Alliances

Chapter 16

The bridge on Birch Trail carried the elves across the White-Rage River. On the other side, the royal guards who’d separated from the column to lead their horses up from Silveran’s Way rejoined the group. Porthios ordered the bridge destroyed after all were safely across. That would delay pursuit only slightly. No more than a quarter mile north, the river was fordable enough for determined riders. Still, any obstacle they could throw in their pursuers’ path, no matter how small, was worthwhile.

Birch Trail ended a quarter mile beyond the bridge. From there, on the eastern side of Nalis Aren, the land descended in giant, staggered steps, like the stairway of a colossal temple. Broken tables of stone jutted from the ground. It was not marble thrown up from Qualinost, but bedrock shattered by the tremendous impact. A single misstep meant death, and a handful of the Bianost militia were lost. Exhaustion, the exertion of combat, and the debilitating atmosphere of the region had all of them reeling. Upon reaching a stone slab more than fifty yards wide, they dared to pause and rest.

Nalis Aren was roughly triangular in shape. The White-Rage emptied it, flowing north from one of its “points.” Narrow tributaries filled it at the southwestern and southeastern points. Below the elves, near the lake’s southeastern corner, lay the lakeshore’s lowest point. Known colloquially as the Cleft, it was shadowed by greenish yellow fog. The elves panted in the cold yet humid air and watched for signs of pursuit. Water was distributed. The wounded were settled more comfortably in their litters.

The few guards Samar had left to watch their rear came rushing in. They bore ill news: the bandits were definitely following them. Mounted humans, as well as goblin skirmishers, could be seen, but they took care not to get too close to the elves.

“The main army isn’t here yet,” Kerian observed. “Just the vanguard.”

“They still outnumber us,” Alhana said. She’d quit her litter to walk on her own.

Porthios for once was staying close. He didn’t relish wandering too far in the noxious environs of Nalis Aren.

“You said the bandits wouldn’t follow us around the lake,” Kerian said to him. “You’ve miscalculated.”

Porthios stood on the edge of the cracked bedrock slab—he never seemed to sit—and stared down at the Cleft. “It’s good they follow on our heels,” he said. “What lies ahead will strike the clumsy goblins and humans, not us.”

Alhana exchanged a worried look with Kerian then asked Porthios, “What lies ahead?”

“I don’t know, but there’s a reason people and beasts shun this place. We’ll encounter it, or the bandits will.”

He stepped off the slab and dropped down to the next, and the next, gradually slipping from sight. Silence followed his pronouncement. Alhana stood, dusted herself off, and declared, “The only way to go is forward.”

She and her two champions set out. The royal guards, leading their horses over the uncertain ground, came next, then the Bianost elves.

“Our leader is mad,” Kerian muttered as the Qualinesti passed. They eyed her uncertainly, wondering whether they should take her words as joke or warning.

At Alhana’s request, Chathendor had done a head count as they rested. Slightly fewer than two thousand elves, Qualinesti and Silvanesti, had departed Bianost, with about four hundred horses and thirty tons of armaments and supplies. The head count revealed only eight hundred and some odd elves remained, with a hundred fifty horses and twenty-seven tons of weapons. The balance had been lost or left behind.

Casualties had fallen heavily on the Qualinesti volunteers from Bianost. Half had perished or been wounded thus far. With Theryontas slain, leadership of the volunteers had fallen to Vanolin and Geranthas. As the leading edge of the caravan neared the fog-shrouded Cleft and the angle of descent eased, the two Bianost elves came to talk with Alhana.

“Lady, we offered ourselves to fight for the freedom of our people, but so far all we’ve done is run away,” Geranthas said.

Vanolin nodded vigorously. “Why didn’t we disperse in the woodland, dividing the swords and such, each of us to raise new companies of fighters?”

Kerian slowed her pace to match Alhana’s, eager to hear the answer. Alhana glanced at her then took a deep breath before replying. “If we had stayed in settled country, Gathan Grayden would have found us, boxed us in, and slaughtered us all. The days of surprise are over. Every garrison in Qualinesti will be on the alert. There will be no more easy victories.”

“Then why are we here? Orexas has doubled the danger we face!”

Once more Alhana paused before speaking, weighing her words carefully. “We need allies. Nalaryn and his clan have gone into the mountains to find some. Until they rejoin us, we must elude the bandits and survive.”

The Bianost elves were baffled. What allies in the mountains? Did Alhana mean dwarves from Thorbardin?

“She means griffons. Those that dwell wild in the mountains,” said Porthios.

He had appeared in the mist below them. He held up a gloved hand. “We must proceed in silence now.” Bits of smelly vapor drifted over them. Several coughs were quickly smothered.

