Alliances

Chapter 14

Porthios sat by Alhana, his eyes never leaving her face. She lay on her back, hands folded at her waist, her head turned slightly to the right, toward him. A small droplet of blood appeared from one nostril, standing out against her pearl skin like ink on snow. He gently blotted it away with the tip of a gloved finger.

The two of them were alone, or as close as made no difference. After an hour sitting stiffly upright with Alhana, Chathendor had at last ceded his place and crawled a few yards away to sleep. The rest of the column had moved into concealment in the woods. No sounds or firelight betrayed their position, but a part of Porthios’s mind knew they were there. The larger portion knew only Alhana, and anger.

Alhana did not deserve this fate. During the blackest days of his recovery, Porthios had built a picture of his wife’s last moments. That dream allowed him to cling to the shreds of his sanity as his body healed. It did not entail their reunion. No thought of that ever entered his mind once he knew the extent of his injuries. He could never impose his hideous existence on one so beautiful, so refined and good. Instead, his dream was of a day, many decades distant, when Alhana was on her deathbed. A small golden box would be delivered to her. It would contain his ring and a short scroll detailing his reasons for staying away. She would read the scroll and finally know the depth of his love. She would shed a tear for his unshakable honor and perfect devotion, then, gently and painlessly, life would leave Alhana Starbreeze.

A death like this, bathed in the stench of Nalis Aren, with an aged retainer snoring nearby, was not to be imagined. Porthios had endured much. Knowing Alhana lived, although parted from him forever, gave him the strength to tolerate. But if he must watch her die—

She would not die. Dreams and romance aside, she simply had too much more to do. There was too much at stake, and far too much left unsaid.

He took her hand. “How can I save you?” he whispered. Her fingers were slack in his grip.

Pain had saved him from dying. The agony of burns and broken bones had raged so hard within him, he couldn’t hear death’s soft summons. He still battled pain during every waking moment. The endless war made him strong.

He realized he was squeezing her hand very hard. Rather than ease his grip, he increased it, crushing her fingers between his own. Had she merely been sleeping, she would have awakened and cried out. Abruptly, he lifted his free hand and struck her across the face. Her head lolled away from him.

“Don’t you feel that?” he said, voice rising.

Despite the situation, shame twisted his stomach. In all their long lives together, he’d never lifted his hand to her. He felt bile rise in the back of his throat, but he struck her again. There was no response.

His eyes burned. Since his injury, he had been unable to weep proper tears. Grief sweated from his eyes.

The sound of footsteps brought his head up. Chathendor still slept, and he first thought Kerian was intruding, but the footfalls were coming from the road, not the woods. He did not bother to rise. Blinking moisture from his eyes, he merely waited.

Night at the Lake of Death was not much different from day. It was darker, though not much, and perhaps the stink was less. The mist clung to the lake’s edges, creating the illusion the black cauldron was rimmed with snow.

A figure emerged into feeble starlight. He was human, a stout old man with short white hair standing out from his head in all directions. He leaned on a blackthorn staff and wore threadbare priestly robes. Porthios immediately recognized his mentor from the forest.

The old priest called, “Greetings, my faceless friend.”

Porthios did not answer. The old man shuffled closer. “You grieve. I felt your sorrow far down the road.”

“What do you want?” Porthios’s voice was choked and dry.

“What I’ve always wanted, to lend my support.”

Alhana’s breathing faltered for an instant, and Porthios felt his heart skip a beat. “Support? If you really wanted to support my people, you would right the wrongs done to them.”

The priest came forward. He halted a few steps from Alhana’s feet. “This one I’ve known a long time. So many great mortals she knew, without ever quite achieving greatness herself.” Porthios glared at him, but the old man went on, oblivious. “Direct intervention seldom works out well. Trust what I tell you, my wounded friend. It has been tried before, and the consequences inevitably are worse than the original problem.”

“Damn your consequences! Help her!”

“You love her, yet you let her believe you were dead all these years.” The old priest shook his head. “Strange pride you have.”

