behind him, his eyes on unseen mountains to the west. They should have returned long before now. His Foresight told him nothing but such gifts were chancy at best. The future was a fluid thing, ever-changing. Simply the knowing of what might be changed what would be. That was something Elves understood but men didn’t. Jareth had told him of a wizard with a similar gift, who had then spent his days in his rooms half-mad at the paradox he couldn’t resolve.
Men always thought to change or control everything about them. That wasn’t the way of Elves, who knew that change was constant and sought control over only themselves and how each reacted to those changes. Elon saw what the future might be and sought to do only what he could do to avert it, if necessary, inasmuch as he was able. His glimpses and presentiments of the future were a guide, another piece of the mosaic that was life.
There had been no word from Colath, no messenger and no sign.
When he noticed the Hunters and Woodsmen had added to the length of their patrols by extending them further west he said nothing, lending them his unspoken assent. This despite the fact that many were weary themselves already.
There had been other incidents. A basilisk several weeks ago. No one had been hurt but only because they were alert to the danger. His warning served them well. No one rode these days without arms at ready. Men kept swords in hand while Elves rode with arrows notched loosely. When both the Hunter and his horse had frozen before the basilisk’s stare, three arrows had pierced the creature before it could strike.
In another incident an ogre had tried to make a meal of a Woodsman’s horse when they made camp one night. The horse hadn’t survived and the ogre had escaped, only to be chased back north and west again by the Hunters.
That only added to his concern. Already they had more incidents in one month than would be common in several.
Jareth’s report hadn’t eased his mind.
As much as he’d welcomed Jareth’s arrival, the very fact he’d returned before Colath only reminded Elon of how long Colath and his party had been gone. Through their true-friend bond he knew Colath was hurt, alarmed and very weary.
He hadn’t called for help though.
There had been no other word.
Colath’s party had had less than a quarter of the distance to cover that Jareth had. Though they had to go stealthily and with care and he hadn’t, it still was too long. Summer had begun and they hadn’t returned.
Jareth’s report had only confirmed his growing suspicion.
They weren’t alone in this. It was happening all over. He’d sent messengers to all the Elven Enclaves, couching his words to convey concern but not alarm. Of them all only Alatheriann in the south, deep in the Heartlands, hadn’t seen an increase of borderlands incursions.
If Colath and his party didn’t return very soon, Elon would have to send folk in search of them. To do so would be to admit it didn’t bode well, that he thought they were in trouble.
Which he did and they were, as every Elf knew.
He knew Colath, his true-friend, bore wounds across his ribs and back.
It pained him as well and to know Colath was hurt pained him even more.
Something had happened. Why hadn’t Colath sent for aid?
Another consideration weighed on him as well. To one side of his mind was the presentiment that time grew short. In what way he didn’t know. Yet. The sense of time running out, though, urged him to take action, but not what action to take.
Jareth’s information only made it that much more urgent.
Something was missing, some vital piece of this odd mosaic, knowledge, and something else that was crucial to their success.
If he didn’t move and soon, that critical moment might be lost.
From his perch on the edge of the veranda, with his back against the stones of the wall, Jareth watched Elon fret.
Not that there was much to watch.
Elon stood with hands clasped behind him, as still as a statue. For an Elf, it spoke volumes about his concern. Men would pace, wasting energy to no purpose. An Elf wouldn’t. They were still, conserving energy.
It was no use to reassure him as Jareth would have a man. Elon well knew Colath was capable and didn’t need another to remind him of it. In fact, it might have irritated him – as much as he would allow it to show. Nor would he offer Elon hopeful words as men did to each other, for it was meaningless if disaster had occurred.
Jareth was well used to Elven silences. They weren’t a people for small talk. The weather was the weather, whether it rained or the sun shone wasn’t a topic for conversation. If it was raining, you went somewhere dry. If not, you were wet. Within the Enclave if it rained it made music. The interlacing of boughs and vines didn’t allow much through but where it did it pattered musically on the curved wooden shingles of the roofs, or slid through thatch to drip through chimes and bells.
Since he wasn’t much of one for idle conversation either, preferring to speak for a purpose or not at all, it suited him well enough. He lacked Elon’s eloquence, his facility with words whether in Elven or the mannish tongues.
It chafed at him, this waiting. The worrying.
Colath was a good friend and Jareth feared for him. He knew why Elon waited. Colath hadn’t asked for aid through their bond. The true-friend bond. Jareth understood what that bond was only a little.
It wasn’t mind magic but some greater form of the empathy that all Elves shared.
Bond or no bond he didn’t know how Elon could stand it. More so because in many ways Colath was Elon’s good right arm and trusted aide. He’d been such for as long as Jareth had known them, Colath a bright shadow to Elon’s darkness.
A runner came at speed along the trail. “They come, Elon. There are injured. I’m to fetch the Healers.”
The Coming Storm Page 8