Jevan and his company reached the crown of the hill of the Pathon Memorial and entered the ring of stones. At the center of the ring a tall, blond war horse stood facing them, statue-like. Upon it sat a stately elven warrior, alone and with lowered head, draped in feathers and silky cyndan leaves and wearing a Ristorian cloak and tunic and leather military boots. A scribe’s amulet hung from his neck and a gold scribe’s badge was on his cloak. His hair was the very color of the cyndan leaves at Autumn, and was bared. A horn hung from his belt on the left and an enameled sheath with a glittering gold sword on the right.
“The negotiator,” whispered General Rigel to Jevan, “High Scribe of Ristoria Stuart Channethoth.”
Stuart raised his head. His eyes were gleaming gold; his hair was parted evenly down either shoulder; his lips were thin and curving downward; his nose was sharp and easily powerful. Heao leaned over to Jevan and whispered, “I thought elves were generally...smaller.”
“He can probably hear you,” Jevan replied. He turned to Stuart. Heao blushed but the elven leader showed no sign of having heard anything. “Greetings, Stuart Channethoth, high scribe of the Ristorian Nation!” Jevan declared.
Stuart smiled and replied, “Likewise, greetings to a fellow scribe. I was wondering who the king would send in his place.”
“Permit me, Sir, to introduce myself,” said Jevan. “My name is Arran Delossan, and I am...I was...scribe of the western isle until it was recently overthrown by a combined force from Tryphallia and Tomeria. Only my young companions and I escaped to warn the king of Anthirion, and by now I fear the rest of the island is under their complete domination.”
Stuart turned his head slightly and murmured, “Then things are worse than we had feared.” He turned back to Jevan and said, “I assume that this bold young man at your side is one of those young companions you speak of as having escaped from the island with?”
“Yes, Sir,” said Jevan. “This is Heao Sedhar. His father the baker helped us escape. The others of my companions were an orphan girl from the north, a stowaway whose name I do not know, and an orphan boy of the island named Alik—an elfish boy, if you will forgive the term—whose father was killed years ago and who lived by the sea.”
“An elfish boy?” Stuart smiled.
“Pardon me,” Jevan apologized. “I only say it because he was so connected with nature. He swam like a fish and lived off the sea. People even said he had magic powers over the water.”
Stuart’s interest was piqued rather than satisfied by this description, and he pressed Jevan: “What powers?”
“Oh,” said Jevan. “It’s just what people say. That he could summon fish and talk to them, manipulate tides, breath underwater—some of them are really laughable—and to heal more quickly than most people, and to summon strange lights. The rumors really feed themselves.”
“I’m sure,” said Stuart. “Is there anything else about him? His family? His lineage? Certain artifacts he always carries? Manners of speech?”
“Odd that you should ask that,” said Jevan. “His father’s name was Calar; little else is known about him except that he lived in Anthirion and married a woman named Mirias, who died bearing him. As for artifacts he wears, he has a necklace of stones and shells and twigs he collects, although I do not know anything special about it. As for manners of speech, he speaks almost entirely his own language, which nobody understands a word of, and he also has a strange accent which is difficult to listen to.”
Stuart rolled his head toward the sky as though beginning a seizure and suddenly exclaimed, “It is he! You have found him! For Mirias was a lady of the Page Knights, the widow of Lantarrev, a Page Knight of the line of Travvis, the son of the great wizard, Kirion. And when she married Calar in Anthirion City, they were attacked by questing spies who had tracked them down, but Calar wielded a blue shard and commanded it in that strange language which you have heard, washing the attackers away in the floodwaters of the river. That shard was a relic of the Stone, the amulet of the power of the wizards broken long ago by their apprentice, Pollis, to save it from being captured whole by Morin I. This Calar you speak of was the heir of Pollis and his shard, and his language, the language of the wizards, and the signs surrounding him telling of his power over water prove it. This boy is of utmost importance. Where did you leave him?”
“In Anthirion City,” Jevan answered in confusion. “I went to the king to tell him the news about the invasion and get a doctor for the boy, and it was then that I was pressed into the service you see me in now. Afterward, I sent this boy, Heao, back for a doctor, but when he arrived, both the boy and the girl were gone.”
Stuart slumped back down in his saddle, silent.
