Alliances

Chapter 17

At a snail’s pace, the caravan trudged on. Short of a sojourn in a deep cavern, the elves could not imagine a darker night. The stars were barely visible, as though black mist had risen from the ground to obscure them.

After midnight they reached the river that marked the southern boundary of the Cleft and the end of the oppressive swamp. The river was choked with vines and dark green lily pads. So stained was it by black earth washing down, it looked solid enough to walk over.

“How will we get the wagons across?” said Geranthas.

“Ford,” Porthios replied.

Kerian protested. “You have no idea how deep that water is."

“Have you a better idea? Can you pick them up and carry them on your shoulders? No? Then we must ford!”

None of them had any better ideas. There was no timber with which to build rafts, and Samar had relayed the rearguard’s report that sounds of pursuit could be heard, so time was fleeting.

“I will take the first cart across,” Porthios declared. “We’ll cut bundles of sticks and saplings, and if we get stuck, we’ll dump them ahead of us to give us traction.”

Such bundles could fill a moat or an enemy trench, but a river? Not if luck went against them and the river was deep.

Nonetheless, Porthios set a crew of exhausted elves to work hacking down creeper bushes and scrub willows. While they worked, Samar and Kerian conferred.

“There’s someone behind us, no more than a few hundred yards out,” Samar reported in a low voice. “There aren’t many, and they seem unusually quiet for humans or goblins.”

Spies, Kerian said. Grayden had sent his best scouts to keep an eye on them. Some rare humans could manage to be quiet in the woods. It was even possible Gathan had found renegade half-elves or Kagonesti to hire. Such things had happened. She took a deep breath.

“Let’s find out who they are. I can use the stimulation.”

For once Kagonesti and Silvanesti were in total agreement: Samar also was tired of fleeing, tired of creeping along with the civilians. He called a squadron of twenty mounted guards. To them Kerian added another twenty, without horses. The elves would ride double. At a prearranged moment, the riders would slow to a walk, and the extra riders would slide off silently. The enemy would hear the mounted attack coming and flee or deploy for battle. If they deployed, the elves on foot would infiltrate their line, confusing them. If the enemy fled, the riders would pursue, able to move quickly with their extra riders dismounted. It was a tactic called “Sowing the Garden” which the Lioness had used successfully against the Dark Knights.

Kerian sat her own horse and waited for a royal guard to climb on behind her. Instead of a Silvanesti, she got Hytanthas.

“You’re well enough to fight?” she asked.

“Well enough, Commander.”

The Bianost elves were still cutting sticks and brush as Kerian and Samar rode out to investigate their pursuers. Dawn was three hours away. Alhana saw them off, waving as they trotted past. Porthios stood on a two-wheeled cart, directing elves to roll the bundles to the water’s edge. He did not acknowledge the warriors’ departure.

They proceeded carefully, keeping to the path they’d probed through the Cleft. It was just wide enough for two horses abreast. A hundred yards from the rear of the caravan, Samar halted them.

They sat in absolute silence, listening. They heard the chirp of bats on the wing, the splash of a toad into a stagnant pool, the tap-tap-tap of a deathwatch beetle looking for a mate.

And the gentle crush of a footfall.

Samar shot Kerian a glance. She nodded. Hytanthas and the other extra riders slid off the horses. Silently, they fanned out ahead of the riders. Their swords were already drawn, so not even that scrape betrayed them. Only ten feet away, they vanished into darkness. The mounted warriors waited. Periodically, each would lean forward, silently communing with his horse to keep the animal from growing impatient or chafing at the noxious atmosphere.

A scream shredded the air. They’d heard no swordplay, no twang of bowstring, just the single, sudden, heartfelt scream. Was it human or elf?

A chorus of shouts erupted in the night. The noise was accompanied by the clang of blades. Kerian lifted her sword, and the other elves followed suit. Despite pounding hearts, they went ahead at a canter. No sane rider would gallop in such darkness, with the usable trail confined to a narrow track in a treacherous mire.

They bore right around a bend and found bodies strewn across the path. Kerian swung down to the ground. The first body was indeed one of their dismounted comrades. His neck had been broken. Someone incredibly powerful had throttled him. His sword lay in his outstretched hand without a trace of blood on the steel.

Kneeling by the next corpse, Kerian rolled him over, and bolted to her feet. Turning to Samar, she flung a hand at the corpse and demanded, “Am I mad? Am I seeing things?”

Samar rode closer. He recoiled. “You’re not! It’s Jalanaris! We buried him yesterday!”

