The Obsidian Mountain Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Right into the wolves that were harassing them.

  Most of the wolves were able to get out of the way. A few of them were trapped in the middle of the herd and were trampled underfoot. And Kellen was quite impressed at how fast a herd of thoroughly maddened oxen could manage to gallop across a fresh snowfield.

  The surviving wolves fled, pursued by archers, who managed to take down a few more before they were out of range.

  Then all that was left was cleaning up and resuming the interrupted morning routine.

  “You know they’ll be back, don’t you?” Shalkan asked, as Kellen slipped from his back and prepared to walk down into the camp.

  “Not the ones we killed,” Kellen pointed out reasonably. Though there would be others, he was certain, unless the Wildmages could come up with some way of arranging things so that the wolves looked elsewhere for prey. “I’ll see you later.” He began wading back through the snow toward the camp.

  WINTER was as much an enemy as a wolfpack, however, and one that never went away. It was a relief to reach a wind-scrubbed streambed and to be able to trot the horses along it for a few miles, but such reliefs were few. Possibly on the other side of the mountains the snow would not be as deep. Kellen hoped not; as it was, he could not imagine how anyone following them along the trail they blazed would ever be able to find the trail-wands they were leaving behind to mark their passage, even with the carefully built-up snow-cairns to help.

  Kellen had once speculated that winning a battle with a sword in one’s hand was very little like commanding an army, and on this journey he proved himself right a dozen times over. He gave thanks to the Gods of the Wild Magic each time that he didn’t have to figure out how to fight a battle in addition to simply learning how to move an army. It seemed to him that he spent his days riding from one end of the caravan to the other sorting matters out: scouting, patrols, halts for repairs, changes to the marching order, and endless administrative details. Without Isinwen and Wirance to remember everything he forgot, or that he simply didn’t have time to hear—as not even a Knight-Mage could manage to be in two places at once—things would not have run nearly as smoothly as they did. It was a full sennight before Kellen felt he was truly beginning to properly understand the fighting force Redhelwar had placed at his disposal.

  It’s not enough to know them as people and to have fought beside them. Redhelwar’s done that, and so have I. I have to know what they can do, and what they’re best at.

  And how to use them …

  Despite the fact that every moment not actually spent asleep seemed to be spent solving problems, Kellen also somehow seemed to have a lot of free time to think. When he’d entered the Elven Lands for the first time it had been late summer, and even though the land had been drought-parched and suffering then, Kellen had been struck by its extraordinary beauty, and, despite everything, its vitality. Now it was deep winter, and you couldn’t see the land at all—unless you counted the mountain peaks in the distance—but that sense of vitality he’d taken for granted was gone.

  “SOMETIMES I forget that you are a Knight-Mage, and not a proper Wildmage,” Wirance said when Kellen mentioned it to him that night.

  “So this is something you’ve noticed all along?” Kellen said. Nice of everybody to mention this to me.

  Wirance shrugged eloquently.

  “The land … ails,” Isinwen said, sounding uncomfortable.

  Kellen sighed and rubbed his forehead. “It would be good to know if anything Cilarnen wishes to do will make a difference to the land.” And if Kindolhinadetil will give him permission to do it, since the land is “ailing.”

  Isinwen looked at him blankly. “That is in the hands of Leaf and Star,” he said at last.

  There was a sudden commotion outside Kellen’s tent, and the entry-bells jingled. “Enter,” Kellen called.

  Keirasti entered the tent and nodded. “The latest scouts are back. You’ll want to hear what they have to say.”

  AFTER the first sennight had passed with no attacks, at least from the Enemy, Kellen had felt confident enough to begin sending out scouting parties. He also sent messengers back to the army, for even the information that they’d traveled a sennight without incident was valuable, and the broken trail would be fairly easy for riders to follow back to the main encampment.

  Though Kellen had gotten the vague impression that all Elves lived in one of the Nine Cities, his troops assured him this was not so. There were small villages and even single dwelling places scattered all across the Elven Lands (though considering the size of an Elven city, Kellen privately reflected, he could probably fit the entire population of a “small village” into his tent and still have room to sleep comfortably). And while they were undetectable for all practical purposes, that didn’t mean they were actively hidden, or even hard to find, at least for other Elves. Kellen had instructed his scouts to seek out as many of such houses and villages as they could reach, to give their inhabitants the news about Lerkelpoldara, and encourage them to seek shelter in Ysterialpoerin.

