Alliances

Chapter 12

Like a vast black mirror, the Lake of Death covered what had once been the great city of Qualinost. By day, the water was a deep jade color, but at dawn, before the sun first broke over the eastern rim of the sky, the water resembled the darkest ink imaginable. Despite the summer season, the air was chilly, and perpetual fog drifted over the lake. Beryl’s impact had created so mighty a crater, the ground around the lake sloped down to its forbidding shore. Here and there, bits of masonry stood out dull gray against blasted trees that reached into the lightening sky like blackened, fleshless arms. Everything dripped gray moss and smelled worse than a hundred cesspits.

“You fell into that?” Samar exclaimed. “Somewhere there’s a sorcerer who does not like you.”

Kerian did not agree. Whoever had plucked her from Khur and dropped her here was watching out for her, not trying to harm her. A malign magician could have left her where she was, facing death among the nomads, or could have let her plummet unchecked into Nalis Aren. She had been saved for a reason. To fight in Porthios’s rebellion? Perhaps. There were many questions. Being here again, beholding the awful lake, invited questions.

The column of elves paused briefly to rest just after dawn. No one wanted to leave the road and pitch a tent or unroll a blanket in the murky domain surrounding the lake, so they slept in or under their carts or didn’t sleep at all.

The lake and its immediate environs were cloaked in a perpetual twilight. Only the elves’ own innate sense of time told them when an hour had passed. Alhana rode the length of the caravan, rousing the Bianost militia and wishing them good morning. Weary shoulders straightened, and the townsfolk bowed their heads respectfully as she rode by. She was very different from Orexas, who appeared seldom, spoke rarely, and commanded by mystery. With a kind smile and warm words, Alhana revived their spirits as she progressed along the line.

At the tail of the caravan she asked Samar, who rode with her, to send a few riders back down their path to look for signs of pursuit. The heavy atmosphere around the lake blunted vision and smell to an alarming degree. They did not want to be surprised by bandits.

Back at the head of the column, Alhana found Kerian and Chathendor studying the map Kerian had found in Bianost. It didn’t show the lake, of course, having been drawn well before the fall of Beryl, and they were trying to reconcile the current topography to that shown on the map.

“This must be the road we are on,” Kerian said, tapping the map with a blunt nail. “Silveran’s Way.”

“I recall it,” Chathendor said, eyes closed, drawing on his memories. “It wended gently across the land north of the city.” Opening his eyes, he returned to reality with a jolt. “It does not seem possible.”

Alhana asked if they’d seen Orexas. Kerian had. She’d been dozing on the ground when he ghosted by her, heading straight down the road.

It was time to follow him. No heralds cried; no silvery trumpets trilled. Alhana gave the word and it was passed through the royal guards to the Bianost militia. She led them forward. Kerian and Chathendor followed half a horse length behind, and Samar rode a few yards back, at the head of the royal guards.

A walking pace was the best they could manage, given the state of the road. The once smooth, well-tended way was cut by fissures. Mud, stones, and boulders from higher up the steep hillside had washed down onto the road. The town elves were not experienced drovers, and many of their beasts were not suited as draft animals. Frequently, elves had to jump down and push the wheels by hand to help the laden wagons over rough or muddy spots. Progress was so glacial, the lead riders were forced to stop and wait for the caravan of wagons to catch up.

“At this rate Samuval will die of old age before our revolt gets under way,” Kerian observed.

The encouraging words Alhana meant to say died on her lips. Instead, she gasped, “Merciful E’li. Look!”

Above this end of the lake a sizable cloud of vapor had collected. It writhed as if stirred by contrary winds, yet the air was perfectly still.

“Do you see it?” Alhana cried.

“The fog, lady?” asked Chathendor, confused.

“Yes! It looks like a dragon!”

Kerian squinted, staring hard. “It does?”

“Its jaws are opening!”

The cloud dissolved, ribbons of mist snaking apart. Alhana turned sharply to her companions, but they reported seeing only an amorphous bank of fog. Chathendor murmured, “You are very tired, lady. You haven’t rested properly since leaving Bianost.”

Kerian was not so dismissive. “It may have been a vision, an omen meant for your eyes only.”

“An omen of what?”