The dead fellow was one of the elves who had collapsed and died of suffocation during the crossing of the Cleft. How had he come to be here?

A total of eight lay dead. Half were dismounted riders Samar and Kerian had brought with them. The other half were comrades who’d died on the march across the Cleft. All had been strangled.

The sound of a shrill whistle sent Kerian vaulting back into the saddle. She knew that call. It was Hytanthas in distress. Flinging caution to the wind, she galloped down the path, Samar and the rest following hard on her heels.

Beyond a bubbling pool of slime, a melee was under way. The remainder of the dismounted guards stood in a circle facing outward, swords drawn. Advancing on them slowly but inexorably were pale mud-streaked figures. A guard behind Samar nocked an arrow and loosed, putting the shaft through the neck of one of the stalking figures. The impact staggered but did not stop him. He came on, arrow protruding grotesquely.

“Undead!” Samar cried. “Our own people are trying to kill us!”

Hytanthas’s party slashed at the walking corpses, rending terrible wounds in the dead flesh, but the undead elves simply kept coming. The horror of their existence was evident from their faces. Some had eyes open; others walked with unerring accuracy although both eyes were closed or clotted with dirt. Samar’s warriors hit them again and again with arrows, to no effect. They carried no weapons, for none had been buried with them, but they would grapple with any living elf within reach. When they found a living foe, they held on with such an iron grip, only dismemberment stopped them.

Even hewn limb from limb, the cursed corpses twitched and heaved.

There were fifteen walking dead. With Samar’s reinforcement, the elves quickly subdued them, but Hytanthas stopped the warriors from destroying the corpses. He explained why.

“They were lying in wait for us. Our fellows didn’t fight at first. We thought we’d made a terrible mistake—buried comrades who were still living. Then they attacked! They strangled four of us before we could fathom what was going on. As soon as a revenant had killed its victim, it collapsed, lifeless at last.”

Hytanthas said he feared the curse might work the other way, that if the undead were destroyed, then their intended victims might die as well.

Surveying the still twitching limbs and torsos, Kerian had no desire to test his theory. She wondered whether the attack was a horrible by-product of Nalis Aren, or an evil spell worked against the elves. Samar didn’t care. He ordered the dismembered undead scattered so the corpses would trouble them no more.

His words sparked an idea in Kerian’s mind. She told Hytanthas to find himself a horse; they were taking a ride.

“Where are you going?” Samar asked.

“If we are troubled by our own dead, I wonder how Grayden’s army is faring behind us.”

“A worthy question, but don’t take too long in your search. Orexas won’t wait for you.”

His warning ended with a grunt. A severed arm had crawled across the boggy soil and fastened itself to Samar’s ankle. He kicked it loose and flung it far out into the mire. Hytanthas protested his callousness. Kerian told the young warrior to get to his horse.

Leaning close to Samar, she muttered, “You’d best take care of those warriors who fell tonight too.” They couldn’t risk allowing the four who had died to return as undead. Their remains must be scattered.

“Dirty business,” Samar muttered, grimacing.

Kerian pulled a small leather-wrapped package from her waist pouch and handed it to him. It contained the venom Chathendor had collected from the giant serpent. Viper poison paralyzed the limbs and destroyed flesh. Perhaps a dose would protect the brave, lost warriors from whatever malevolent influence was disturbing the sleep of the dead.

“Don’t wait for us,” Kerian said. “We’ll be back as soon as we learn what we can.”

The two elves rode off into the dark. They had no idea how far back the human army might be. They proceeded at a trot. Kerian was so exhausted she felt as though she wore the heavy chains of slavery again. She’d been awake and on her feet (or in the saddle) for—how long had it been? Two days? Three? She’d fought a monstrous serpent to the death. At least Hytanthas had the benefit of rest during their journey.

“Commander!” Hytanthas’s hiss jerked her upright. She’d actually dozed in the saddle.

Hytanthas took over the lead. A few more miles and he reined up sharply. “Do you hear?”

The metallic clash of combat was unmistakable. It had to be Grayden’s bandits. Who else would be abroad in the Cleft?

They continued more slowly. Shouts and screams could be heard, and beyond a mossy knoll they spied flickering light. The elves had forbidden fire in their caravan to conceal their position. Until that moment, so had the humans. Dismounting, Kerian told Hytanthas to hold her reins while she took a closer look.

“Let me go,” he urged. “You’re done in.”

“I’m not that far gone.”

