Ambassador (Conqueror of Isles Book 1)

by Stephen L. Hadley

  The hill leveled somewhat as they neared the peak, providing a breathtaking view of Islesmark itself. Despite his fears and the tension hanging heavily in the air, the awed murmurs and quiet, astonished remarks from the trow brought him unexpected satisfaction. Elias had played absolutely no role in the city’s construction, nor had anyone in his family, to the best of his knowledge. And yet, the comments stirred in him a peculiar, vicarious pride.

  Much of the sea was still obscured by the crest of the hill, but from what little Elias could see of the harbor, the elves had not yet landed troops. There was, however, a frantic flurry of activity taking place near the docks. Hundreds of scurrying figures the size of insects raced down narrow streets, carrying boards, beams, and any other implements that could be used in the hastily assembled barricades. From the look of things, Offert—or whatever high official was seeing to the city’s defense—intended to funnel the elves through the docks and down a handful of well-guarded boulevards.

  “Well, that’s something at least,” he muttered.

  He’d meant the comment for himself alone—or perhaps the ambrosian behind him—but Avans startled him by grunting in agreement.

  “I suppose even Offert doesn’t want to be remembered as the man who lost Islesmark,” Avans said.

  Elias was reluctant to give the Governor-General that much credit but wasn’t in the mood to discuss it. Instead, he stroked his famos’ neck, encouraging it as it lethargically climbed the final stretch. And then, when the path dissolved, he slipped from the saddle and impatiently picked his way through the crowd of trow doing just the same.

  The sight of the elven fleet took his breath away. He’d known that it would. But, somehow, the sight of the vessels drifting ever closer on half-furled sails surpassed his worst imaginings. There were dozens of vessels, nearly a hundred by his hurried estimation, and those were just the survivors. An entire fleet’s worth of ruined vessels lay in the armada’s wake, cracked, burning, and disbursed so broadly by the waves that the ruins now equaled Islesmark itself in size. Most of the wrecks were of familiar, distinctly non-elven design, though he was heartened to see that the outnumbered defenders had managed to take a similar number of elven vessels down with them.

  Not that it had done much good. Numbers, not strategy appeared to have won the day. And the elves had numbers to spare. Worse still, the foremost vessels were mere minutes from shore.

  It took several tries before Elias succeeded in prying his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

  “How many?” he asked. He glanced about, uncertain who he’d addressed, and found both Rhona and Gilla standing nearby. With one arm, Gilla held her sister close.

  “Eight thousand? Ten?” the trow guessed, shrugging. “Not less than five. Tereus isn’t the sort to leave ships half-empty.”

  Ten thousand elves.

  The gnawing dread in Elias’ stomach grew worse. There were, at best, a thousand reservist watchmen in Islesmark. Even if Offert had shoved a sword or spear into the hands of every able-bodied man in the entire city—presuming there were that many weapons to be found—it would have taken an organizational miracle to match the elven ranks. And, when he considered the odds of conscripted citizens outfighting even modestly trained elves, some of whom would have blessings of their own….

  “We need to get down there,” Elias said, struggling to speak clearly past the lump in his throat. He turned and sought Kyra. “Find your family and take them east. We’ll meet outside the city and… and figure out where to go.”

  Kyra met his gaze and grimaced, but nodded. As she turned to leave, however, she yelped and nearly lost her footing as Suli barreled past.

  The ambrosian made her way to Elias, gesturing wildly in silent urgency. The display was so pronounced and exaggerated that he nearly laughed. He might have, had Suli’s expression not been so determined.

  “Suli, I don’t und—” he said.

  Suli hissed, the nearest she’d come to speaking aloud in all the time Elias had known her. She grasped his arm, hauling him away from the small plateau of the peak and shoving him quite indelicately toward the famos. Glaring sternly, she shooed him with a claw.