Kerian could not guess, but once the mist had thinned, she saw an odd yellow gleam over the lake. Alhana saw it as well, but neither of them could say what it was. Only Chathendor, whose aged eyes were too weak to pick it out, realized what it was.

“The Tower of the Sun,” he whispered.

Formerly the seat of the Speaker of the Sun and the center of every Qualinesti’s life and heart, the great monument was awash in the foul waters of Nalis Aren, the sunburst glory of its golden peak reduced to a faint ocher smudge.

Trying to dispel the murk before their eyes and in their hearts, Alhana called for torches. Branches were hacked from the skeletal trees. Kerian feared they would prove rotten, but it was not so. The wood was dry and very hard, almost petrified. It burned readily, with a flame so pale it was nearly white, and gave off little smoke.

Two riders went ahead, carrying torches. Almost immediately their light fell on Porthios, standing in the middle of the road. All of them flinched in surprise, and Kerian looked as though she had a choice obscenity for him, but she glanced at Alhana and stifled it.

“We cannot continue on this road,” he told them. “The bridge that once spanned the White-Rage is destroyed.”

The White-Rage River flowed north out of Nalis Aren. They could not continue their course unless they could cross it. Locating a ford suitable for the wagons would require a long journey north.

In the bleak silence, Porthios said, “Another bridge still stands.”

Kerian slapped her thigh with one hand. “Why didn’t you just say so? How much farther north?”

“Not far, but the only way to get there is”—His ragged robe swung like a tattered banner as he pointed up the hillside. The way was not only steep, but the ground was torn up and strewn with boulders, making for a difficult climb.

Once more the map was called for. Studying it, they determined that the bridge Porthios had found was reached by Birch Trail, a narrow track that more or less paralleled Silveran’s Way.

Hardly had they decided to ascend to Birch Trail when a rider came galloping recklessly down the broken road. He clattered to halt before Samar.

“My lord! The enemy is behind us!” he cried. “Less than an hour away!”

“In what strength?” Kerian demanded.

The Silvanesti guard didn’t like answering a question from a Kagonesti, but Samar impatiently told him to get on with it.

“Five hundred horse and a thousand infantry.”

Alhana quickly sent Samar off to organize their defenses. He and Kerian galloped away together, trading rapid-fire thoughts on how best to meet the threat. The two of them recently had discovered common ground: neither approved Porthios’s plan to attack Mereklar.

Once the two warriors were out of sight, Alhana realized Porthios had come to stand by her left stirrup.

“We must protect the weapons cache,” she said.

“You must keep out of the way. Let the warriors defend the arms.”

Lifting her chin, she replied, “I choose my place, and my place is with my people.”

Urging her mount forward, she moved into the whirlwind of activity filling the road. Kerian had gotten all the townsfolk who weren’t actually driving wagons to clear off the conveyances and arm themselves. The first cart was beginning the climb up the hillside. Its driver stood on the box, reins in hand, and whistled and shouted to his horses. They started up gamely, but within a few yards, slipped on the thick, loose surface. The cart skidded sideways and overturned. Wrapped bundles of spears and swords spilled out.

Porthios directed the reloading of the cart. Once it was done, he told the driver to cut loose his team.

“What?” the driver and Kerian demanded together.

“With this uncertain surface, elves will fare better than horses. The carts must be dragged up by hand.”

“That’s madness!” exclaimed Kerian.

“Yes. Proceed.”

The elves proceeded. Once the horses were cut loose, two elves grabbed the traces and two more got behind to push. Straining, they hauled the cart up eight feet. The wheels sank into the loose ground, but by heaving and rocking, the elves advanced the cart to a level spot above Silveran’s Way.

Those watching cheered until Porthios snapped, “Why are you standing? There’s work to do!”

Kerian watched in amazement as elves seized wagons and carts and started up the sharp grade. The first cart was dragged a further twenty yards. Its elves announced the discovery of another road, narrower than Silveran’s Way but in better condition. They had found Birch Trail.

The caravan comprised thirty-one carts and thirty-five wagons. There weren’t enough elves in the militia to haul all of them up at once, so as teams reached Birch Trail, they had to slide back down the hill and take another turn.

Kerian left them to it and headed down the road to find Samar and the guards, preparing to defend against five times their number of bandits.

“Orexas has them hauling the wagons up by hand,” she reported. “The horses can’t make it.”

