by Terry Brooks
“It’s not finished,” he said.
“No,” Ti Auberen agreed, looking off into the hills as if he might catch sight of the enemy. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and lean, wearing his dark hair long and tied back. “But they will come at us another way.”
Pied nodded. “They will regroup, reinforce, and come looking for us again, but not through that draw. There are other trails through these hills, tough to navigate, but usable. They will find one and try to get around behind us.”
“But they won’t underestimate us next time,” Auberen added.
Pied thought about that a moment, then turned to Drumundoon, who was standing off to one side. “Drum, see if we have someone in the command who knows this country well enough to talk to us about its passes and trails.”
Eager to be doing something other than standing around trying not to watch the burial teams, Drumundoon hurried off. Pied would have been happy to go with him.
“What about that airship?” Erris Crewer asked quietly. His blocky form shifted. “The one that destroyed the fleet?”
Pied shook his head. “I don’t know how badly we damaged her. If they can make her fly, we’re in trouble. We have no defense against her from the ground, and little enough from the air. We have to hope they can’t use her yet.”
“They might already be using her against Vaden Wick and our Free-born allies,” Auberen growled. “If I was them, that’s what I would do. Break us where we still hold, chase us back into the hills and then hunt us at leisure.”
Pied considered the possibility. Auberen might be right. It made sense to finish the effort to drive the Free-born completely off the heights, to smash their defenses and claim the Prekkendorran themselves before worrying about the Elves, most of whom were already scattered to the four winds, his command notwithstanding. After all, how much trouble could his little force present in the larger scheme of things? Pied did not fool himself about their chances. They might have won this one battle, driven back one unit of the Federation. But the enemy forces were vast and close to home, where reinforcements were readily available. A sustained Federation effort at finding and engaging his Elves would eventually succeed, and when that happened, they were finished.
He exhaled softly, frustrated. They couldn’t win the war, not with the way things stood. The best they could do was to avoid the forces hunting them long enough to link up with their allies. As their leader, it was up to him to find a way to make that happen. It was a tall order, one he was not sure anyone would be able to carry out, let alone a Captain of the Home Guard whose primary duty until two days ago had been to safeguard one man.
Drumundoon had reappeared with a smallish, nervous-looking Elf with lean features and quick, sharp eyes that darted everywhere.
“Captain,” his aide said, “this is Whyl. He has served on the front for more than a year, working as a scout on both sides of the line, much of the time aboard airships. He has seen more of the terrain than most. I think he can help.”
Pied nodded. “Tell me what you know about the passes that run through the Prekkendorran to these hills. Are there many?”
The Elven Hunter hunched his shoulders and pursed his thin lips. “Dozens.”
“How many that a large force could negotiate, coming south to north?”
“Three, maybe four.” The eyes skipped across Pied’s face to the faces of his companions and back again. “You think they’ll come at us again, Captain?”
“Maybe. Could they, if they wanted to, do you think? How would they come?”
Whyl thought about it. “Other than through the draw they just retreated down, they have only one other good choice. There’s another cut through the hills to the west. It’s wide and flat and open. But it will take them two or three days to reach it and get through, then come up to where we are.”
“To the west,” Pied repeated, thinking. “Nothing east?”
The Elf shrugged. “One trail, through scrub, forests, low country. Pretty dangerous. Lots of bogs and sinkholes. Cuts pretty close at its south end to where the Dwarves and Bordermen hold the east plateau. It would be risky for them to try it.”
For them, but maybe not for us, Pied thought. The beginnings of a plan were taking shape. He nodded to Whyl. “Your help is appreciated. You may go back to your unit. But keep what we’ve said to yourself for now. Don’t speak of it to anyone.”
The Elven Hunter nodded and hurried off across the grass with several anxious glances back. In spite of his promise, he would tell his friends what had been said. In particular, he would tell them that their commander was anticipating another attack, one that might not turn out as well for the Elves as this one had. Word would spread quickly. Panic, if not squelched, would as well.
Pied turned back to Ti Auberen and Erris Crewer. “Form up the wounded—everyone who can’t fight another battle right away. Detail enough men to carry those who can’t walk. Use as few as you can manage, but enough so that they can travel afoot for several days. I want them to make for the Rappahalladran, then for the villages in the Duln. They will find wagons there to complete the rest of the journey home. With luck, they will come across an airship to transport them. Form up everyone else and prepare to march. We’ll move east toward that pass Whyl mentioned, the tougher one that leads to the defensive position of our allies. Our best choice now is to try to link up with Vaden Wick before the enemy finds us again. There’s some cover along the way. It may help shield us from Federation airships.”
“Captain, if they send airships after us, whether it’s the one with that weapon or not, we won’t be able to hide this many men,” Erris Crewer pointed out quietly.
Pied met his gaze. “Get on with it, Lieutenant. I want all burials completed and the wounded dispatched north within the hour. I want the rest of us heading east. Wait, not all of us. Detail two dozen men to stay behind to watch the pass in case the Federation decides to send scouts through to see if we’re still here. We don’t want them to find out too quickly that we’ve gone. All we need is a presence to keep them guessing. The men can use the time to create false trails. I want them to hold the pass for one day, then catch up to us. Put a Tracker or two in the mix. And bring up Whyl again, as well. We’ll need what he knows about the country.”