“Permit me, Sir...despite all you have said of who he is, what significance does the orphan boy have to the Ristorian scribe and negotiator of the peace when war is on the verge?”
“Much,” replied Stuart. “Enormous good or inestimable evil may already have been done. Do not fear, scribe; if the children can be found, I will find them for you myself.”
“I thank you, Sir,” said Jevan. “But now we have a more pressing business: the preservation of peace in Anthirion.”
“There is no more pressing business!” Stuart exclaimed. But he seemed to relax somewhat and repent of the statement, for he turned and raised his hand, beckoning as though to someone present to the right of him. And in fact as he did so, several men and women, richly dressed in reds and greens, appeared from that direction from behind the memorial stones. “The councilors of Oris; the queens of Andel and Ariante; the prince of Steed,” Stuart announced.
At that moment a sound like thunder, approaching from far away, reached Stuart’s ears, and he lifted his eyes to survey the land.
At the same time, to the north, Donnell held up his hand and pulled up his horse. Flan glanced back and whoa-ed the entire herd to a halt. The sound of hooves continued, and Flan tumbled from his mare and pressed his ear to the ground. “We’re being followed,” said Donnell.
Flan nodded. “Six horses and several hounds, traveling fast and light, directly on our trail.”
“Hunters,” scowled Doughal.
“Where is the king’s army?” Donnell asked.
“Ahead,” said Flan. “Nearly at Pathon.”
“We have to give Finn a little more time,” said Donnell. “We attack.”
Finnlagh reached the edge of the copse of trees overlooking the Pathon Monument and dove to the ground, winded, and set up his bow and thrust a handful of dragon-tooth arrows into the soft ground. A cool breeze daubed the sweat upon his brow, and he closed his eyes. West by southwest, 260o. No sign of the betrayer.
On the hill, Stuart turned his attention back to Jevan. “The leaders of the eastern Anthirian states have come here in good faith, as you see, according to the agreement originally ratified by both the congregation of these leaders and by your own lord, King Tyrrhaeus. I was myself personally selected by your king to arbitrate this meeting and to ensure its peaceful proceedings. The king well knows that I will not fail to strike dead even his royal highness on the spot, should he attempt to breach the flag of peace. And then is he so wearied of his life, or does he hold us in such contempt, that he would now breach his own agreement?”
Jevan was flustered, and none of the other councilors dared to answer him. Jevan answered, “I assure you, honorable Sir, he meant no disrespect in sending me in his stead. It was rather out of...prudent concern for the welfare of his people...should he have been shot down on the road by the outlaws rampant on the plains.”
“I believe you are here in good faith,” Stuart said to Jevan, “but the king of Anthirion is using you. If he has such great concern that his emissaries might be attacked by brigands, why has he sent any representatives?”
“I am willing to give my life to prevent the destruction of the free lands,” said Jevan, catching his breath.
“Even in battle against the king who sent you here, should he come riding out behin
d you with a military legion?” Stuart probed him.
Jevan turned. Sure enough, out of the swirling fog shrouding the Anthirion Road came a column of royal knights in rich accompaniment, banners fluttering, spears upheld, hooves pounding in military cadence. At that moment, Jevan’s company below caught sight of the high commander of the king’s armies and let loose a patriotic cheer.
The chief councilor of Oris and the prince of Steed ran to the edge of the stone ring to view the approaching column. “There must be five hundred fully-accoutered knights, plus cavalry!” exclaimed the councilor of Oris.
“Our combined forces are not nearly enough to meet such an attack,” protested the queen of Aldaeli. “How will you protect us from this, Master Stuart?”
Stuart evaluated the distance to the approaching column and guessed a retreat at such close range would turn into a disaster. He thought of something better, however. “The representatives of Anthirion shall be your shields.”
One of Jevan’s companions spoke up at that. “By my sword we shall not be used against our king!”
Before the words had left his throat, Stuart unsheathed his sword and spurred his horse at the offender, lifting the blade high over his head to strike. Jevan ran to intervene, and shouted to Stuart, “Stop this now!”
II. v.
Over the plains the drake fleet flew low and fast after the column of the king’s army, veiled by the disintegrating fog.