In truth, she wanted to spare him what might lie ahead. For all her disagreements with him, Kerian felt protective of Hytanthas, as she did all the young warriors under her command. His brief brush with the undead had shaken him badly.

She dropped into a crouch and moved toward a right-angle bend in the path. On the west side of the trail was a broad mire that stretched all the way to the lake itself. The elves had lost two Bianost townsfolk in it, plus a horse they could ill afford to spare. Kerian skirted the mire’s edge. The path had been rising slightly. She dropped nearly prone and inched forward to peer over the crest. The scene she beheld was drawn straight out of the Abyss.

Slightly below her was a bowl-shaped ravine containing a small pool of stagnant water. The firm trail the elves had scouted circled the rim of the bowl. Arrayed around the pool were several hundred bandit soldiers. Many brandished torches and all wielded pikes, but it wasn’t Silvanesti cavalry they faced. A swarm of pale, half-naked bodies moved slowly yet inevitably forward. Scores of corpses littered the ground around the bandits’ circle, some newly killed and bloody, others undead who’d perished at last after killing a victim. Horses whinnied and struck out with their hooves, terrified. Some of them had blundered into the mire on the other side of the path and were slowly sinking to their doom. They struggled, teeth bared, but the bog had an unbreakable grip. Alongside the dying animals were the banners and helmets of their riders. When a horse got stuck, its rider tried to get off and was dragged down. The weight of their armor sank them fast.

An undead attacker, missing an arm, its face and chest mutilated by sword cuts and arrows, would sidle forward or sideways, trying to unite in deadly embrace with a living victim. If it succeeded, it dragged its prey away from the rest and fell on him with grasping hands. The victim screamed for help, but none dared leave the circle’s minimal protection. If Gathan Grayden didn’t arrive soon, his vanguard would not survive the night.

Kerian slid backward. As she twisted round to stand, she beheld a pallid human looming over her. She drew in her breath sharply. Mud filled the man’s mouth and matted his red beard. Both eyes were coated, but he turned unerringly toward Kerian as she rolled aside. Her hand fell on her sword hilt, but she did not draw. The undead man had not attacked, even when she was lying vulnerable on the ground. She stood and slipped by him, careful to keep an eye on him. He pivoted, keeping his face toward her, but did not attack.

Hytanthas rode up with the horses.

“Let’s go, Commander! More are coming!”

Dozens of dead humans trailed after Hytanthas. Kerian got the stirrup and swung aboard. “Why don’t they attack us?” she wondered as they turned their horses away from the terrible scene.

“We’re not human.”

Kerian regarded him in surprise. He was probably right. Whatever motivated the revenants, they seemed driven to slay only their own kind. Living creatures like Kerian, Hytanthas, and the horses attracted them, but the death they sought could not be had with members of a different race.

The two elves galloped away. Two of the undead humans did not move as Hytanthas’s horse thundered forward. Kerian heard him murmur, “Forgive me,” as he trampled the unfeeling creatures into the muck.

Holding a long pole, Porthios waded into the river. He pushed aside thick lily pads and prodded the dark water, searching for sinkholes or deep mud. Behind him was a two-wheeled cart drawn by Kerian’s self-appointed troop, the four Bianost elves who had vanquished the giant serpent. As Porthios found firm ground, he pointed to the spot and the elves dragged the cart there. Every ten yards, they pounded a stake into the riverbed on each side of the cart, marking the path the caravan would follow.

The water quickly rose to hip height. It was shockingly cold and chilled Porthios to the bone. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, but as with all his other bodily ills, he ignored it, pushing forward methodically.

They were more than halfway across when Porthios trod on slick stones that rolled beneath his foot. He fell sideways, hitting the water with a splash. One of the Bianost elves let go the trace pole and dove after him.

On shore, Alhana and Chathendor saw Porthios fall and the Qualinesti go after him. Seconds later, the chamberlain found Alhana’s elegant fur robe thrust into his face.

Scrabbling to catch it, he exclaimed, “Lady! You can’t! You mustn’t!”

But she was gone. Alhana waded into the river, keeping to the path marked between the poles. When she reached the rear of the cart, she eased herself around it. The three Qualinesti were clinging to the trace poles, their frightened gazes scanning the river.

“Lady, take care! There’s an undertow!” cried one elf.

Here the surface of the river was free of lily pads and slow moving, but a swift current tugged at her legs, trying to pull her off balance. For the river crossing, she had donned Qualinesti-style leggings and she blessed the freedom of movement they allowed even as she shucked off her thigh-length tunic. Tossing it onto the cart, she shivered violently as the air hit her sodden underclothes.