  BECAUSE of the continuing danger from wolves and other natural predators, he sent the scouts out in groups of four. This group had included Nironoshan, and he was the one making the report.

  Kellen had put Keirasti in charge of the scouts, and so Nironoshan was waiting in Keirasti’s tent, a mug of tea already in his hands. Kellen accepted his own mug of Winter Spice tea gratefully and hunkered down on his heels, waiting for Nironoshan to speak.

  Elves never made a point of displaying their emotions at the best of times, but Nironoshan was a member of Kellen’s own troop and had been with him from the day Redhelwar had first given Kellen a command of his own. As much as Kellen could read the expressions of any of the Elves, he could read Nironoshan’s, and he could tell that something had upset the Elven Knight greatly.

  “Commander,” Nironoshan said simply. “We have returned from the village of White Spring. There is no one there left alive.”

  THE scouting party had begun with the outlying steadings along the path of march—single dwellings in the vicinity of White Spring. All were empty, but Nironoshan and the others did not find that entirely unusual. The inhabitants might have left because of the unusually hard weather. They might be serving with the army. They might be off on an extended hunting trip. There might be any number of reasons for the houses to be vacant, and he and the other scouts had seen no sign that the dwellings had been left in haste, or that the inhabitants had been forced out by violence.

  On the chance the inhabitants might return, they had left warnings to evacuate, and continued on to White Spring. Though they had looked to see signs of game along the way, there had been none, confirming Reyezeyt’s theory that the Coldwarg and other creatures of the Enemy had slaughtered or driven off most of the wild creatures in the area.

  As the scouting party approached White Spring, they had seen the plague flags.

  The yellow banners on their tall red-painted willow poles were ice-crusted and tattered by weather. They had obviously not been recently tended. The scouts approached cautiously. The small village was silent.

  “Not even the animals were left, Kellen. I think they had turned them loose to fend for themselves at the last, when they could no longer care for them, and of course the wolves took them.” Nironoshan shook his head sadly. “Better they had killed them themselves, but perhaps they were too ill to think of that.”

  “Perhaps,” Kellen said. “Or perhaps someone had already taken them away.”

  Nironoshan shook his head again. “No. We searched the village. Everyone who belonged there was there.”

  THEY had entered the village, hoping against all evidence that someone might be alive. They did not find the orderly stillness they had seen in the single houses. Wolves had been here, wandering through the streets and pawing at the doors. The beasts had not been able to enter, but they had gotten into the now-empty stables and byres and coops, picking them clean of whatever they had held and destroy
ing everything they could not eat.

  Nironoshan and the others had done what the wolves could not, opening the doors and entering the small cluster of houses one by one.

  The first house, he told Kellen, had apparently been used to hold the earliest plague cases until they could be taken to the trees. Those bodies were neatly wrapped and laid out. But the sickness had obviously spread quickly after that. The disposition of the rest of the bodies told the grim story far too plainly: Some lay in their beds, as if they had been tended in their illness, but far more of the bodies had been found, Nironoshan reported, sprawled upon the floors of their houses, as if Death had come upon them and struck them down where they stood. It was obvious that from the first deaths to the death of everyone had been only a matter of days; long enough for the people of White Spring to set out the plague-flags, but not long enough for them to understand how serious the situation was and to decide to send a messenger to Ysterialpoerin for help.

  “None of us touched anything,” Nironoshan said, sounding uneasy. “And we did not stay long. But that the Shadow’s Kiss should come again …”

  “Again?” Kellen asked, before he could stop himself from asking a direct question. “What do you mean ‘again’?”

  “I saw the bodies,” Nironoshan said. “It is just as it was in the time of the Great War. They send sickness to do their foul work. It is Their doing.”

  And sickness was an enemy no armor—or shield—could defend against.

  IT had now been a full moonturn since Jermayan had begun his latest series of flights to the Fortress of the Crowned Horns, and a few more sennights—he hoped—would see that mission complete.

