Elven Star

24

“The knight as much as admitted to me that he and his men can’t hold out against these monsters. We’ve got to head sorinth, to the elven lands. And we’ve got to leave now!” Paithan stared out the window, eyes on the eerily silent jungle. “I don’t know about you, but the air feels or smells strange, like that time the tytans caught us. We can’t stay here!”

“What makes you think it’ll make any difference where we go?” Roland demanded in a dull voice. He sat in a chair, his head in his hands, elbows leaning on the crude table. By the time Drugar and Paithan had managed to get the human to his home, he was in a sorry state. His terror, so long held inside, had exploded, piercing his spirit with its deadly fragments. “We might as well stay, die with the rest.”

Paithan’s lips tightened. He was embarrassed by the man, probably because he knew the wreck huddled at the table could very well be him. Every time the elf thought about facing those terrible, eyeless beings, fear shriveled his stomach. Home. The thought was a knife’s prod to his back, keeping him moving.

“I’m going. I have to go, back to my people—”

The sound of the snakeskin drums began again, the beating louder, more urgent. Drugar, watching out the window, turned.

“What does that mean, human?”

“They’re coming,” Rega said, lips stiff. “That’s the alarm that means the enemy’s in sight.”

Paithan stood, irresolute, divided between his loyalty to his family and his love for the human woman. “I’ve got to go,” he said finally, abruptly. The cargans, tethered outside the door, were nervous, tugging against their reins, growling in fright. “Hurry! I’m afraid we’ll lose the animals!”

“Roland! Come on!” Rega’s grip tightened on her brother.

“Why bother!” He shoved her away.

Drugar clomped across the room, leaned over the table where Roland sat, shivering. “We must not separate! We go together. Come! Come! It is our only hope.” Pulling a flask from out of his wide belt, the dwarf thrust it at Roland. “Here, drink this. You will find courage in the bottom.” Roland reached out his hand, snatched the flask, and put it to his lips. He drank deeply, choked, coughed. Tears glistened in his eyes, rolled down his cheeks, but a faint flush of blood stained the pallid skin. «

“All right,” said Roland, breathing heavily. “I’ll come.” He picked up the flask, took another swallow, and cradled it close.

“Roland—”

“Let’s go. Sis. Can’t you see your elf lover waiting? He wants to take you home, to the bosom of his family. If we ever make it that far. Drugar, old buddy, old pal. Got any more of this stuff?”

Roland flung his arm around the dwarf, the two of them headed for the door. Rega was left standing alone in the center of the small house. She gazed around, shook her head, and followed, nearly running into Paithan, who had come back, searching for her.

“Rega! What’s wrong?”

“I never thought it would hurt me to leave this hovel, but it does. I guess it’s because it was all I ever had.”

“I can buy you whatever you want! You’ll have a house a hundred times this big!”

“Oh, Paithan! Don’t lie to me! You don’t have any hope. We can run”—she looked up into the elf’s eyes—“but where will we go?”

The sound of the drums grew more urgent, the rhythm thumping through the body. Doom and destruction. You’ll bring it with you.

And you, sir, shall be the one who leads his people forth!

Heaven. The stars!

“Home,” said Paithan, holding Rega close. “We’re going home.” They left the sound of the drumbeats behind, riding through the jungle, urging the cargans as fast as they dared. Riding cargans takes skill and practice, however. When the creature spreads its batlike wings to take off, to glide through the trees, it is necessary to cling with the hands, grip with the knees, and almost bury one’s head in the animal’s furry neck—or risk being brushed off by hanging vines and branches.

Paithan was a skilled cargan rider. The two humans, though not as easy in their saddles as the elf, had ridden before, and knew the technique. Even Roland, dead drunk, managed to hang on to hts cargan for dear life. But they nearly lost the dwarf.

Never having seen such an animal, Drugar had no idea that the cargan was capable of nor had any inclination toward flight. The first time the cargan leapt from a tree branch, it sailed gracefully outward, the dwarf fell like a rock.

By some miracle—Drugar’s boot becoming entangled in the stirrup—the cargan and the dwarf managed to land in the next tree almost together. But it took precious time assisting the shaken Drugar back into the saddle, more time convincing the cargan it still wanted to carry the dwarf as a passenger.