  Bewildered, Elias glanced about. None of the trow seemed to grasp any more than he did, though a few of them shied away from the agitated ambrosian. The others followed their example a moment later when Suli turned on them and repeated the shooing motion with more enthusiasm. Slowly, the whole group retreated, paused, and then withdrew further when she continued waving them back.

  At long last, Suli appeared satisfied. She turned to face the sea, her thin, whiplike tail lashing violently from side to side. Dropping into a crouch, she dug her claws into the rocks and screamed.

  It wasn’t a roar—not really. Elias had heard the destructive cries of the other ambrosians as they wreaked havoc in Dan Tien. Suli’s cry bore only the faintest resemblance to those. Compared to her deafening, shattering outburst, the others might as well have been whispers.

  Elias yelped as he was blown backward but the sound of his own voice never reached his ears. It was lost in the hurricane of wind, the hill lurching beneath his feet and, of course, the tearing, metallic rasp of Suli’s wordless scream. He fell, rolling uncontrollably, and tasted blood as his jaw cracked hard against a rock. He couldn’t see for all the dust in the air. Fumbling blindly, he managed to catch hold of an outcropping and arrest his tumbling.

  All around him, the others were recovering as well. Their faces were pale, even the trow, and several were bleeding where they’d scraped the ground or each other.

  The wind died slowly. Elias couldn’t hear the change past the ringing in his ears but he felt it lessen against his face. Climbing gingerly to his feet, he spat the blood from his lips and wiped the dust from his stinging eyes. And, as the swirling cloud slowly settled, he caught sight of Suli.

  The ambrosian crouched in the same spot as before, only now her tail no longer lashed. It drooped limply, twitching in time to her heaving breaths.

  Then he saw the rubble. Elias’ first thought was an entirely irrational one. He staggered forward, intent on tackling the ambrosian or using his body to shield her from the immense rocks hurtling through the air. He’d crossed nearly half the distance between them before he realized that the boulders were hurtling away from her. In a way, his error was actually a blessing. He reached Suli’s side just in time to witness the devastation her roar had wrought.

  It looked as though half the hill had hurled itself into the sea. Realistically, there was no better description for it. A mountain’s worth of hillside, trees, and scattered debris rained down on the elven fleet in a wave that was part landslide, part eruption. The sheer volume of it was staggering. Elias watched, mute with astonishment, as a dozen ships cracked in two beneath stones twice their size. Others keeled, dismasted, or collided as they were tossed by massive, churning waves.

  Suli’s aim could not have been more precise. The gash of foundering ships carved the elven fleet in two. And though half the fleet remained afloat, the lead vessels were already coming about. Whether they planned to retreat or were merely delaying for the sake of any potential survivors was immaterial. What mattered was in a single instant, with a single breath, Suli had changed the course of a war.

  Elias laughed. It wasn’t amusement—what humor was there to be found?—but astonishment that moved him to it. He dropped to his knees, wrapped Suli in his arms, and pulled her tight against his chest in relief and delight. She trembled slightly, panting heavily against his chest, but he hardly would have minded if she’d torn at him with her claws at the moment.

  “Gods bless you, Suli,” he said, half-chuckling the words. “Seven hells! How did you do that?”

  She lifted her head, grinned toothily, and didn’t answer. Her golden eyes were half-lidded with weariness. But also, unless he was quite mistaken, a healthy dose of pride as well.

  “My mother told you, didn’t she?” Gilla said, approac
hing. She grimaced, prodding a long, bleeding scrape on her cheek with a finger. “The longer an ambrosian is silent, the more powerful their blessing.”

  “The longer…” Elias echoed. Meeting Suli’s gaze, he quirked a brow. “How long has it been? Since you, ah, spoke?”

  Quirking a hairless brow, she flicked her tail toward the devastated fleet. Elias sighed and rolled his eyes.

  “Before that,” he corrected.

  For a moment, Suli looked thoughtful. Then, shrugging free of his arms, she knelt and pressed both claws to her belly. He stared at her, uncomprehending. She huffed, spread her legs, and slid both hands emphatically downward.