At the same time, the king’s huntsman, Kerderan, rode up onto the bank of the Aris north of the Pathon Fields followed by his five minions and his red blood hounds. He slowed to a halt and listened intently. “Heel the hounds,” he ordered the hound-master; “and set them off-leash.”
The hound-master dismounted and obeyed. The sleek red dogs lay quietly in the foggy grass. Frogs croaked in the river.
Suddenly a cavalcade of horses burst over the hill and charged down on them in stampede. The dogs raised their heads but the hound-master ordered them down again. “Fire-arrows!” shouted the chief huntsman, drawing his bow and a dripping arrow and lighting it on fire.
A volley of sparks shot through the air and burst out in the dewy grass just before the line of charging horses. One of the horses lost control and reared up, and another tumbled to the ground struck by a high arrow. The rest of the herd, as though linked psychically to one mind, leaped over the flames in unison and charged into the huntsman’s circle. Kerderan drew his sword and sighted the leader, a red-haired man on a tall mare with a flashing elven cloak: Flan.
Flan crashed into Kerderan and his second on horseback, sparring Kerderan’s sword blow with his knife and flashing his cape in the face of the second hunter’s horse, spooking it in just the wrong way so that it tumbled and pinned its rider as it fell. Flan’s mare pivoted and came down hard on the helpless hunter, crushing him beneath its hooves and dashing out of range of Kerderan’s sword just in time.
Kerderan snarled and picked up a hunting arrow from his sheaf, aimed at the retreating rider, and fired. Flan’s horse screamed and writhed sideways, and he rolled to the ground out of the way, turning to face Kerderan’s bow.
In the meantime, Donnell drew his sword and with a fluid motion cut through one of the hunters and snatched his sword out of his broken grip. Two hunters spurred at him from either side, and he flashed his two swords to deflect both blows. Doughal leapt from his horse beside Donnell onto the back of the second attacker’s horse and yanked the hunter’s neck around. The horse reared and spilled to the ground and Doughal jumped clear, rolling in the grass. He scented the hounds crouching upwind of them and growled.
Donnell did not hear the hounds or smell them, and he spurred his horse at the hound-master. He did hear the buzz of another arrow coming from Kerderan’s bow and he jumped clear of his mount just as the arrow buried itself into the steed’s brain. Unperturbed he charged at the hound-master, who fled before him, fumbling with a silver whistle and finally getting it to his lips just as Donnell reached him. Donnell crumpled over, clenching his hands to his ears in pain. Suddenly the six hounds sprang to life and crashed down on him from every side. He slashed at them dizzily; struck one, then two, and was pulled down.
Doughal reached him too late, shouted in fury, and dove into the snarling pack of dogs bare-handed. There was a yelp but the hound-master could make out nothing in the blur of fur and could not get a clear swing at Doughal. A second dog whined and disengaged itself desperately from the fight.
“Torch him!” shouted Kerderan at the helpless hound-master. The hound-master looked up blankly. Kerderan drew a flame-arrow, lit it, and fired it into the mass of fur and flesh. A semi-human shriek rang out, which for a moment made him think he’d had a lucky shot. But it soon became clear it had been a canine’s voice. He lit another arrow and fired again, and this time caught a definite whiff of smoke. At that moment Doughal leapt tiger-like out of the fray, tackled the hound-master unprepared, and snapped his neck before they hit the ground.
Kerderan cursed loudly and glanced back at Flan, who was loping toward him from the opposite side, then back at Doughal, who was starting toward him sternly, bleeding here and there and covered across his face and chest with matted, pungent blood. He fixed a hunting arrow on his bow and paced back several steps on his midnight-black charger. Doughal wiped his bloody nose and mouth on his bloody sleeve and coughed on the overwhelming odor of the blood and burning dog-flesh. Flan gave an undecipherable whinny but received only an angry refusal from the black horse.
Doughal stepped through the bodies of the fallen, the hunters and the horses, not taking his eyes from the arrowhead nor flinching from his wounds. His senses were choking, his ears were ringing; the taste of blood and the scent of burning dog screamed through the pathways of his brain, so that he did not sense the presence of the dying hunter in the grass, shivering, holding his crushed side together with one hand and weakly reaching out to grasp his ankle as he stepped through the carnage of horse and human flesh. Doughal went down, and at that moment Kerderan fired his shot.