“We’ve got to go back to the main highway. We’ll make better time,” said Paithan.

They reached the main highway, only to discover it was almost a solid mass of people—refugees, fleeing sorinth. Paithan reined in, staring. Roland, having drained the flask, began to laugh.

“Damn fools!”

The humans flowed sluggishly down the road that had become a river of fear. Bent beneath bundles, carrying children too young to walk, they pulled those too old along in carts. Their path was strewn with flotsam, washed up along the shore—household goods that had become too heavy, valuables that had lost their value when life was at stake, vehicles that had broken down. Here and there, fallen by the wayside, human jetsam—people too exhausted to walk farther. Some held out their hands, pleading to those with wagons to take them up. Others, knowing what the answer would be, sat, staring about them with dull, fear-glazed eyes, waiting for their strength to return.

“Back to the woods,” said Rega, riding up beside Paithan. “It’s the only way. We know the paths. This time, we really do,” she added, flushing slightly.

“Smuggler’s Road,” slurred Roland, weaving in his saddle. “Yes, we know them.” Paithan couldn’t move. He sat, staring. “All these humans, heading for Equilan. What will we do?”

“Paithan?”

“Yes, I’m coming.”

They left the broad trails of the moss plains, taking to the jungle traits.

“Smuggler’s Road” was thin and twisting, difficult to traverse, but far less crowded. Paithan forced them to ride hard, driving their animals, driving themselves—cycle after cycle—until they dropped from exhaustion. Then they slept, often too tired to eat. The elf allowed them only a few hours before he had them up and traveling again. They met other people on the trails—people like themselves, living on society’s fringes, who were well acquainted with these dark and hidden paths. They, too, were fleeing sorinth. One of these, a human, stumbled into their camp, three cycles into their journey.

“Water,” he said, and collapsed.

Paithan fetched water. Rega lifted the man’s head, and held the drinking gourd to his lips. He was middle-aged, his face gray with fatigue.

“That’s better. Thanks.”

Some color returned to the sagging cheeks. He was able to sit up on his own, and let his head sink between his knees, drawing deep breaths.

“You’re welcome to rest here with us,” offered Rega. “Share our food.”

“Rest!” The man lifted his head, gazed at them in astonishment. Then he glanced around the jungle, shivering, and staggered to his feet. “No rest!” he muttered. “They’re behind me! Right behind me!”

His fear was palpable. Paithan jumped up, regarding the man in alarm.

“How far behind you?”

The man was fleeing the campsite, taking to the trail on legs that could barely support him. Paithan ran after him, caught hold of his arm.

“How far?”

The man shook his head. “A cycle. Not more.”

“A cycle!” Rega sucked her breath through her teeth.

“The man’s crazed,” muttered Roland. “You can’t believe him.”

“Griffith destroyed! Terncia burning! Lord Reginald, dead! I know.” The man ran a trembling hand through, grizzled hair. “I was one of his knights!” Looking at the man more closely, they could see he was dressed in the quilted cotton undergarments worn beneath the tyro shell armor. It was no wonder they had not recognized it earlier. The fabric was ripped and stained with blood, hanging from the man’s body in tattered, filthy fragments.

“I got rid of it,” he said, his hands plucking at the cloth covering his chest. “The armor. It was too heavy and it didn’t do any good. They died in it. The fiends caught them and crushed them … arms wrapping around them. The armor cracked, blood … came out from between. Bones stuck through … and the screams …”

“Blessed Thillia!” Roland was white, shuddering.

“Shut him up!” Rega snapped at Paithan.

No one noticed Drugar, sitting alone as he always did, the slight, strange smile hidden by his beard.

“Do you know how I escaped?” The man clutched Paithan by the front of his tunic. The elf, glancing down, saw the man’s hand was dappled with splotches of reddish brown. “The others ran. I was … too scared! I was scared stiff!” The knight began to giggle. “Scared stiff! Couldn’t move. And the giants went right by me! Isn’t that funny! Scared stiff!” His laughter was shrill, unnerving. It ended in a choked cough. Roughly, he shoved Paithan backward, away from him.