Samar glanced at his own mount. “How do we get up there?”

“We don’t.” Kerian drew her sword and rested the flat of the blade against her shoulder. Another rider joined them. Her eyes widened. “You’re in no shape to fight!”

Hytanthas Ambrodel, pale and wan but sitting straight in the saddle, shifted the sword he carried. “I’ll not be carried up a hill like freight,” he replied testily. She could not argue with that.

Soon enough the tramp of many booted feet reached their ears, loud even in the deadened air of Nalis Aren. Another sound played counterpoint: the high crack of whips. Kerian knew the meaning of that.

“Goblin infantry! Stand by to receive an infantry attack!”

By sections, the warriors wheeled about and rode back sixty yards, halting near the end of the caravan. Coming toward them was a phalanx of goblins in black-painted armor. Behind each of the four companies, a human officer rode on horseback. On foot in front of him were half a dozen sergeants, driving the goblins forward with whips.

When the goblins spied the mounted elves, the foremost company halted and their ten-foot pikes dropped briefly. Then, with a concerted shout, they lurched forward again.

“Any tactical suggestions?” Samar asked, seating a helmet on his head.

“Kill them.”

Smiling grimly, Samar raised his sword and shouted, “Elves! By section, charge!”

It was hard for the goblins to gather much momentum while marching uphill, but the downhill slope gave the elves extra impetus. The sight of the Silvanesti hurtling toward them caused the front ranks of goblins to miss a step, despite the whips driving them onward.

The two forces collided. The elves beat aside the goblins’ pikes so they passed harmlessly overhead. The first two ranks of goblins fell beneath the weight of the horses. Kerian stood in her stirrups and laid about on both sides. The result was simple slaughter. The goblins’ shields were slung on their backs, in marching order. Without protection, the creatures were defenseless once their pikes were deflected.

Despite the redoubled efforts of the sergeants and their whips, the rear ranks backed away. Goblins along the edges of the formation were shoved off balance and went tumbling down the hill, smashing into stones and tree trunks. The entire first company broke, retreating into the ranks of the second.

Samar gave the command to withdraw. Bloody but intact, the elves rode back to where they had started.

Wiping sweat from her eyes, despite the unnatural chill around the lake, Kerian saw a flock of dark birds take flight from trees higher up the hillside. They were carrion birds, the kind that collected at every battlefield, but something had frightened them into flight.

“Ambush!” she cried.

Her warning came a fatal second too late. A swarm of arrows plunged down among the guards. Some found their marks, and elves fell. The remaining guards scattered, with some trying to ride up the hillside at the concealed archers.

Their mounts met with no more success than had the cart horses. A second volley whistled down, and many of the riders struggling up the slope dropped from their saddles.

Something bumped Kerian’s horse, and she heard a gasp. Samar swayed in the saddle, an arrow lodged under his left arm. He’d thrown himself in front of her and taken a missile that would have hit her. He slumped over and she yelled at him to hang on. At her command, Hytanthas grabbed the reins of Samar’s horse and led the wounded elf away.

Surrounded by dead and wounded, Kerian turned her back on the bandit army. She lifted her buckler aloft to ward off plunging arrows and shouted, “Elves of Bianost, rally to me! Fight for yourselves! Fight for your people!”

In twos and threes, volunteers crawled out from under the remaining wagons. They were terrified, faces pale as snow, but Kerian was proud of them. They were none of them warriors, yet they came.

“Yes! Well done!” she cried. “We won’t let them sting us like this! Rally to me! Let’s flush out those hornets!”

Theryontas and a dozen elves armed with a mixture of weapons formed up behind her. Another volley of arrows rained down. Heeding the Lioness’s warning, shields came up and the elves warded off the arrows—all but one. One elf found the thrum of missiles in flight too much for his curiosity. He peered over the rim of his shield and took a shaft in the face.

“Keep your shields up!” Kerian dismounted and ran to the uphill side of the road. “Stay together! Let’s go!”

With the remaining guards holding off the scattered goblins, Kerian led her small band up the slope toward the hidden archers. More elves were cowering behind boulders and bushes. The Lioness told them to follow. By the time she reached the thin line of trees along Birch Trail, Kerian had close to sixty followers. A few were armed with bows. She set them to sniping at the archers half hidden down the trail.