Kerian could hardly believe he intended to lead them through the Cleft. No one in current memory had entered it and returned to tell of what was found there. It was dank, poisonous, and cursed. There was bound to be a price for entering it. Certainly, they had little choice now, but Porthios should never have brought them to this pass. His cavalier acceptance of the risk for himself was one thing, but he was gambling with all their lives. Gilthas would not have done this. He would have found a way that didn’t endanger his people. Strange, whenever Kerian felt death coming closer, her thoughts invariably turned to her husband.

At Kerian’s insistence, the royal guards braced their bows, alert for whatever might come, and a band of twelve spear-armed Qualinesti was called forward. They would probe the boggy ground and test the footing. Although they looked unhappy, they didn’t challenge Porthios’s plan to enter the Cleft. Chathendor and the wounded Samar were as skeptical as they, but likewise raised no word of protest. Only Alhana seemed perfectly confident.

“Orexas will lead us through,” she told the nervous Qualinesti behind her. “Put your trust in him.”

Pale from her concussion, she moved forward without hesitation. Where she would go, Samar always would follow, and Chathendor had no intention of being left behind. If they were not completely reassured, the Bianost elves were moving.

Kerian’s precautions regarding the boggy ground proved well founded. One of the probing elves lost his spear when the moss he tested gave way. In moments, his eight-foot weapon was swallowed by a sinkhole. Everyone took note. The line of elves narrowed.

Porthios came to what looked like a length of decayed log. He stepped over it. The elf behind him prodded the log. It held, so he stepped on it. Immediately, it slid sideways, taking his foot out from under him. Those behind raised a smothered alarm when they saw him fall. The “log” on which he’d trod grew larger and larger as more of it emerged from the bog.

It was a serpent, but what a serpent! A four-foot wide triangular head, supported by a body thick as a large oak, reared up. Two yellow-green eyes stared at the horrified elves. As the serpent writhed, coils broke the surface all around them. It was a hundred feet long!

Bowstrings snapped. Half the arrows skipped off the monster’s heavy scales, but some punched through. The serpent stretched its mouth in a screeching hiss. Fangs as long as an elf’s arm glistened in the poisonous air, and a black tongue flickered out.

In the scramble to get away from the creature, several elves left the known path. They promptly came to grief as the mire trapped their feet. The serpent, arrows protruding all along its body, glided forward rapidly. With a lightning-fast movement, its head shot forward and seized an elf, sinking its terrible fangs into his ribs. Venom worked swiftly. When the serpent’s jaws opened seconds later, the elf was dead.

“Hit it in the mouth! In the mouth!” Samar shouted as the other mired elves were hauled to safety.

Arrows caromed off the scaly head. Then one Kagonesti archer coolly took aim while coils thrashed around him. He put a missile directly into the monster’s near eye. The serpent convulsed, beating its head on the ground. Guards rushed forward, swords drawn. Each blow was like striking a bronze statue. Their blades made no impression at all, and two elves died when the monster’s heavy, flailing coils crushed them.

Kerian snatched a spear from a nearby elf and ran at the head. Although her attack seemed reckless, she placed her feet carefully, avoiding sinkholes and the gummy loam. The snake’s convulsions had dislodged the arrow from its eye, but the orb was blind. Sensing Kerian’s approach despite that, it opened its mouth wide to bite its new enemy. She bored in, driving her spear into the white membrane on the roof of its gaping mouth. A fang raked down her chest. Something hot splashed on her thigh. Spurred to even greater effort, she twisted the head of the spear and was rewarded by the sound of serpent bones snapping.

The serpent was still strong enough to lift her clear off her feet when it raised its head. Flinging its head side to side, it shook her back and forth even as blood poured from its mouth. Four elves ran in beneath her and drove their spears into its body just behind its head. The monster’s head dropped, and its own weight drove the Qualinesti weapons through its body and out the other side.

Kerian let go the blood-drenched spear and hit the ground with a thump. She was shaking uncontrollably, certain she had been bitten, but at least the monster was dead.

“Don’t move!” Alhana knelt beside her. “You’re hurt!”

Amazingly, she was not. Her buckskin tunic was sliced from shoulder to waist, but her linen underclothes weren’t torn and the skin beneath was unbroken. The fang hadn’t penetrated. The strange sensation on her thigh was venom. Faintly greenish gold and odorless, the venom was thick, like curdled milk, and soaked her leg. Alhana caught her breath sharply at the sight.

“Do you have any wounds on your leg?” she whispered. Kerian shook her head. The slightest cut would have allowed the poison in, but again she had been spared.

