by Doug Niles
“In any event, you know that the people are behind you. There must have been ten thousand of them cheering our arrival back home,” noted the female general.
“As they should,” Aleaha noted wryly. “For ten years, Konnal tried to wage this campaign without you, and we all know what happened.”
“Aye,” Samar agreed. “I can remember when the Windriders were the proudest force of griffon riders in Krynn. After Konnal was finished, we had to import our flying troops from Qualinesti!”
“And now we’re on the brink of victory,” Bandial observed, sounding almost wistful. But he quickly brightened. “Still, there’s one more battle, and we’ll get the job done right!”
“You know, I sought to find out a little more … went to Konnal’s house, as a matter of fact, to see what he was trying to accomplish,” Samar said. “And oddly enough, he wasn’t home. His servants didn’t know where he’d gone, but they were told he was attending an important meeting.”
“That is odd,” Porthios agreed. “You’d think with supplies being drawn, an expedition mounted, he’d want to keep an eye on everything I’m doing. I’m just glad he didn’t start talking about the cost of boats.”
“We’re going to take the army down the river, I presume?” Cantal-Silaster asked.
The marshal nodded. “My Qualinesti will fly on their griffons, of course, but we’ll have no need of cavalry on the island, so I figure that the bulk of the troops will land on the upstream shore. We’ll make it a thorough sweep and gather around that low hill we noted down in the south.”
“I think your estimate of a month might even prove generous,” observed Aleaha. “From the few tracks we saw, there won’t be many draconians. I’m surprised, though, that we didn’t see any sign of ogres.”
“Me, too, though I admit that I’m grateful for the fact. And you saw no sign of goblins? Nor of dragons?”
The scout shook her head. “We Kirath went over the place as thoroughly as possible, though we had to be careful. There are, after all, plenty of draconians there.”
“I would have thought that place would be irresistible to green dragons,” Samar said. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”
“No, naturally not. Still, there’s something strange about this whole operation.” Porthios couldn’t hide his misgivings. “I’m more glad than I want to admit that foolishness about only going down there with half an army was so quickly overruled. I have to admit, I was also a little surprised by the support I got.”
Samar grinned. “I keep telling you, most of Silvanesti is behind you. These elves recognize all the good things you’ve done, and the fact that you’re from the west doesn’t make any difference to them. Those are very old grudges you’re worrying about.”
“The trouble with our people, my friend, is that they have long, long memories. And even if most of Silvanesti is for me, those who oppose me include some very influential people among their numbers.”
“That, sadly, is true,” Cantal-Silaster noted. “Still, you have many allies, even among those of us in the Sinthal-Elish.”
“What word from Princess Alhana?” asked Samar, dipping a honey-smeared piece of bread on his plate to sop up the last morsels of the dinner.
Porthios shrugged. “None … and truth to tell, that lack has me a little concerned.”
“Surely you would have heard from her if there were problems.…” The warrior-mage shook his head, embarrassed. “That is, with the baby, I mean.”
“I would have to think so, but I know the Qualinesti. They’re my own people,” the marshal said grimly. “There are some of them—Senator Rashas and the rest of the Thalas-Enthia, for example—who are as distrustful of her as Silvanesti like General Konnal are of me.”
Samar glowered across the table. “Old habits die hard. It grieves me now to remember my own rudeness when first you came to help us.”
Porthios laughed finally, his mood lightening. “I think you did everything you could to provoke me into a duel. But I couldn’t accept. You probably would have killed me!”
Samar’s own chuckle was rueful. “At the time, none of us could see why Alhana agreed to wed you. And furthermore, I think every male Silvanesti was a little bit in love with her—myself included.” With a faint grimace, the warrior looked down at his plate, averting his gaze from the marshal.
“With good reason,” Porthios agreed, taking little note of his companion’s awkward pause. Instead, he was wondering, Why did it take me so long to figure out her worth?
Cantal-Silaster spoke. “But we can all see it now: a child born to you both will offer a promise for the future that the elven nations haven’t known since the Kinslayer War. Why doesn’t the rest of Silvanesti recognize that?”
“I think because they have hated the Qualinesti for so long, they can’t imagine life without that hatred. And for generations, we elves have been raised to believe that change is dangerous, something to be feared.”
“But, still,” Aleaha noted, “there are those among us who can see the way toward change … who recognize your worth. And not just warriors like Samar, or the scouts of my own Kirath, who have served with you and know what kind of man you are. Senator Dolphius, for example, is firmly in your camp.”
“You’re right about that, but for every one like Dolphius, it seems that there are two or three Konnals.”
“And you think Alhana is meeting the same kind of resistance in Qualinost?” Samar pressed, trying unsuccessfully to conceal his deep concern.
“I know it. Though she has spent more than half of the last thirty years there, she is still viewed as an outcast, an interloper, by many. They might not be the majority, but with Rashas and other conservative senators among their number, they wield a lot of influence.”
“Even now, when she carries your child … the child who could grow up to become Speaker of the Sun and Stars?”
“That’s exactly what they don’t want to happen, and that, my friend, is why I’m worried.”