  From Lerkelpoldara he had gone to Deskethomaynel, where he had been able to make use of the signaling mirrors. He had finally been able to send a report to Redhelwar of all he had done on the Plains of Bazrahil, and of the tragic fate of the Winter City. He had ferried his living cargo to the fortress of the Crowned Horns, and then gone to Sentarshadeen to bring the news there in person.

  Among those who needed to leave Sentarshadeen for the Fortress of the Crowned Horns was the Queen herself. Andoreniel’s decree made more sense now that Jermayan knew of her condition, for Andoreniel certainly could not send Ashaniel to safety and leave the other Elven women unprotected. There were already reports of plague in the human lands—sent by the Enemy, both Andoreniel and Jermayan were certain—and it was only a matter of time before it crossed the borders into the Elven Lands themselves.

  From Sentarshadeen Jermayan had returned to Windaloriannan, where he discovered, to his relief, that the ragged band of refugees from Lerkelpoldara had arrived at the city without any further losses. Magarabeleniel greeted him there, and at last agreed to accompany him to the Fortress of the Crowned Horns, having left the remains of her people in the safekeeping of Vanantiriel, the Viceroy of Windaloriannan.

  “Though it seems that we are all to become refugees,” Vanantiriel told Jermayan. “The signaling mirrors have sent word from Redhelwar. He tells us we are to prepare to cede the north to the Shadow, and move south as far and as fast as we can. It will be a difficult thing traveling in winter, and with so many sick, but we shall do what we must.”

  “In Sentarshadeen, we had reports of sickness in the human lands,” Jermayan said uneasily.

  “Our old enemy is here among us as well,” Vanantiriel said with a grim smile. “And the Knight-Mage warns that Their Allies seek to broach the land-wards besides, destroying us in our cities one by one, just as they did at Lerkelpoldara.”

  “It is the sort of tactic They would find appealing,” Jermayan admitted. “It is a hard thing to leave one’s home, knowing that it may be overrun and spoiled by the Enemy, but Kellen has told us over and over that Their strategy is always to entice us into splitting our forces and our attention so that we can be more easily destroyed. And I have never found him to be wrong, when he speaks as a Knight-Mage. They attack our homes, certain that we will not be able to resist defending them, when to defend them is to lose all. And so I said in Deskethomaynel as well.”

  “Then I shall expect to see Arelin Viceroy in Ysterialpoerin, where we can finish our game of xaique face to face,” Vanantiriel said with a deep sigh. “And that shall be some compensation for leaving the Fields of Vardirvoshanon and moving all of our horses in this weather—for when your Knight-Mage suggested we move, I am certain he was not suggesting that they be left behind.”

  I am certain, Jermayan thought, that it did not occur to Kellen that the Fields of Vardirvoshanon were here, with their thousands of mares, stallions, and yearling foals. Nevertheless, he is right: Windaloriannan is vulnerable, and the Enemy will strike at it next. With one of the Triad of the North fallen, it is logical that the other two should be Their next targets. And he is also right that we must save the Triad of the Heartland—Ysterialpoerin, Ondoladeshiron, andValwendigorean—by sacrificing the north. But it is not easy… .

  “WE’RE nearly done,” Ancaladar told him consolingly, as they flew from Re-althataladaon toward the Crowned Horns. Ondoladashiron was next, then Ysterialpoerin, then they would be done.

  They had swept back and forth from city to city—through what remained of the North Triad, through the Heart Triad, and among the close-held cities of the Southern Triad—Sentarshadeen, Thultafoniseen, and Realthataladon—gathering their precious cargo and bearing it safe to the Fortress of the Crowned Horns. Once he brought the women from Ysterialpoerin to the Crowned Horns, Master Tyrvin would seal up the doors of the fortress for the last time, perhaps never to open them again.

  Jermayan forced his mind away from such thoughts. He must believe they could find their way to victory yet a third time. But in the First War, they had been … perhaps more evenly matched against their foe, neither side having yet fully taken the measure of the other, and in the Great War they had had the full strength of the humans, in arms and magic, to draw upon, rather than dreading every moment to see it turned into a sword for their throats.