  “Oh,” Elias said, reddening. He made the mistake of looking at Gilla and reddened further at her amused smirk. Fortunately, his surprise soon proved stronger than his embarrassment. “Since… since you were born?”

  Suli nodded and shut her legs. She tried to stand, staggered, and only managed to avoid collapsing thanks to the arm Gilla threw out to catch her.

  “She’ll need a while to recover. My sister can take care of her for now,” Gilla said. She jerked her head toward the sea. “What do you want to do about this?”

  Elias’ grin evaporated as he turned back to consider the elven fleet. Though devastated, it was still entirely possible that the elves retained enough strength to take the city. Even if they ultimately failed, the cost in lives would be tremendous.

  “You think they still plan to fight?” he asked.

  Gill shrugged. “I doubt they sailed all this way just to turn back now.”

  Elias sighed and mouthed a curse. It took far more than a passing familiarity with a sword to make a soldier and he barely had that. Nor was he thrilled by the prospect of racing through Islesmark with a dozen trow at his back. But, now that they’d evened the numbers a bit, it was possible that a dozen swords could make a difference.

  “Fine,” he muttered, rising and dusting himself off. “You still feel like killing some elves?”

  Gilla smiled. And for just an instant, she looked every bit as fanged and feral as the ambrosian on her arm.

  “Always,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  They left Suli, Lucasta, and several of the less martially competent trow at the peak, along with the famos. The mounts would have been fairly useless in descending anyway. The northern paths leading down to the city were so steep and narrow that Elias was relieved not to be attempting the trail with anything but his own two feet. The switchbacks were slick enough with gravel already.

  They had managed a little more than a third of the descent when Kyra caught his arm.

  “Eli, look!” she said, gesturing to the harbor.

  He looked and immediately wished he hadn’t. Or rather, he would have if the information hadn’t been so necessary.

  It hadn’t taken long for the lead vessels of the elven fleet to change course yet again. Perhaps their officers had decided that the trailing vessels could manage the hunt for survivors on their own. Or perhaps there were few enough to bother. In either case, the undamaged vessels had set their sights on Islesmark. And even in the few seconds Elias watched them, several more ships edged around the mass of cracked hulls and splintered masts to rejoin their undamaged comrades.

  They didn’t have long. In only a few minutes, the first ships would reach the docks.

  “Damn it,” Elias muttered. He hurried down the hillside, vaulting the edge of the switchbacks where he could. It didn’t save much time. The path was long and steep and the last thing he could afford was a twisted ankle.

  “Where to?” Avans asked him.

  Elias gnawed the inside of his cheek, glancing from the harbor to the city to the ground beneath his feet so rapidly it nearly dizzied him. “Kira,” he called. “Your family’s near the palace, aren’t they?”

  “That’s right,” she answered.

  “Can you take Linn with you? My home is on the way.”

  “Of course.” Kyra’s reply was instantaneous and reassuring, despite how winded she was. “But I… I’m not sure they’ll want to leave. Not right away.”

  “Try,” he said. “If they won’t do it, then make certain they’re ready to go the instant something changes. Head east and then head back here. Suli and the trow can look after them.”

  “I will.”

  Elias nodded and turned back to Avans. “What about you?” he asked. “Any distant relations?”

  “None that I know of,” Avans said. “And no rich friends either. Looks like I’m stuck with you.”

  Grinning, Elias swatted the man as they rounded yet another bend in the path. It was oddly comforting to be doing something of importance. True, he doubted their presence would make much of a difference in the outcome of the battle, but they might manage to save a few lives along the way. And, no matter what he compared it to, that was far from an insignificant thing.

  “Gilla, make certain you and the trow stay close,” he called. “Hoods up if you can. We don’t want to cause problems.”

  Judging by her impatient grunt, the reminder was unnecessary. But, if her unfamiliar words and the resulting wave of acknowledgements were to be believed, she’d passed on the message anyway.