The three Qualinesti urged her not to leave the anchor of the cart. “Obey Lady Kerianseray and Lord Samar,” she said and dove into the black water.

The current was much stronger than she had realized. It pulled the scarf from her hair and rolled her lengthwise, adding to the tremendous disorientation of swimming in the dark. She kicked hard. When her head broke the surface, she gulped a lungful of air. The cart was twenty yards upstream and receding fast. She could no longer touch bottom.

Turning to look downstream, she noticed a boulder in midstream. She dove again and moments later emerged near the rock. Clinging to its smooth side was Porthios.

The surface current here was much stronger, but a few rapid strokes brought Alhana to him.

“You always were a strong swimmer,” he stuttered, teeth chattering like dice rattling in a cup.

“Where’s Robethan?” she asked. He regarded her blankly. “One of the Qualinesti on the cart. He went in after you.”

“I’ve seen no one.” He had trouble getting the words out, so violently was he shaking.

“You’re chilled to the core. If you don’t get out of the water, you’ll die.”

She moved around him, putting her back to the current and letting it press her even closer to him. When he objected to being touched, she told him bluntly to be quiet. He needed the warmth.

They heard voices on shore, and Alhana called out. Porthios put his face to the boulder. His shivering had eased, but the extra warmth was not worth the terrible shame that welled in his heart. That Alhana should be risking death for him, that she should be touching, even through layers of soaked cloth, the awful horror that was his body. His neck bowed further, as though he could shut out the humiliation. Then Alhana began to speak.

It was a ridiculous place to pour out her feelings, Alhana knew. They were up to their necks in a swift and icy river, and she was staring at the back of his masked head, but she didn’t know whether either of them would survive to see dry land again, and she could not die without telling him what was in her heart. So she did.

She talked of their son, of the pain and loss she had endured. She described her life after learning of Porthios’s presumed death, how she had never given up the search, although she had begun to think all she would ever find were his remains.

“I prayed you would be alive,” she said, “so I could find you and tell you all these things. So I could tell you, just one last time, that I love you, husband.”

He said nothing. Alhana thought he was fading, but she felt no fear. The cold wasn’t so bad; she wasn’t even shivering anymore. In fact, the motion of the river against her body was pleasant, soothing. With a little sigh, she laid her head against his shoulder and allowed herself to relax.

Porthios jerked suddenly. One emaciated arm reached up the smooth stone. Fingers stretched. There seemed to be no handholds, yet somehow he found one. He willed his frozen legs to move and managed to wedge his toes in a cleft below the surface. Slowly, he hauled himself out of the water.

The current shoved Alhana against the boulder, shaking her out of her lethargy. She tried to emulate his actions, but could find no grip at all on the slippery boulder. He extended a hand to her. With amazing strength, Porthios drew his wife up from the stream.

“How did you do that?” she gasped.

Rather than move away, Porthios embraced her, and not only to help ease her shivering. “I will not die by water. Fire claimed me, and in fire I shall perish one day.”

She pushed sodden hair from her eyes and muttered, “No. You’re just too stubborn to die.”

Voices shouted from shore. Despite Porthios’s strictures against showing a light to their enemies, torches blazed on the riverbank. Porthios and Alhana called until their rescuers located them.

The elves formed a living chain from shore to boulder. Samar, at the boulder end, held out his arms to Alhana while the elf behind him gripped his belt to anchor him. Alhana took his hand and offered her own to Porthios. The chain retracted toward shore until all were at last back on dry land. Chathendor had blankets and wine waiting.

Porthios accepted the first but shunned the second. His first words on touching land again were, “I said no one was to light a fire until we’re out of Nalis Aren.”

“I ordered it,” said Kerian, emerging from the shadows with Hytanthas at her back. “If you don’t like it, you can go back in the river.”

“You’ll give us away to our enemies, or worse.”

“I’ve seen worse tonight.”

She told Porthios and all within earshot of the encounter with the undead elves, painting a graphic picture of the terrible price exacted on Grayden’s army.

“Gods’ mercy,” Chathendor breathed. “That’s not a fate I would have wished on anyone.”

Porthios would have argued further, but Kerian interrupted him. Fists on hips, she snapped, “Do the names Querinal, Robethan, Sanal, and Torith mean anything to you?” He shook his head. “They’re the elves who accompanied you into the river with the cart. They’re gone, all of them.”