“I’ve done what you asked,” Porthios rasped. “I started a rebellion with a handful of followers against an enemy who commands thousands. We’ve achieved remarkable things. Must Alhana now die for the revolt to continue?”

The eyes in the friendly, jowly face sparkled with a strange inner light. “If I say yes?”

“Then I will die with her.”

“You must save your people.”

“Kerianseray can lead the rebellion, or Samar, or Nalaryn.”

“No one but you can do it.”

“Then heal her!” Porthios hissed, standing quickly. “You’re a god, aren’t you? It is within your power. Heal her, or I swear to you I will die with her this night!”

The priest’s body wavered and evaporated like smoke. One instant he was there; the next, he was not. Porthios stalked to where the old man had been. He opened his mouth, ready to shout denunciations and accusations to the sky, but the priest’s voice stopped him.

“Mind what you say, my proud friend.” He was back, standing near Alhana’s head, exactly where Porthios had been. “More ears than ours are listening, and some disapprove of my meddling.” Porthios managed a sharp, sarcastic laugh, and the old fellow added, “Yes, as you deduce, no one approves. Hence the guises and trappings I’m forced to hide behind.”

“I meant what I said. The choice is yours.”

“You would sacrifice your entire race for this one female?” Porthios folded his arms across his thin chest. The old human sighed. “Very well. But after tonight, you’ll not see me again for a time. I have too many irons in the fire.” The priest shifted his blackthorn staff from one hand to the other.

“Try to appreciate my subtlety, will you?” he said rather plaintively. “Even when you can’t understand it.”

He turned and walked back to the road.

“Is that all?” Porthios cried, incredulous.

The old priest looked back, the odd light glimmering again in his eyes. “What more did you wish?”

He vanished.

Alhana moaned. Porthios dropped to his knees. “Alhana! Alhana, can you hear me?” he shouted.

“They can hear you in Schallsea,” she muttered, both hands coming up to cover her ears.

Porthios smiled. None could see it, and the unaccustomed movement hurt the ravaged skin of his face, but he smiled nonetheless. He had no idea what price the god might exact for Alhana’s life. At that moment he did not care.

The Lioness and a dozen guards crashed through the underbrush. A limping Samar followed close behind.

“What is it?” Kerian cried, brandishing a sword. “We heard you shouting!”

Porthios regarded her blandly. “I was merely speaking to the Great Lady.”

They looked at him as if he’d gone mad. Alhana sat up. Voices exclaimed in amazement and Kerian cried, “Alhana, can you hear me?”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” she replied crossly. “My head feels as though it may split down the center, but there’s nothing wrong with my ears.”

“Do you remember what happened?” Kerian asked.

“An arrow hit my horse. I fell?”

“You were dying, aunt!”

“Evidently her head is harder than we realized,” said Porthios.

Kerian knelt and gently probed the back of Alhana’s head. She found no blood, but Alhana winced sharply as Kerian touched the site of the wound. No longer life-threatening, it was still extremely tender. From the way Alhana held her left arm, it was obvious she had a variety of other bruises from her fall.

Everyone stared at Porthios, wondering what to make of the amazing development. Alhana opened her mouth to question him but realized it wasn’t the time or place. Instead, she allowed Samar to help her stand, and the two injured elves leaned on each other.

“We’ve lingered long enough here,” Porthios said. “The bandits will be back, and with reliable troops this time. We must get everything up to Birch Trail before morning.”

Kerian scratched through her cropped hair. She was exhausted, having lain awake waiting for word that Alhana had succumbed to her injury. Instead, Alhana was alert and standing, albeit shakily. How had Porthios accomplished such a miracle? Certainly he was clever and fearless. Did he have magical skill as well?

“What are you waiting for?” Porthios asked testily.

“Inspiration,” was her equally grumpy reply.

She left to rouse the Bianost volunteers and the Kagonesti. Samar and Alhana, still leaning on each other, went to marshal the guards. The mounted Silvanesti were withdrawn to the stalled caravan, leaving only a half dozen riders behind to keep watch on the climbing elves. Far down the road was a faint, ruddy glow, as of massed campfires.