Further discussion was interrupted by the sounds of commotion from the outer courtyard. Servants shouted, and they heard the unmistakable keening cry of a griffon, followed by a moan of pain.
“Who’s there?” demanded Porthios as he and his guests bolted from the dining room into the courtyard of the Garden of Astarin. Though it was surrounded by a verdant hedge, the yard was open to the sky, and there was indeed a griffon there. The creature’s haunches were streaked with blood, and its flanks shook like bellows as it tried to regain its breath. It was saddled, but there was no rider in sight.
“My lord!” cried Allatarn. The servant was on the far side of the griffon, and Porthios raced over to find him standing over a motionless, bleeding figure. The griffon eyed him warily but seemed to realize that he meant the fellow no harm.
“Who are you?” asked Porthios, kneeling, seeing an elf whose shallow breathing indicated that he still lived, though barely. The stub of a broken arrow protruded from his flank, and the marshal suspected that this wound was the source of the blood that had streaked the griffon’s sides.
“My … my name is Daringflight,” said the wounded elf. “My lord … I am a loyal Qualinesti, your faithful servant.…” His back arched in sudden pain, and Daringflight gritted his teeth, breathing harshly through his mouth.
“Of course. I know you,” Porthios declared calmly, recognizing the man through the fear that was suddenly surging in his gut. “Now, gather your strength for a moment, then speak.”
Daringflight groaned, still trying to speak.
“Rest now. Don’t injure yourself further. Allatarn, fetch the healer!”
“She’s already been sent for, lord.”
“Urgent … Lady Alhana …” gasped Daringflight, drawing all of Porthios’s attention into tight focus. He heard Samar gasp behind him.
“What is it? What word of my queen?” he asked, fearing the answer.
“She is taken.… Captured by the Qualinesti and held in the house of Senator Rash
as. They did not want you to know.… Tried to kill me when I left to bring you word.”
“That bastard!” snarled Porthios, his tone furious. He knew and hated Rashas. Leader of the Thalas-Enthia, he was a Qualinesti as utterly opposed to change and unity as were the reactionary Silvanesti such as Konnal. He turned back to Daringflight, his concern for his wife overriding his consciousness of the man’s wound. “Has she been harmed? Have they mistreated her?”
Daringflight shook his head. “She is treated well … called a ‘guest,’ in fact. But she is not allowed to leave, nor to send or receive messages.”
“Did she send you?” asked Porthios
Again the wounded elf shook his head. “I came on my own.… It’s important that you know, my lord. There are others, too, who hate what Rashas is doing … who despise the way he wants to close our land against all contact with the rest of the world.”
“I will deal with Rashas in good time,” Porthios declared grimly. He wanted to mount Stallyar, to fly to Qualinesti and to storm the Tower of the Sun. Unconsciously his hand went to his medallion, the badge of his rank as Speaker. His temper flared as he tried to imagine the arrogance of those who would work so hard against his will.
Only gradually did reality intrude. He remembered the imminent campaign, the last stage of an unfinished task. He knew that he would have to carry that matter through to its finish. The marshal looked at Samar, who, like himself, was kneeling over the wounded man.
“Damn Rashas and all his ilk!” Porthios growled. “I’d like to go and deal with him right now … but you know I can’t.”
“I understand,” Samar said grimly. “And you should know that all Silvanesti is grateful for your sense of duty.”
“I also know you cherish your queen, my friend. I must ask you to go to Qualinesti, to see what aid you can offer her. And to tell her that I will be coming very soon.”
“As you command, lord. I could wish to do no less.”
“It was Konnal, then. He was the traitor,” declared the young elf.
“Yes,” the dragon replied. “He returned to my island to give me the date of Porthios’s attack.”
“The bastard!” hissed the lancer, his voice a growl of pure rage.
After a momentary hesitation, the dragon squinted carefully at the older elf.
“Samar … I thought it was you. And so Konnal conspired to draw you away?”
“With the help of Rashas of Qualinesti, yes. It’s hard to think of two more vile traitors, nor more natural conspirators, than that pair.”
“Still,” interjected the young elf, addressing the dragon. “I know you didn’t kill Porthios. The ambush failed, of course!”
The serpent shrugged. “Yes, apparently you know that he lived. Still, the ambush was not without some success. Porthios was careless.”
“He was,” agreed the elder elf. “But it was because he was worried about his wife.”
Battle in the Delta
Chapter Four
Porthios completed the preparations for his campaign like an automaton. With every free moment, he thought of his wife, held prisoner in his own homeland. For every minute he spent planning his battle against draconians, he spent an hour plotting the vengeance he would take against Senator Rashas of the Thalas-Enthia in Qualinost.
He drew his only comfort from the knowledge that Samar had gone to Alhana. The loyal warrior-mage, carrying his dragonlance and riding his fleet griffon, had no doubt made the long journey as quickly as possible, though even at an exhausting pace, the flight would take a week. And Samar’s devotion to Alhana was legendary. Hadn’t he even blushed in embarrassment over the matter at their last dinner together? And there were other allies close to Qualinesti. Much as he distrusted his brother-in-law, Porthios had hope that Tanis Half-Elven would also come to the aid of the queen.