One by one the four had left the cart, trying to save Porthios, Alhana, and each other. None had survived the fierce undertow.

Alhana pulled at Kerian’s arm, asking her to come away. Kerian didn’t budge. “A leader who does not value his followers’ lives is no fit leader,” she said severely. “He’s a gamester, moving people around like tokens on a game board!”

Samar finally succeeded where Alhana could not. After Porthios’s failure to cross the river, Samar had sent scouts up and down the river, looking for a likely ford. He interrupted the argument to report their findings. Two miles south was a natural bridge, bedrock thrust up into the stream bed. The downstream side was graced by a sixteen-foot waterfall, but the upstream side was passable, the water no more than a foot deep.

Relieved on many counts, Alhana ordered that they would leave at once for the natural bridge. Porthios did not contradict her.

Weary beyond measure, the caravan turned south to follow the river. Alhana and Chathendor led. Samar and the mounted guards fanned out along the shore, while those guards without mounts marched in slow step behind. Next were the Bianost elves, still drawing their carts and wagons by hand. Wounded elves and those too weak to keep up were draped atop the precious hoard of weapons.

Last to leave were Kerian and Hytanthas. The Lioness was staring out at the black water, so calm on the surface, so deadly just beneath. Querinal, Robethan, Sanal, and Torith—she repeated the names to herself like a prayer. Four of the many who would not live to see the end of the journey. If indeed any of them would.

The last of the creaking carts disappeared around a bend, and Hytanthas suggested they move along.

“It never changes,” she said.

Hytanthas didn’t ask what she meant. He understood perfectly.

The demarcation between the area influenced by Nalis Aren and the land beyond had not seemed so obvious on the way in. The oppressive atmosphere had come up on the elves gradually. On the way out, the shift was abundantly clear. The predominant color of the landscape quickly changed from black to green, and the exhausted elves began to walk faster. Those on foot dropped weapons and walking sticks, packs and bindles, pushed past the guards on horseback, and broke into a run. The elves drawing carts and wagons let go the traces and joined the celebration.

“What ails them?” asked Samar.

Riding alongside, Alhana answered, “They smell home.” Delirious with relief, the Qualinesti threw themselves onto the greenery, stroking grass and ferns as if they were the finest silks. Tears flowed, streaking dirty faces. An aspen tree no more than six feet high was nearly trampled by worshipful elves.

Even Porthios was not immune. He stood to one side of the trail, a fern frond in his hands, pulled the feathery green leaves through his gloved fingers again and again. Only Alhana saw, and she smiled. Giving in to the inevitable, she called a halt. Since all but her guards had stopped anyway, no one objected.

A clear-flowing, shallow stream served as a bathing pool. The elves went down in shifts to wash away the filth of Nalis Aren. While Kerian was at the creek, she spotted a strange Kagonesti in the trees some distance away. None of the other bathers noticed him until Kerian pointed him out. After a few minutes, he darted away.

“Should I go after him?” asked Hytanthas.

“Why? You’ll never catch him.” Kerian squeezed water from a cloth onto her face. The crisp, clean water running over her skin was the best feeling in the world.

The tonk-tonk-tonk of a forester gourd-drum sounded. Kagonesti of the region hung large, dried gourds on a frame and rapped them with hardwood hammers to send messages over long distances. The constant noise was not a comforting sound to outsiders. Samar posted a mounted patrol around the caravan. Porthios slipped into the woods.

The drumming ceased after two hours. Before the elves had time to do more than marvel at the silence, a party of armed Kagonesti emerged from the trees. Samar’s guards prepared to charge, but Kerian told them to stand down.

“Don’t you recognize our Immortals?” she said, using the name bestowed on the Kagonesti by the Bianost volunteers.

Nalaryn and the rest of his Kagonesti clan approached at an easy lope. They looked fit and relaxed, a sharp contrast to their haggard comrades in the caravan.

Kerian clasped Nalaryn’s arm and greeted him enthusiastically.

Nalaryn gripped her arm. “You are fewer,” he said. “The black lake has taken lives.”

The drums had told Nalaryn of the caravan’s arrival. As he and his band were coming to rejoin it, Porthios met them on the way. “The Great Lord remains in the forest to cleanse his soul of the black lake,” Nalaryn added.

Alhana came forward to welcome the Kagonesti. “Was your quest successful?” she asked.

“It was.”

Alhana exhaled sharply. “Tell me!”