  Better that the sea had claimed Armethalieh before the first stone of her walls had been laid upon the next, than that the world should see this day.

  “I think you underestimate the humans’ resiliency of spirit,” Ancaladar protested softly. “They will see through Anigrel’s tricks, given time.”

  “Time!” Jermayan said. “When have humans ever had enough time? And especially now—when none of us has enough time!”

  “I must say, they took their time giving you their answer,” Idalia said tartly, as Cilarnen peered distractedly out through the tent-flap. “There’s a messenger from Ysterialpoerin for you waiting with Redhelwar.”

  She’d been in the dining tent that morning when the messenger had come with a scroll for Cilarnen, more than a sennight after Kellen’s departure with his convoy. Ninolion had come to the dining tent looking for him, and Idalia had attached herself to the search. After all, Kellen had told her to keep an eye on Cilarnen.

  He was easily found in his tent in the Centaur encampment, looking precisely like a wondertale depiction of a High Mage: vague, irritable, and decidedly unkempt. Idalia doubted that he’d either eaten or slept recently, and his pavilion reeked of the most interesting collection of herbal smells to be found outside of Healer’s Alley. For a brief moment she wished that Shalkan hadn’t gone off with Kellen—she was sure that the unicorn could manage to talk sense into the boy, even if no one else could.

  Cilarnen stared at them both in blank incomprehension, definitely with no idea of why they had come and possibly with no idea of who they were.

  Men and High Mages, Idalia thought irascibly.

  “A messenger has come from Kindolhinadetil,” she repeated. “The Viceroy of Ysterialpoerin. For you. He’s waiting in Redhelwar’s pavilion. To see you. It would be helpful if you were a little more presentable when you went.” Idalia spoke slowly and plainly, giving Cilarnen time to return to the here-and-now from whatever dream-world he’d been wandering in.

  Abruptly
Cilarnen’s eyes snapped into focus and he seemed to come to himself. He sketched a barely-correct bow and withdrew into his tent like a snapping-turtle retreating into its shell. More quickly than Idalia would have thought possible, he emerged again: tidied, hair brushed, and in a fresh pale blue tunic, fastening a white fur cloak about his shoulders and pulling on his gloves. When he bowed again, his bow was correct and flawlessly executed.

  “Idalia. Ninolion. My regrets that my present accommodation forced you to await me in the street; it was especially unfortunate in view of the weather.” It was, as usual, snowing. “Equally unfortunate in that I was unable to offer you tea, a lapse which I hope to repair at your earliest convenience.”

  Now it was Idalia’s turn to stare. She’d been quite certain—well, fairly certain, anyway—that Cilarnen was not twins. Yet the young man babbling inanely (and urbanely) along at her side just now bore very little resemblance to the intense wild-eyed young mystic who had answered Ninolion’s summons to the door of his tent.

  “I, too, look forward to such an occasion,” Ninolion said blandly. “I believe that to take tea with you would be highly entertaining.”

  “One regrets, of course, that one’s library of tea is not large, nor all that it could be were matters otherwise. I possess some Armethaliehan Black, and naturally some Winter Spice; I’ve recently been able to acquire some Phastan Red, though unfortunately it is in block form, not leaf. Phastan Silvertip, is, of course, the preferred growth, though somewhat common; connoisseurs favor Phastan Gold, which is quite rare. And naturally, as my own knowledge runs more in the line of the cured-leaf teas, I would welcome instruction and advice in those areas where my understanding should prove deficient.”

  At least, thought Idalia, Cilarnen seems to have taken to heart all of Kellen’s instructions on making small talk and not trying to hurry an Elven conversation along. Though he must have been bursting with impatience to find out what Kindolhinadetil’s messenger had to say, he and Ninolion were happily chattering along about the sorts of tea that might be available in camp for Cilarnen to add to his collection, and the possibility of him getting his hands on more cured-leaf varieties, which most Elves found so bitter as to be unpalatable. Both of them were in complete agreement that the High Reaches Smokeleaf was utterly undrinkable—which only went to prove, Idalia supposed, that she would never be a true connoisseur of tea.