Flan shouted and ran toward Kerderan. The chief huntsman wheeled around, and before Flan could think to dodge, he fixed his last arrow and let it loose. Flan dove to the ground and tripped, felt the misguided arrow jam into his foot, and reached down to break it off. Kerderan leered at him and tossed away his bow and empty sheath and drew his sword. Flan drew a second knife from a sheath beneath his vest and prepared himself. The wicked horse flared its nostrils at him and charged.
Flan felt the pounding of the hooves rushing toward him and coiled himself like a serpent, baring his two knives like fangs on either side. The horse reared to pound him with its hooves, and he rolled beneath it, slashing the tendons above its fetlocks with his knives and rolling to slice open the girth of the saddle. The horse screamed and tumbled to the ground. Kerderan lost his balance and slipped, saddle and all, to the ground, losing his sword in the fall. He rolled free and fled.
Flan crawled out from behind the fallen horse, his head pounding, and slowly located Kerderan, circling the battlefield and picking up sheaths of fire-arrows and pouring the oil out in the grass. He had also picked up another sword. He crawled toward the huntsman but realized he would not be able to catch him. Kerderan flashed a wicked grin at him, struck one of the arrows alight, and dipped it to the ground.
Flan watched. The fire snaked out in either direction, jumping here and there and hissing on the dewy grass. A veil of white smoke circled the field, and on the opposite side of the veil Flan could see Kerderan retreating—on foot—in the direction Finnlagh had taken earlier.
The ring of fire grew higher and wider as the grass nearby withered and dried out. Flan crawled toward the center and tried to think what to do. He pulled the arrowhead out of his foot numbly and wrapped it with a scrap torn from his cloak. He was not afraid of fire but knew as well that it was not afraid of him. He threw off his cloak and rolled in the wet grass, then stood and limped toward the edge of the fire ring nearest the riverbank. Ten
running paces, he thought. The fire was too wide to jump but he felt if he could nearly do it, he could reach the bank. He threw his cloak over the flames, stepped back three steps, ran, and leapt.
II. vi.
The fires on the plains spread and grew, sending their pale smoke up to the skies.
General Matthragg, commander of the armies of Anthirion, climbed the hill of the Pathon Monument with his sword girt at his waist, his mane of hair and rich scarlet lion’s-hair robe blowing in the wind. He headed straight for Stuart and Jevan. “The peace talks are over!” he shouted. “Let these dog representatives from Oris bow before the power of Anthirion now and surrender, and I will spare their lives for now; their confederates will lay down their arms at once and withdraw back to their homes—or else suffer the dire might of my champions.”
“The peace talks are indeed over,” Stuart replied hastily. “We have already sealed the treaty...Sir.”
“Where is it?” the general demanded.
“Sir, here it is,” the chief councilor of Oris City said, holding it up. “We trust you will uphold the honor of your agreement.”
“We have made no agreement!” shouted the general, lunging for the document.
Stuart raised his sword. “Fear to take another step, General, unless it be backwards. Even now an arrow lies in wait, ready to drink your blood, should you destroy this alliance of peace.”
Finnlagh knelt in the damp leaves and grass at the edge of the copse north of the monument, his dragon bow propped up and partly drawn before him, a heavy, four-foot dragon-tooth arrow nocked upon the bow. He sniffed the air and checked the direction and magnitude of the wind, its texture on his long, ruffled blond hair, the way it pulled at every blade of grass and trail of mist between himself and the waving raven-black hair of the Anthirian general. The pennants of the king’s knights fluttered; the sable and azure, the gules and sanguine, the murry and argent pennants, gyronny, bendy, paly, piled, chevroned, saltire, checkered, palletted pennants with griffins, lions, basilisks, wyverns, and hydras, naiant, haurient, assurgent, flotant, volant, jessant, and rampant. He did not smell, and did not hear, the stealthy nearing of the king’s hunter, Kerderan; did not detect the roughness of the drawing of his blade; did not feel the present danger. Kerderan raised his sword, and Finnlagh turned, too late. The sword smashed through the massive bow, the arrow, and the string at once and dug into Finnlagh’s face. The archer staggered, blinded by his own blood. Thoughtlessly he crashed back to his knees, seized the knife from Kerderan’s belt, and thrust it rapidly into the hunter’s gut...and crumpled over dead.
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