Furthermore, Porthios felt quite certain that Rashas wouldn’t dare to harm Alhana. Most of his misgivings arose from the fact that he knew his wife would be frightened and anxious about her detainment, and he wanted to be able to alleviate her concerns. And there was the matter of his unborn child. How wrong it was that the future king of elvenkind might enter life as a captive of his own countrymen!
Yet he tried to force himself to attend the matters of his duty, to finish the task toward which he had devoted the last three decades of his life. The preparations went well. His was a veteran army, and under Generals Bandial and Cantal-Silaster, he had many reliable officers who tended to the mundane matters of readiness. As the departure date for his sweep against the delta approached, Porthios found himself increasingly distracted by his hope for a letter, for any kind of message, from Qualinesti. But the time slipped away without any word, and finally the marshal resolved himself to focus on this one last campaign.
At least Konnal stayed out of his way. The Silvanesti general had been gone for several days after the meeting of the senate, but then he had returned to lend his considerable organizational skills to the preparation for the expedition. Thanks to Konnal, Porthios didn’t have to worry about getting the boats he would need to transport his force down the Thon-Thalas. Furthermore, the general organized a full array of provisions, wheels of hard cheese, barrels of salted fish, and crates of elven warbread that were gathered at the dock several days before the army was due to depart.
The standard component of replacement weapons was also delivered promptly. There were boxes upon boxes of deadly, steel-headed arrows, as well as a hundred or more replacement swords. Even though the elven weapons were of splendid quality, a few of them inevitably were broken or lost during the course of a campaign. Other crates contained shields, buckles, straps, sandals, and bedrolls, all the equipment necessary to keep his warriors safe and as comfortable as possible.
Delivered to the docks at the last minute were two long wooden crates, secured by thick hasps and shiny steel locks. These were the storage cases for precious dragonlances, each holding a pair of the lethal weapons that could be borne by elves on foot and used against the event of draconic attack. Though Porthios was not expecting to encounter dragons on this campaign, he had requested that the weapons be added to his inventory as a standard precaution; he would assign one pair of lances to each of his two divisions.
The twenty companies of Silvanesti warriors boarded the boats with the first light of dawn on the Day of Second Dream Dance. Despite the early hour, thousands of city elves turned out to cheer their heroes’ departure. Carried more by the current than by the languid efforts of the polers, the wide, flat riverboats slowly drifted away from the dock and meandered down the stream. The warriors gazed back toward Silvanost, looking at the towers and gardens bright in the morning sun, enjoying the cheers that remained audible until the force made its way around the first great bend of the river.
The Qualinesti archers, all of whom would ride their griffons through the air, departed from their bivouac outside the city. Though they could make the journey in a fraction of the time required by the sluggish riverboats, Porthios had ordered that the two forces would travel together. He considered it a symbolic gesture, but an important one. Under his command, the elves of the two nations had learned to function with cooperation and reliance upon one another. He wasn’t about to let some notion of favoritism color the impressions of his Silvanesti warriors.
It was for that same reason that Porthios rode along on river barges. Stallyar would carry him into battle, of course, but for the river voyage, the griffon flew above the boats, gliding back and forth while his master met with Bandial and Cantal-Silaster and planned the specifics of the campaign on the open deck.
During the voyage, the plan evolved from its simple beginnings. Instead of a single landing at the broad clearing located by Aleaha Takmarin, the army would be split into two divisions and would land in two places, on the northeast and northwest ends of the island. In each place, the ground troops would quickly establish a large, fortified encampment. The Qualinesti, on their griffons, would fly back and for
th, maintaining communication between the two divisions, and the Silvanesti would quickly venture forth to clear the ground between the two camps of draconians and other dangerous inhabitants. Once the two forces were securely united, the Wildrunners would commence a southward sweep, spanning the width of the island and forcing all unfriendly denizens into a south corner at the bottom, where—if any survived—they would be confronted in a battle of annihilation.
With the griffons wheeling back and forth overhead and the sure knowledge that this was the last outpost of the nightmare that had plagued their realm for three decades, the Silvanesti elves on the boats treated the four-day journey down the river almost as a holiday outing. The splendid woodlands around them were sculpted as perfectly as any formal garden, with groves neatly arranged, framed by trimmed hedges, often complemented by regular, reflecting pools. At night, no worm was safe anywhere near the army encampment, and all day fishing lines drooped into the water from stem to stern of each boat. The elves ate well—fresh fish morning, noon, and night—and the crated provisions hadn’t even been touched as the army finally came within sight of the festering island.
These were veteran troops, of course, and now all vestige of holiday excursion vanished from the members of the expedition. The stench of decaying swampland thickened the air around them, and the sight of the bleeding, tormented trees provided a strong reminder of the purpose that had brought them down the river. A shrill whistle sounded from the shore—this was the atrakha, the unique horn used by the Kirath to communicate among themselves—and the anchors were dropped. Under the full control of the boatmen now, the rivercraft waited a mile north of their destination.
Here Aleaha Takmarin came over for a last conference before the elves went ashore. She paddled a slender canoe from the thicket on the shore and quickly found Porthios to give her report.