Taking care not to touch the soaked portions, Kerian shucked her ruined clothing. Alhana was so relieved, she smiled—and blushed too—at Kerian’s utter lack of embarrassment. The former queen sent for new attire and a canteen of water.

Porthios appeared. He didn’t ask after Kerian’s health, and he ignored her state of undress. He did stop her from tossing away the buckskins, saying sharply, “Save the venom. It may be useful.”

Once more, Alhana’s presence caused Kerian to bite back the furious retort that rose to her lips.

With a roll of cotton bandage, Chathendor daubed at the venom. He put the poisoned cotton in a glass bottle and stoppered the bottle carefully. As a further precaution, he wrapped the bottle in two layers of leather and tied the whole bundle tightly.

An elf arrived with water and clothing. While Kerian dressed, Alhana left her and found Porthios standing over the corpse of the enormous serpent. In answer to her question, he identified it as a cottonmouth.

“But they grow no more than four feet long!” she protested.

“We are in an unnatural place. What was pest has become monster.”

On her feet again, Kerian saw four elves standing nearby, watching her. They were the ones who had finished off the monster. They were ordinary-looking fellows, scribes or artisans from Bianost. She thanked them and clasped their hands in turn.

“You are my troop now,” she said. “Stand by me, and I shall stand by you, always.”

All four seemed overwhelmed by the battle with the monster, but each nodded as she took his hand.

The elves quickly prepared to resume their march. The belongings of the dead were collected by Chathendor. The weapons were given to others, but the chamberlain tied personal items into tidy bundles. If the deceased had heirs, they would receive their kin’s effects.

While Chathendor’s attention was engaged, Kerian drifted over to the cart that held his and Alhana’s belongings. She removed the small leather bundle containing the poison bottle and slipped it into her waist pouch.

Turning, she realized the four Qualinesti of her new troop were standing behind her, staring. Their meager belongings were in bundles slung on their spear shafts.

“It’s mine,” she said stiffly. “I’ll take charge of it.”

They made no reply. She joined the march, and the four fell in behind her.

The Cleft was ten square miles of bog. It lay like an ulcer on the southeastern lakeshore. Moss and mold, in every shade of gray, black, and sickly green, lay everywhere. The stench was so bad, so much worse than the rest of Nalis Aren, that midday rations went uneaten. Spiders, biting flies, and venomous reptiles (of normal size) assaulted the elves. The swarms of flies were so vicious their attack drove several horses mad. The animals tore free of the hands leading them and galloped off to sure death in the depths of the mire.

Thorn creeper and cypress were abundant, but none grew more than waist high. As they crossed the Cleft, the elves were visible to anyone higher up on the hillside. Elves throughout the caravan, and especially those in the rear, kept looking back over their shoulders, fearing to see bandits at any moment. None were visible, but their pace quickened anyway.

The perpetual chill of Nalis Aren meant the elves had donned extra garments. In the Cleft, the opposite was true. The temperature climbed. Sweat poured, but removing clothing meant exposing more skin to the voracious insects. As the sun passed its zenith, elves began to stagger and fall. Some got back up, but others did not rise again. Alhana called for a halt. She, her lieutenants, and Kerian examined one of the immobile elves.

The deceased was a royal guard. A healthy lad, well fed until recently, he was younger than Kerian. His neck and face showed bug bites, but no more than what had been endured by the rest of them, The only oddity Kerian could find was a swollen neck. His throat had closed so tightly, so quickly, he had suffocated while walking.

They had no idea why. Toxic air, poisonous insects, evil spells-anything was possible. They kept moving.

Trailed by her quartet of Qualinesti, Kerian sought out Hytanthas. She was pleased to see he had improved in health despite the foul conditions.

For a time they tramped along in a silence Kerian considered companionable but which Hytanthas found uncomfortable. Finally, he nerved himself to speak what was on his mind.

“Commander. About Khur—”

“What about it?”

“I feel I’ve been derelict in my duty. My task was to bring you back to the Speaker.”

“You nearly died of fever. It’s a wonder you found me at all, and you think you’ve been derelict?” She shook her head. “I’ve told you, I can’t go back to Khur.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

She glared at him, giving the young warrior a glimpse of the Lioness of legend. Hytanthas did not back down. After a moment, she returned her attention to the uncertain footing.

“What difference does it make? The Speaker dismissed me, and I found myself hurled across the world.” She shrugged. “He didn’t need me then. He cannot have me now.”

“Would you condemn all our people in Khur to death or slavery?”

Temper flaring, she curtly told her troop to take themselves elsewhere. When they had moved away, she demanded, “Am I a goddess who can save a nation by herself? Gilthas has thousands of warriors and the combined skills of veteran generals like Hamaramis, Taranath, and Planchet. The safety of our people in Khur rests with them, not me!”