“But now I can run. I’ve been running … three cycles. Not stop. Can’t stop.” He took a step forward, paused, turned and glared at them with red-rimmed, wild eyes. “They were supposed to come back!” he said angrily. “Have you seen them?”

“Who?”

“Supposed to come back and help us! Cowards. Bunch of damn, good-for-nothing cowards. Like me!” The knight laughed again. Shaking his head, he lurched off into the jungle.

“Who the hell’s he talking about?” Roland asked.

“I don’t know.” Rega began packing their equipment, throwing food into leather pouches. “And I don’t care. Crazed or not, he’s right about one thing. We’ve got to keep moving.”

The dwarfs rich bass voice rose in song. “You see,” said Drugar, when the verse ended, “I have learned it.”

“You’re right,” said Roland, making no move to help pack. He sat on the ground, arms dangling listlessly between his knees. “That’s who the knight meant. And they didn’t come back. Why not?” He looked up, angry. “Why didn’t they? Everything they worked for—destroyed! Our world! Gone! Why? What’s the sense?”

Rega’s lips tightened, she was flinging packs onto the cargan. “It was only a legend. No one really believed it.”

“Yeah,” muttered Roland. “Nobody believed in the tytans either.” Rega’s hands, tugging at the straps, started to shake. She lowered her head onto the cargan’s flank, gripping the leather hard, until it hurt, willing herself not to cry, not to give way.

Paithan’s hand closed over hers.

“Don’t!” she said in a fierce tone, elbowing him aside. She lifted her head, shook her hair around her face, and gave the strap a vicious tug. “Go on. Leave me alone.” Surreptitiously, when the elf wasn’t looking, she wiped her hand across wet cheeks.

They started on their way, disheartened, dispirited, fear driving them on. They had traversed only a few miles when they came upon the knight, lying face down across the trail.

Paithan slid from the cargan, knelt beside the man, his hand on the knight’s neck.

“Dead.”

They traveled two more cycles, pressing the weary cargans to their limit. Now, when they halted, they didn’t unpack, but slept on the ground, the reins of the cargans wrapped around their wrists. They were giddy with exhaustion and lack of food. Their meager supplies had run out and they dared not take time to hunt. They talked little, saving their breath, riding with slumped shoulders, bent heads. The only thing that could rouse them was a strange sound behind them.

The breaking of a tree limb would cause them to jerk up, swinging around fearfully in the saddle, peering into the shadows. Often the humans and the elf fell asleep while riding, swaying in the saddle until they slumped sideways and came to themselves with a start. The dwarf, riding last, bringing up the rear, watched all with a smile.

Paithan marveled at the dwarf, even as the elf’s uneasiness over Drugar grew. He never appeared fatigued; he often volunteered to keep watch while the others slept.

Paithan woke from terrifying dreams in which he imagined Drugar, dagger in hand, slipping up on him as he slept. Starting awake, the elf always found Drugar sitting patiently beneath a tree, hands folded across the beard that fell in long curls over his stomach. Paithan might have laughed at his fear. After all, the dwarf had saved their lives. Looking back at Drugar, riding behind them, or glancing at him during the few times they stopped to rest, the elf saw the gleam in the watchful black eyes, eyes that seemed to be always waiting, and Paithan’s laughter died on his lips.

Paithan was thinking about the dwarf, wondering what drove him, what terrible fuel kept such a fire burning, when Rega’s shout roused him from his bleak reverie.

“The ferry!” She pointed at a crude sign, tacked up onto a tree trunk. “The trail ends here. We have to go back to the—”

Her voice was cut off by a horrible sound, a wail that rose from hundreds of throats, a collective scream.

“The main highway!” Paithan clutched his reins with sweating, trembling hands.

“The tytans have reached the main highway.”

The elf saw in his mind the stream of humanity, saw the giant, eyeless creatures come upon it. He saw the people scatter, try to flee, but there was nowhere to go on the wide-open plains, no escape. The stream would turn to a river of blood.

Rega pressed her hands against her ears. “Shut up!” she was screaming over and over, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” As if in answer, a sudden, eerie silence fell over the jungle, silence broken only by the not-too-distant cries of the dying.