The two human captives were a burden the elves could ill afford during the coming climb. Wycul and his injured comrade were bound and gagged, taken to a point several hundred yards away, and tied securely to two different trees.

In accordance with Kerian’s earlier command, the wagons remaining on the road had been unloaded. Their wood was cannibalized for makeshift litters and the remaining detritus hurled down the hillside to conceal it as much as possible. Their loads were divided into lots and bundled onto the backs of elves. Everyone carried a portion, even the elderly Chathendor. Only Porthios and the wounded in their litters went unburdened. Torches were forbidden. The elves had to rely on their fabled night vision to complete their tasks and make the ascent. In the murky night of Nalis Aren, more than a few wished their eyesight were as preternatural as other races believed.

Worse was the lot of Alhana’s mounted guards. Their horses simply could not make the ascent. After several falls, Porthios yielded to Alhana’s calm insistence that the war-horses were too useful to be left behind with the draft animals. He ordered a small band of riders to lead the horses away and find a safer way up. The remaining dismounted fighters would stay by Alhana.

Alhana made the ascent in a litter of spear poles and blankets carried up the hillside by four strong warriors. She was none too steady on her feet and was forced to admit she would only slow them down should she try to climb on her own.

Porthios led the way. All through the night, the elves climbed, narrow lines of straining bodies snaking up the hillside. Laden with the bundles of arms, and bearing the litters of wounded elves, their progress was slow. By the time dawn cast its pitiful light on the hillside, the bottommost climbers were only yards above Silveran’s Way.

Kerian was taking a breather against a boulder when word came up from the lowest level. Movement had been seen eastward on the road. With Nalaryn gripping her hand and acting as counterbalance, she leaned far out from the hillside and looked. The sun wasn’t yet up, but there was light enough to show her a dark mass moving along Silveran’s Way. She had no trouble identifying packed ranks of human soldiers, clad in burnished armor. The bandit horde was coming. Of the few warriors Samar had left to guard the road, there was no sign. They must have been overwhelmed.

She nodded, and Nalaryn pulled her back from the drop. “Pick up the pace! The bandits are coming!” she called up and down the hillside.

The two of them resumed their own ascent and reached Birch Trail in time to see the sun break through the fence of dead trees rimming the broad crater. About a third of the elves were there, including Alhana, Samar, and Chathendor. The rest were scattered across the face of the high hillside, in plain view of the enemy. Kerian asked where Orexas was.

“No one knows,” Alhana grumbled. She sat on the ground, looking wan and small. The black cloud of her hair emphasized her pallor, and the linen bandage that cushioned her head wound kept slipping over her left eye, lending her a distinctly piratical air.

“Do your guards have bows?” Kerian asked.

“Of course,” replied Samar. He understood what she wanted. Stiff from his wound, he moved among his guards, ordering them to string bows and take their places overlooking Silveran’s Way. Just under a hundred lined up shoulder to shoulder, arrows nocked.

The broad column of bandit soldiers drew closer and closer until the very ground vibrated with the thud of their boot heels. They filled the road from side to side, two or three thousand in number. Each wore a hammered breastplate and polished pot helmet with a vertical comb, carried a shield, and bore a long pike ported over his shoulder. Beards curled under their helmet straps like exotic foliage. Kerian never could understand how human males could bear all that hair on their faces.

She lay on her belly and studied the enemy. At the head of the column rode a quartet of officers. Captains and subalterns plodded along the flanks. Kerian didn’t recognize the green banner drooping above them. Gathan Grayden must not be leading the troop. As yet, none of the bandits had noticed the elves frozen in place on the hillside.

“Steady. Perhaps they’ll pass on,” she said to the archers, although she didn’t really believe it.

The elves had tried to clear away all signs of their presence below. Unfortunately, there simply hadn’t been enough time to remove every piece of ruined carts and broken traces. The lead horseman saw enough to cause him to halt the column. Kerian cursed softly but thoroughly in Kagonesti.

A voice shouted an indistinct command, and the leading company went clattering down the road to investigate. Pikes leveled, the soldiers advanced, their attention focused on the far side of the road, on the slope descending toward the lake.