While the groups traded arrows, she led a band of twenty higher up the hillside under cover of boulders, broken masonry, and twisted trees. At the first level spot, she directed them to crouch and follow her as she worked her way toward the bandit archers.

Unfortunately, one member of her band was too eager. Impatient with the Lioness’s careful approach, Theryontas went rushing down the slope. He’d taken no more than three steps before an archer put a black-fletched arrow in his chest. The two elves who followed him also were struck down. Kerian gave the order, and the Bianost elves attacked the archers—seventeen humans in dark red brigandines. Most of the humans were still sniping at the elves below and didn’t react in time. They quickly fell to the furious elves.

The enraged town elves would have killed every one, but Kerian halted them. She wanted to question the two remaining archers.

One, with a heavy dark beard, had a slash on his neck and could not speak. The other, a clean-shaven, teenaged boy, was so terrified Kerian had to ask his name twice before he stammered out the answer. He was Wycul, part of the Frenost Free Company, a mercenary band loosely affiliated with Gathan Grayden’s host. The main body of the army had marched to Mereklar after receiving reports of uprisings in that town. The Free Company and the goblin infantry had been ordered to follow the outlaw elves wherever they went. The goblins weren’t happy about entering the environs of the Lake of Death. There were things there that ate goblins, they said.

A horn blared from below. Several of Alhana’s guards were waving to catch Kerian’s attention. She ordered her little company back down to Silveran’s Way. They helped themselves to the dead men’s weapons. Bearing the bodies of Theryontas and their other fallen, and with Wycul supporting his wounded comrade, they descended.

With the defeat of the archer trap, the goblin infantry had fallen back out of sight, leaving the ruined road strewn with dead. Horses trotted back and forth, looking for their fallen riders.

Two of Alhana’s royal guard met Kerian at the edge of the road. “Lady! A catastrophe!” exclaimed one. “Our royal mistress—!”

Fearing the worst, Kerian was already, sprinting for the trees. She left the two human captives with the riders.

Alhana was not dead. She lay unconscious on the ground, her head cradled in Chathendor’s lap. They were surrounded by anxious elves, but the rise and fall of Alhana’s chest brought a relief so strong Kerian’s knees felt weak. Samar lay unconscious beside Alhana. The wound under his left arm was tightly bound. He’d lost much blood, and his face was waxen, but he breathed. Kerian could see no visible wound on Alhana.

“What happened?” she demanded.

Chathendor said, “An arrow struck her horse. It bolted and she was thrown.”

Carefully, Kerian touched the back of Alhana’s neck. She thanked the gods Alhana’s neck wasn’t broken, but when her questing fingers found a wet spot above and behind her left ear, Kerian grimaced. A heavy blow could cause bleeding inside the skull, resulting in slow death. Alhana couldn’t be moved for fear of worsening her condition. Yet the elves were in a terribly exposed position, athwart the road, with active mercenary bands at their heels.

With Alhana and Samar down, and Theryontas dead, the Bianost elves looked to the Lioness for leadership. She acted quickly.

“Everyone will ascend to Birch Trail. The rest of the carts and wagons will be left here, their loads divided and carried up the hill. Scavenge wood from the empty wagons to make litters for the wounded.”

Elves hurried to carry out her orders. Chathendor’s tear-filled eyes lifted from his mistress’s still face. “What do we do, lady?” he whispered to Kerian. “Will she live?”

“She will. I won’t allow her to die.”

Porthios approached. For once, Kerian was extremely glad to see him.

He commanded the royal guards to block the road, to protect Alhana, who must remain where she was. His voice and bearing were such that the warriors obeyed without demur.

He had less success with Chathendor. The old chamberlain would not be sent away with the wounded.

“I do not leave my lady,” he said flatly, and Porthios was forced to acquiesce. It was that or have the old elf lifted bodily.

The unconscious Samar was borne away, and Kerian prepared to go as well, knowing she could be of no use here. Before she departed, she cast one last worried glance at Alhana and said quietly to Porthios, “You’re a healer? It will take one of uncommon skill to save her.”

“I healed myself when I was nothing but blood and shattered bones. I will heal her too.”

Porthios’s voice rang with conviction. Kerian nodded, but in her heart, she was certain Alhana Starbreeze would not survive the coming night.