  From the distant shouts and cries, the battle had begun by the time they reached level ground. The sound was more like the buzzing of innumerable flies by the time it reached them at the southern edge of the city, but its presence sent another burst of urgent adrenaline coursing through Elias’ veins. He spared a single glance about to ensure they’d not lost anyone along the way—they hadn’t—then wiped the sweat from his neck and brow with a handful of cloak. The weather wasn’t unduly warm, but he’d sweated far more than his mostly even breath would suggest.

  “Let’s move,” he said. “My place first.”

  To Elias’ surprise, there were actually sentries stationed at the city’s edge. Only three, the oldest of which could not have been a day over sixteen, but sentries nonetheless. Two of them faced the harbor and conversed nervously as if expecting to see elves marching down the adjacent streets at any moment. The third, however, spotted Elias and his companions the moment they emerged from the tree-shrouded trailhead. Shifting his spear to a readier grip, he shouted a challenge that made his voice crack.

  Elias didn’t bother replying. He trotted forward swiftly, neither halting nor reaching for his sword. Kyra and Avans were on either side of him and followed his lead. He did, however, hear several of the trow murmuring amongst themselves.

  “Halt!” the spear-wielding boy repeated. His voice no longer cracked, perhaps thanks to the other two who’d joined him. “Identify yourselves!”

  “Elias Ansiri,” replied Elias as they drew near. “Where’s the Governor-General?”

  “H—stop!” the boy yelped. When Elias made no sign of stopping, he sidestepped and leveled his spear.

  Elias did not pause until he felt the point of the weapon dig into his stomach.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” one of the boy’s fellows said nervously. “No one is allowed in or out of the city. Captain’s orders.”

  “Piss on your captain’s orders,” Elias snarled. Glowering, he swatted the spear aside and stomped forward until his face was inches from the youth who held it. “I’m the Governor-General’s godsdamned ambassador. Now, where the fuck can I find Offert?”

  The boy swallowed hard, lifted his spear, and offered a clumsy, nervous salute. “Sorry, sir,” he said, voice cracking again. “He, uh, the Governor-General is, uh, he—”

  Elias turned to the second, younger boy. “Where?” he repeated.

  “Harbor!” the younger boy yelped, saluting as well.

  Offering only the scantest hint of a nod, Elias shoved past them. He half-expected the boys to protest or challenge the host of hooded elves who trailed after him, but thankfully, they did not. And moving swiftly, they soon left the pubescent sentries behind.

  “We’ll check the palace first
,” he announced. “After we fetch Linn. The boy’s probably correct, but…”

  No one objected.

  They were only a few minutes from Elias’ home. He knew the streets well enough to guide them there with his eyes closed. And yet, despite that familiarity, he hardly recognized the place. The streets themselves were mostly empty. But all around them, in the shadow of modest houses and two-story shops, the people of Islesmark were preparing to flee. The odd, unconscripted man shouldered oversized packs or loaded wagons while pale-faced women gathered their wayward children and attempted to impress a sense of urgency on the rambunctious or calm on the frightened.

  From the corners of his eyes, Elias watched the scenes unfold repeatedly. It wouldn’t be long before these people broke. Offert’s soldiers could insist all they wanted that nobody leave the city. But the instant the elves broke through the barricades—or rumors spread that they had—Islesmark would stampede. That wouldn’t make their job impossible, but he didn’t fancy the idea of fighting their way through a crowd.

  “This way,” he called, cutting through an alley and out onto the proper street. The sight of his home stole the breath from his lungs in a way that other familiar sights had not. And despite his own admonishments, he raced forward and left the others behind.

  The windows were dark, shrouded by curtains, and seemingly abandoned. He tried the door but found it locked. Pounding a fist on the door, he waited.

  No answer came.

  “Linn!” he called, knocking again, more insistently.

  Still, neither she nor anyone else answered.

  Elias was knocking a third time when Kyra and the rest caught up to him. He turned reluctantly, his throat tight with apprehension.