“Very well. Commander. But I must return to the Speaker. Will Orexas and Alhana forgive me if I leave once we’re clear of Nalis Aren?”

“Do as you like.”

To her relief, he said no more. He had the same failing carried by all the Qualinesti Ambrodels. Although resourceful and brave, Hytanthas was just the sort of soldier who’d follow an order to certain death simply because his name and honor demanded it. Kerian had no patience with martyrs, no matter how gallant they might be. The world needed realists, hardheaded, hard-fighting realists. The humans had a saying she liked: Wars aren’t won by dying for your country; they’re won by making the other fellow die for his.

The traverse of the Cleft claimed more lives. Seemingly healthy guards and town elves collapsed, dead. At sunset the temperature plunged. No betraying torchlight was allowed, so the terrible march continued in full dark and graveyard chill. The elves took turns climbing onto the remaining carts and wagons and napping for a short space. Kerian did not avail herself of the rest. She pulled a blanket around her shoulders and kept walking.

Alhana, clad in a white fox fur robe, moved along the caravan, speaking to everyone, and making sure all had a chance to rest in the wagons. She’d given her other furs and extra clothing to shivering townsfolk. Despite the fretting of her chamberlain, she would not stint on her self-appointed tasks.

“You must rest, lady,” Chathendor urged. “And you shouldn’t give away all your clothing.”

“Shall I ride on velvet cushions, wrapped in furs, while they walk, hungry and cold?”

“You aren’t a young girl any longer. Privation is harder at our age.”

She nearly smiled. “Our age, indeed. You have a few centuries on me at the very least,” she sniffed, returning the jest.

When they got back to the head of the column, Alhana spoke briefly to Samar, who was organizing patrols for the night. That done, she consented to rest. Chathendor led her to a wagon fitted with a canvas top. He lifted the flap at the rear of the still-moving conveyance, and she climbed inside. She reminded him to wake her in an hour. He assured her he would and dropped the flap over the opening.

She had barely settled herself next to several wrapped bundles of swords when the flap shifted again and Porthios entered the wagon.

“Peace, Alhana. It is I,” he murmured unnecessarily. She’d known immediately who he was, if for no other reason than he was faceless. Porthios was the only one in the caravan whose face was completed covered.

Chathendor did not have the luxury of her better eyesight. The tent flap flew up.

“My lady! I saw an intruder enter!” he exclaimed, short sword in hand.

“Your grip and stance do you credit, sir, but you’re facing your lady, not me.”

The chamberlain recognized Orexas’s hoarse voice. He did not lower his blade until Alhana assured him she was safe and sent him away.

Alone with her husband, Alhana lit a candle stub. She used a small incendiary stick, made by the gnomes of Sancrist and called by them a “dragon’s tooth.” When scratched smartly, it flared into flame. The sudden flare caused Porthios to recoil sharply.

“I have no liking for fire,” he said. In the wagon’s confines, he could move no farther away. “Candles and lamps can be dropped. Fires start that way all the time.”

She lit a lamp with the sputtering yellow flame. “I’ll be careful.”

Breath plumed from her nose as she exhaled. She waited for Porthios to speak. When he didn’t, she asked, “Do you believe the Kagonesti will find griffons?”

“Yes.”

“And that we can tame them?”

“Yes.”

She was impatient with his terse answers. “If we do find them, they will be wild adults, not creatures reared among our people. How can you be certain we can train them quickly enough to be of use?”

“I am sure.” His eyes found hers in the gloom. “I was Speaker of the Sun, Alhana. I know the tath-maniya.”

She nodded. The Keeping of Skyriders, the secret of taming griffons, was the birthright of Kith-Kanan, handed down to every Speaker of the Sun.

“I’ve not done it, but I know what’s required,” he said. “That’s why I came to talk with you, to tell you—to make sure you know. It’s important you believe it can be done.”

He seemed uncertain, his words halting. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Something’s troubling you.”

“Despite the evil we have faced thus far, I don’t think we’ve plumbed the depths yet. And I don’t expect the bandits to give us up. Grayden will come after us no matter what.” He reached out suddenly and laid his gloved hand on hers. Immediately, she placed her free hand atop it. “But I wanted you to know… I wanted to tell you to keep heart. Nalaryn’s people will find griffons. We will tame them. Whatever the dangers we must face on our journey to that point, remember that.”

He slipped out of the wagon. The wind of his passage snuffed the candle, leaving Alhana in darkness. Her hands were still warm from his touch. She placed them against her cold cheeks.

She smiled, then she laughed. For the first time in a very long time, Alhana laughed.