Kerian nearly laughed in relief. They were looking in the wrong place!

With the bandit force seemingly distracted, some of the elves on the hillside unwisely resumed climbing. It didn’t take long for a bundle of swords, awkwardly slung over someone’s back, to clang against a rock outcropping. The mounted officers turned to look. Shouts went up. The elves had been seen.

“Prepare,” Kerian said, rising to her knees.

The four remaining companies on the road swung around to their left and advanced. Kerian let them come. The pikemen clattered against each other as they began the difficult climb. Seeing them flounder, Kerian gave the command: “Now! Loose!”

Arrows dropped onto the closely packed bandits. In a harsh reversal of the ambush the elves had stumbled into, they commanded the heights and the mercenary soldiers suffered. A few, goaded by their officers, broke ranks and tried to get free of the confusion so they could climb, but the hail of death from above was too much. Despite the furious bellows of their commanders, the bandits fell back. Lowering their pikes, they interlocked shields to ward off the missiles.

Kerian hoped they might withdraw completely, but their officers stubbornly held to the road. Commands were shouted and the ranks parted. A lightly armed company of bowmen jogged forward. Judging by their long hair and dark faces, they’d been hired from one of the Blood Sea Isles, probably Saifhum.

“Aim for the archers,” Kerian said, but the Silvanesti around her were already shifting to hit the new target.

With six-foot yew staves, the longbowmen could loft arrows to Birch Trail, but most of it was out of their view, screened by boulders, twisted bushes, or scraggly trees. The elves still climbing were not so fortunate. Long shafts hummed through the air, and elves began to fall. The bundles they carried burst on impact, scattering swords, daggers, and pieces of armor along Silveran’s Way. The human soldiers cheered each time an elf toppled.

The Silvanesti archers gave as good as they got. With the advantage of height, their short bows could put a broadhead lengthwise through a man on the ground.

“Keep moving! Get up! Come on!” Kerian shouted, waving the climbers on. She clenched her fists, furious at her inability to help as elf after elf was hit and tumbled down the hill. Porthios’s sudden, silent appearance at her side brought a flinch of surprise.

He regarded the fight with his usual detachment then announced, “We need a greater weight on our side.”

“A brilliant observation. If you have extra archers concealed somewhere, I’d be happy to make use of them!”

“No, not arrows. Something bigger.”

He studied the area. All around were bits blasted out of Qualinost to rain back down upon the ground. A particularly huge, wedge-shaped slab of stone stood on the edge of Birch Trail. Porthios pointed at it.

“That one. Over the side with it.”

Kerian was aghast. The slab probably weighed three or four tons. No doubt, in days gone by, elf mages could have shifted it in the blink of an eye. Unfortunately, there were no mages in sight. Ignoring her sarcastic comment, Porthios walked away and called for all available elves to gather at the stone.

Spears and pike shafts were thrust under it as levers, but most of the elves simply took hold of the slab with bare hands. Samar joined in, despite his wound. So did Hytanthas. The archers continued to loose at the longbowmen below, but their supply of arrows was running low. As each one ran out, he joined the effort. The only ones not engaged were Alhana, sitting in her litter, Porthios, arranging bodies around the slab, and Kerian, who thought it a stupid waste of effort. When Alhana rose, straightened her bandage, and made her way to the slab, Porthios gave the Lioness a sardonic look.

She slammed her sword into its scabbard. “I will if you will!”

The slab rocked, encouraging them to new efforts. The elves redistributed themselves. Porthios counted to synchronize their efforts, and they heaved with all their might. Teeth clenched, sinews cracked. The slab came free of the grasping loam and rumbled down the slope.

“Get clear! Get clear!” Kerian cried.

The archers still in action darted aside. The slab toppled forward. As the narrower top hit the ground, the slab cracked in half. The front portion dropped down the steep hillside, followed immediately by the weightier rear.

Climbing elves in the path flung themselves aside, and a shout went up as the mass hurtled past. The first piece hit the ground in front of the bandits and shattered into a thousand fragments. The wave of stone shrapnel tore through the ranks, mowing men down in bloody heaps. Then the second, and greater, portion of the stone arrived.