“They’re here,” said Roland, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“The ferry!” Paithan gasped. “The creatures may be giants, but they’re not tall enough to wade the Kithni Gulf! That will stop them, for a time at least.” He spurred his cargan on. The startled animal, terrified itself, leapt forward in panic.

The others followed, flying through the jungle, ducking overhanging limbs, vines slapping them in the face. Breaking out into the open, they saw ahead of them the sparkling, placid surface of the Kithni Gulf, a startling contrast to the chaos erupting on the water’s edge.

Humans were running madly down the main highway that led to the ferry, fear stripping them of any consciousness they might have had for their fellows. Those who fell were trampled beneath pounding feet. Children were swept from their parents’ arms by the crush of the mob, small bodies hurled to the ground. Those who stopped to try to help the fallen never rose again. Looking far back, on the horizon, Paithan saw the jungle moving.

“Paithan! Look!” Rega clutched at him, pointing. The elf shifted his gaze back to the ferry. The pier was mobbed, people pushing and shoving. Out in the water, the boat, overloaded, was riding too low and sinking deeper by the minute. It would never make it across. And it wouldn’t matter if it did.

The other ferry boat had put out from the opposite shore. It was lined with elven archers, railbows ready, arrows pointing toward Thillia. Paithan assumed at first that the elves were coming to the aid of the humans, and his heart swelled with pride. Sir Lathan had been wrong. The elves would drive the tytans back!

A human, attempting to swim the gulf, came near the boat, stretched out with his hand for help.

The elves shot him. His body slid down beneath the water and vanished. Sickened, disbelieving, Paithan saw his people turn their weapons not on the coming tytans, but on the humans trying to flee the enemy.

“You bastard!”

Paithan turned to see a wild-eyed man attempting to drag Roland from his saddle. People on the highway, seeing the cargans, realized that the animals offered escape. A frenzied mob started toward them. Roland beat the man off, clouting him to the moss with his strong hand. Another came at Rega, a branch in his hand. She kicked him in the face with her boot, sending him reeling backward. The cargans, already panicked, began to leap and buck, striking out with their sharp claws. Drugar, cursing in dwarven, was using his reins as a lash to keep the mob at bay.

“Back to the trees!” Paithan cried, wheeling his animal. Rega galloped beside him, but Roland was caught, unable to extricate himself from grasping hands. He was nearly pulled from the saddle. Drugar, seeing the human in trouble, forced his cargan between Roland and the mob. The dwarf grabbed hold of Roland’s reins and yanked the cargan forward, joining up with Paithan and Rega. The four galloped back into the shelter of the jungle. Once safe, they paused to catch their breath. They avoided looking at each other, none of them wanting to see the inevitable in his companion’s face.

“There must be a trail that leads to the gulf!” said Paithan. “The cargan can swim.”

“And get shot by elves!” Roland wiped blood from a cut lip.

“They won’t shoot me.”

“A lot of good that does us!”

“They won’t harm you if you’re with me.” Paithan wished he was certain of that fact, but right now he supposed it didn’t matter.

“If there is a trail … I don’t know it,” said Rega. A tremor shook her body, she gripped the saddle to keep from falling. Paithan plunged off the path, heading in the direction of the gulf. Within moments, he and the cargan became hopelessly entangled in the thick undergrowth. The elf fought on, refusing to admit defeat, but he saw that even if they did manage to hack their way through, it would take hours. And they did not have hours. Wearily, he rode back.

The sounds of death from the highway grew louder. They could hear splashes, people hurling themselves into the Kithni.

Roland slid from his saddle. Landing on the ground, he gazed around. “This looks as good a place to die as any.”

Slowly, Paithan climbed from his cargan and walked over to Rega. He held out his arms. She slipped into them, and he clasped her tightly.

“I can’t watch, Paithan,” she said. “Promise me I won’t have to see them!”

“You won’t,” he whispered, smoothing the dark hair. “Keep your eyes on me.” Roland stood squarely on the path, facing the direction in which the tytans must come. His fear was gone, or perhaps he was just too tired to care anymore.

Drugar, a ghastly grin on his bearded face, put his hand to his belt and drew the bone-handle knife.

One stroke for each of them, and a final for himself.