When they were gone, he walked over to Drumundoon. His aide shifted his lanky body from foot to foot. He looked dusty and tired, but he smiled at Pied anyway. “Not much help for some things, is there, Captain?”
“Drum, I need you to do something,” Pied replied, taking the other’s arm and steering him away from everyone else. “Word has to be sent to Arborlon of what’s happened. Maybe it’s already been done, but we can’t know. The Elven High Council has to be told that the King and his sons are dead. More to the point, they have to be told to send reinforcements. More airships, more men to fly them. We don’t stand a chance without their support. I want you to do this. Travel on foot until you can find horses. Then ride until you can find an airship. Take two of the Home Guard with you, just in case. Leave at once.”
Drumundoon looked at him. “Arling will be Queen now,” he said. “It will be her decision.”
He was saying that she might not be favorably disposed toward Pied’s suggestion, no matter what the High Council said. Nor toward Pied, for that matter, once she learned that he had failed to keep her sons safe. But there was nothing Pied could do about it without speaking to her. He had to hope she would allow him the opportunity, that something of what he believed she had once felt for him would persuade her to do what was right.
“Do the best you can, Drum,” he said quietly. He placed his hand on the other’s shoulder. “But do it quickly.”
“I don’t like leaving you, Captain,” his aide replied, shaking his head slowly, looking down at his feet.
“I don’t like having you leave me. But we don’t always get to choose in these matters. I have to send someone I can depend upon to do this. There isn’t anyone I depend on more than you.”
He was, as usual, as good as his word. By the time the wounded were loaded on litters and their bearers and caregivers ready to depart, Drum was already gone. Pied found himself wishing he could have given his friend something more than encouragement, but at least he was sending him out of the fighting. Drum was a good man, but he wasn’t meant to stand in the front lines on a battlefield.
Maybe I’m not meant for this, either, Pied thought. But here I am.
He slung his longbow across his shoulders, cinched his quiver a notch tighter, and went off to meet his fate.
SEVEN
Darkness had settled across the cities of the Southland, but it was nothing compared to the darkness that had found a home in Shadea a’Ru’s heart. She stood at a floor-to-ceiling window in a reception room deep inside Sen Dunsidan’s compound, staring out at the lights of Arishaig. She had not moved from that spot, had barely changed her position, in more than an hour. She had gone deep inside herself, escaping the disagreeableness of the present, a Druid trick she had taught herself early on in her time at Paranor, when she had no friends and no future. It had served her well then; it was less effective now.
Behind her, the Captain of her Gnome Hunters stood with two of his men and watched her uneasily. He could feel the heat radiate from her. He felt her anger as she quietly seethed. He did not want to be present when she reached the boiling point, but there was nowhere else for him to go.
It had been a long day in more ways than one. They had arrived aboard the Bremen the previous night, only to be told that Sen Dunsidan had not yet returned from the Prekkendorran, where he was personally overseeing the destruction of the Elves. Shadea had been willing to forgive his failure to adhere to their schedule; the defeat of the Elves was a major blow to the Free-born hopes, and the Prime Minister would want to make certain things did not go awry. She had heard of the defeat of the Elven fleet, of the burning of their airships, and of the deaths of Kellen Elessedil and his young sons. She had heard of the subsequent rout of the Elven army and its frantic retreat into the hills north. Sen Dunsidan had accomplished something important, and he had done it without her help. She would grant him his victory, even though it rankled her that he had deliberately gone behind her back to achieve it. She had gone to bed in the quarters provided for her with the expectation that their meeting would take place promptly the next day.
She had been wrong. A day of touring the ministries, of speaking before the Coalition Council, and of deliberate delays had left her convinced that something she knew nothing about was happening. She could feel it in the attitude of the Ministers with whom she met—men and women who were civil and indulgent, but clearly disdainful of her, as well. They extended courtesies because they would do so even to their worst enemy on such a visit, but there was no warmth or sincerity in the efforts.
By nightfall, she had lost her patience with Sen Dunsidan entirely. She had been advised of his return several hours earlier, but then he had asked that she wait while he freshened himself for their meeting. She had kept her composure mostly by telling herself that it would only weaken her position with him to reveal the depths of her irritation. If he thought he could undo her so easily, he would be much more difficult to manage. And she already knew from the news of his victory on the Prekkendorran and the nature of her reception here that he would be difficult in any case.
A knock sounded on the door to the reception room and a functionary cautiously stepped just inside the opening. Shadea came out of her shell instantly, but let him stand where he was for a moment, her eyes directed out the window toward the city. Then, drawing herself up, she turned to face him.
“My lady,” he said, bowing to her. “The Prime Minister apologizes for the delay and begs your indulgence for just a few minutes more. He is almost ready to receive you and asks that you wait—”
“I have waited long enough,” she said quietly, cutting off the rest of what he was about to say.