The dense block survived the impact intact. It bounced, rising twenty feet into the air and tumbling end over end. Bandits scattered, climbing over their own comrades in their panic to escape. Down came the slab on the road, landing not with a crash, but with a solid, sickening crunch.

Kerian rolled to her feet. The bandits were deserting en masse, mowing down any officer who got in the way. The Saifhumi longbowmen had vanished. Most were crushed under the second boulder.

“Stop gawking!” Porthios said. “The enemy is still below. Loose arrows!”

He was striding among Alhana’s royal guard, all of whom were standing and staring in dumb shock, their bows at their sides.

“They’re running. Let them go,” Kerian objected.

“Do as I command!” he shouted.

Reluctantly, they obeyed, sending a fresh cascade of death into the crazed mob beneath them. Porthios had them continue the bombardment until the last climbing elf gained Birch Trail. Finally, he gave the order to cease.

The Lioness was hardly the gentlest of fighters, but even she couldn’t bear the carnage. “So you’ve finally killed enough?” she snapped.

“Not nearly enough. But for now, it will have to do.”

Many elves had cuts, broken bones, and arrow wounds. Samar could not stand; his wound had opened as he strained to shift the slab. Hytanthas was on hands and knees, coughing uncontrollably. Porthios commanded all get up and follow him. Much to Kerian’s surprise, they did. Those more able assisted the others, and water was quickly brought to the few in greatest need, but in minutes every elf was on his or her feet, burden shouldered, following their ragged, hard-eyed leader east on the new trail. Without draft animals, the carts and wagons were drawn by hand. Not to be outdone by the Bianost townsfolk, Alhana’s guards, horseless, organized themselves to help carry the bundles of arms and armor. Kerian delayed her own departure to make sure no one was left behind.

Alhana was back in her litter. Helping to shift the stone had left her with barely enough strength to hold up her head, but her eyes were alight with triumph as she was borne past Kerian.

“We are saved! Our cause continues!” she said.

True enough, but the cost was high. Nearly two score dead since they’d arrived at Nalis Aren, and thrice that many more hurt. Porthios no longer evinced a deft touch. His tactics had become blunt and brutal, and the Lioness said so.

“You cannot judge him.”

Kerian fell in step alongside the litter. “Why? Because he once wore a crown?”

“Because he suffers more than we do.”

Alhana could never be less than beautiful, but grime and bruises had certainly taken their toll on her ethereal perfection. It was readily apparent that she, and the rest of them, had suffered, but how had Porthios been harmed?

“Did you notice how he held his right arm close to his chest?” asked Alhana. Kerian had not. “In shifting the sandstone slab, he broke his wrist.”

“How do you know?”

“I toiled beside him. I heard the snap of the bone.”

Despite herself, Kerian marveled at his fortitude. “But he never said a word!”

“No. He never did.”

Unbelievable, Kerian thought. But was it really so strange? She could easily imagine Gilthas doing the very same thing, enduring agony in the service of his people. He’d never complain either.

She wondered where Gilthas was and how he was faring. The news brought by Hytanthas was at best thirdhand, but if true, then the elf nation was facing the gravest peril it had yet encountered in Khur. And here she was, hundreds of miles from the scorching desert, following a masked lunatic, in company with a former queen who called her “niece” and a band of town-dwelling elves and royal warriors.

A twisted shape caught her eye. Lying on the hillside below her were the remains of a tower, one of four that had supported the arched bridges encircling Gilthas’s city. This is elf land, she thought with a stab of pride, nurtured and cherished by our race. The lifeless sand of Khur is not. It belongs to the nomads. Let them keep it. Much better to fight for the true elf heartland, here, and not for some alien desert.

She thought of Nalaryn’s clan, seeking griffons. How she missed the freedom and power of flight on Eagle Eye! Give her a hundred such creatures, and she would sweep the bandit horde out of existence! The image was an intoxicating one, especially after the day’s grim fight. If they could find griffons, as Alhana had suggested, then everything would change.