The Kagonesti had seen griffons in flight, as many as forty aloft at one time over the Redstone Bluffs. Nalaryn also reported no signs of elf or human intrusions. “No one has walked there in many, many days.”

Alhana was ready to leave at once. However, she quickly realized she had to temper her enthusiasm. The Bianost elves needed rest. Even her own guards, and their few horses, could do with a respite. Nalaryn asked about pursuit, but Kerian shook her head. The enemy’s problems were worse than their own.

The discovery of griffons put an end to Hytanthas’s talk of leaving and to any thought of attacking the bandit-held city of Mereklar. They must make for Redstone Bluffs with all possible speed.

The choice of route was a ticklish one. Remaining in the forest would be safest, and Nalaryn could guide the caravan, but Alhana favored a bolder solution. The road was more direct, and would be easier going than bumping through the forest. Mereklar lay on that road, but why not skirt it, under cover of darkness? Gathan Grayden had led his bandits out to pursue the elves. He certainly wouldn’t expect the rebels to return and pass directly under their enemies’ noses.

Kerian regarded Alhana with surprise, and the Silvanesti queen joked, “A plan worthy of the Lioness, isn’t it?”

Fatigue and the boundless relief of having left Nails Aren behind them engendered recklessness. Alhana’s plan received unanimous support. The caravan would follow the old Qualinesti high road past Mereklar on its way to Redstone Bluffs and the griffons.

“Should Orexas be told?” Samar said.

Alhana said, “No need,” just as Kerian exclaimed, “No!” Alhana was certain Porthios would approve the plan. The Lioness didn’t care what he thought of it.

They passed the night in the meadow beyond the shadow of the Lake of Death. After dawn the next day, the caravan rolled on. The Kagonesti Immortals were the last to depart. By the time they did so, no trace of the elves or their ponderous train remained.

Breetan Everride was beginning to feel she had made a terrible mistake. She and Sergeant Jeralund had been searching the province between Mereklar and Nalis Aren for more than a week, looking for the rebel army. They’d found nothing. Word arrived from Lord Gathan’s headquarters of a disaster in the lake region which had nothing to do with the elves. Scores of soldiers had died from the effects of the lake’s pestilential miasma, only to rise from their graves as revenants and slay their former comrades. Gathan beat a hasty retreat, convinced the elves he sought had been destroyed by that same evil.

Having found no traces of the elves herself, Breetan wondered if Gathan was right. Jeralund tried to buoy her flagging spirits.

“I’ve been hunting and fighting elves most of my life,” he said. “They’re not bound by the same laws as men. Things that sicken men and possess their bodies may have no effect on elves. I’m sure the rebels will appear.”

Still, Breetan could not shake the feeling that she had erred, and badly. If true, her career as a Dark Knight would be over. There would be only one honorable course of action remaining: death by her own hand.

Then the sergeant made a discovery.

On the limbs of a hawthorn bush, he found scraps of dirty brown linen hanging as if to dry. A sniff revealed a strong stench of rot that must have come from the Lake of Death.

“The Scarecrow wraps himself in rags like these,” Breetan said, daring to hope. Jeralund dismounted and prowled through the undergrowth.

“Lady! Footprints!”

They were the soft impressions left by rag-wrapped feet far narrower than a human’s. Elves had come this way.

Shading her eyes against the setting sun, Breetan mused, “Heading west. But going where?”

“To Mereklar?” suggested Jeralund.

The Order’s Mereklar envoy had suggested that, but Breetan still dismissed the idea. The footprints had been made since the last rain, six days past. It was only eight miles to Mereklar. In six days, the elves could have covered that distance and back again, yet there had been no attack on the city. If Mereklar was not their target, then perhaps something that lay beyond it?

Jeralund shrugged, “There’s little beyond it, Lady. Forest, a few small crossroads, and mountains.”

He picked his way through the brush, finding more tracks by the lone elf. Without a doubt, the fellow was headed west. As Jeralund pointed out, there was no way to know whether the tracks had been left by one of the rebels they sought. The lone elf could be nothing more than a Kagonesti out on a hunt.

True enough, Breetan admitted. Yet they had no other scrap of a lead to investigate. They would follow the tracks. If the rebels had come out of the Lake of Death, they must be ailing and exhausted. A few days’ hard ride west should establish whether Breetan was on the right trail.

Beyond the need to fulfill her duty (and not disgrace her noble father), she was beginning to feel the excitement of the chase. This Scarecrow was fine game for a hunter. She would have him yet.