The words were edged in steel so sharp that the functionary winced visibly. He hesitated, then tried to speak again, but Shadea’s hand had lifted, her fingers had pointed in his direction, and suddenly his voice had failed completely. He gasped and tried again and again, but nothing would come out.
She crossed the room and stood before him. “Captain?” she said to the leader of her Gnome escort. His hard, weathered face appeared at her elbow. “Ready the Bremen for departure. Take your men with you. I will be along in a few minutes.”
Her Captain of the Guard frowned. “It is not safe for you here alone, Mistress.”
“Safer for me than for some,” she answered. “Do as I say.”
He left without further comment, taking his men with him, leaving her alone in the reception room with the still-voiceless functionary.
“As for you, little man,” she said to him, “I have other plans. Do you wish your voice back?” The functionary nodded eagerly. “I thought as much. What service do you think I require of you if I am to grant you this favor?”
He didn’t need to ask. He led her out through the doorway and down the hall. They passed dozens of guards, all armed and at watch, but none tried to stop them. Shadea had drawn her Druid robes tight about her, but within their folds, concealed from view, the fingers of her right hand flexed in a series of intricate moves, calling up magic to within easy reach, readying herself for the unexpected. She did not think she would have to use her magic, but she knew enough to be prepared in case she did. She could not trust Sen Dunsidan, could not rely on him to act honorably toward her, even as a guest of state. One thing she had learned about the Prime Minister of the Federation—he would do whatever he felt was necessary to get what he wanted.
The hallway ended at a pair of ornately carved double doors that stood open to the light. The room within was candlelit but draped in its corners and along its edges by deepest shadow. She heard Sen Dunsidan’s voice, smooth and persuasive, a hiss against the silence. A snake’s voice, she thought. But she knew how to draw the poison from his fangs.
The functionary turned toward her questioningly as they reached the door, uncertain of what he was expected to do next. She solved the problem for him by fastening one hand about his neck and marching him into the room in front of her.
Sen Dunsidan was seated on a couch to one side, sipping wine and speaking with a shadowy figure seated in the corner of the room where it was darkest. Shadea did a quick search of the chamber, found only the two and no one else present, swept up to Sen Dunsidan in a rush of black robes, and threw his functionary at his feet.
“Ready to receive me now, Prime Minister?” she asked softly. She eyed the glass of wine he held poised midway to drinking and smiled. “Go ahead. Finish it.”
He did so, watching her carefully, clearly surprised by her appearance, but not altogether unprepared. A man like him was never entirely unprepared. She gestured at the functionary, who coughed out a few startled words, climbed quickly to his feet, and ran from the room.
“I was just about to come for you,” Sen Dunsidan said, putting down the glass of wine and rising. “But I wanted to make certain of what I would say before we met.”
“You have had time enough to make certain of what you will say for the next year. What seems to be the problem? Are you at a loss for words? Do you find your oratorical skills have suddenly deserted you?” She paused. “Or are you simply worried about how I might perceive your duplicity in acting without my knowledge in the matter of the Prekkendorran?”
The Prime Minister’s face darkened. “I do not need to apologize for that. I acted when the opportunity presented itself, just as you would have done in my place. Had I waited to consult with you, the opportunity would have been forever lost. Don’t presume to lecture me on how to conduct myself as leader of the Federation. I do what I must.”
; “Yes,” she acknowledged. “And you tell me of it in your own good time, it seems. I do not judge you for your decision in attacking the Free-born. I judge you for your failure to inform me of it. It smacks of an independence that verges on rebellion. Have we come to a point where you think you no longer have need of an alliance with me? Or with the Druid order? Does your success whisper to you that you are sufficiently strong that you need ally yourself with no one? Is that the course you have chosen?”
She turned toward the shadowy figure in the corner. “Or do you take your counsel from someone else these days, someone you think may advise you better?”
There was a long silence. Then the figure in the corner rose, a slow languid movement of limbs and torso. “He seeks the counsel of someone who has his best interests at heart, Shadea.”
“Iridia.”
She breathed the name like a curse. Iridia Eleri—or at least a pale imitation of the Elven sorceress—stepped into the light. Whatever Shadea might have thought she would find, it wasn’t this. There was no reason for Iridia to be present, not as an ally to Sen Dunsidan, not as a creature in thrall to the Prime Minister of the Federation. Even more shocking was how her onetime ally looked—bloodless and drained of life, thin to the point of emaciation, and hard-eyed in a way she had never seemed before. There was something wrong with her, but Shadea could not decide what it was.
“Did you think you had seen the last of me?” Iridia asked, her voice as bloodless as her face. “Did you think me safely away from Paranor and your Druid schemes?”
Shadea stared, not knowing what she thought, except that it wasn’t this.
“You drove me from Paranor,” Iridia continued in her flat, lifeless monotone. “You refused me any chance to gain revenge over the man who had wronged me. You took away my power. You stripped me of my pride. So I came here, to give my services to one who would better appreciate them.”