The Kinslayer Wars

8

“By Quenesti Pah, he’s beautiful!” Kith-Kanan cautiously took the infant in his arms. Proudly Sithas stood beside them. Kith had been on the ground for all of five minutes before the Speaker of the Stars had hurried him to the nursery to see the newest heir to the throne of Silvanesti.

“It takes a while before you feel certain that you won’t break him,” he told his brother, based on his own extensive paternal experience, a good two months’

worth now.

“Vanesti—it’s a good name. Proud, full of our heritage,” Kith said. “A name worthy of the heir of the House of Silvanos.”

Sithas looked at his brother and his son, and he felt better than he had in months. Indeed, he knew a gladness that hadn’t been his since the start of the war.

The door to the nursery opened and Hermathya entered. She approached Kith-Kanan nervously, her eyes upon her child. At first, the elven general thought that his sister-in-law’s tension resulted from the memory of them together. Kith and Hermathya’s affair, before her engagement to Sithas, had been brief but passionate.

But then he realized that her anxiety came from a simpler, more direct source. She was concerned that someone other than herself held her child.

“Here,” said Kith, offering the silk-swathed infant to Hermathya. “You have a very handsome son.”

“Thank you.” She took the child, then smiled hesitantly. Kith tried to see her in a different light than he did in his memories. He told himself that she looked nothing like the woman he had known, had thought he loved, those few years earlier.

Then the memories came back in a physical rush that almost brought him to his knees. Hermathya smiled again, and Kith-Kanan ached with desire. He lowered his eyes, certain that his bold feelings showed plainly on his face. By the gods, she was his brother’s wife! What kind of distorted loyalty tortured him that he could think these thoughts, feel these needs.

He cast a quick, apprehensive glance at Sithas and saw that his brother looked only at the baby. Hermathya, however, caught his eye, her own gaze sparking like fire. What was happening? Suddenly Kith-Kanan felt very frightened and very lonely.

“You should both be very happy,” he said awkwardly. They said nothing, but each looked at Vanesti in a way that communicated their love and pride.

“Now let’s take care of business,” said Sithas to his brother. “The war.” Kith sighed. “I knew we’d have to get around to the war sooner or later, but can we make it a little bit later? I’d like to see Mother first.”

“Of course. How stupid of me,” Sithas agreed. If he had noticed any of the feelings that Kith had thought showed so plainly on his face, the Speaker gave no sign. His voice dropped slightly. “She’s in her quarters. Shell be delighted to see you. I think it’s just what she needs.”

Kith-Kanan looked at his brother curiously, but Sithas did not elaborate. Instead, the Speaker continued in a different vein.

“I’ve had some Thalian blond wine chilled in my apartment. I want to hear everything that’s happened since the start of the war. Come and find me after you’ve spoken to Nirakina.”

“I will. I’ve got a lot to tell, but I want to know how things have fared in the city as well.” Kith-Kanan followed Sithas from the nursery, quietly closing the door. Before it shut, he looked back and saw Hermathya cuddling the baby to her breast. The elf woman’s eyes looked up suddenly and locked upon Kith’s, making an electric connection that he had to force himself to break. The two elves, leaders of the nation, walked in silence through the long halls of the Palace of Quinari. They reached the apartments of their mother, and Kith stopped as Sithas walked silently on.

“Enter” came her familiar voice in response to his soft knock. He pushed open the door and saw Nirakina seated in a chair by the open window. She rose and swept him into her arms, hugging him as if she would never let him go.

He was shocked by the aging apparent in his mother’s face, an aging that was all the more distressing because of the long elven life span. By rights, she was just reaching middle age and could look forward to several productive centuries before she approached old age.

Yet her face, drawn by cares, and the gray streaks that had begun to silver her hair reminded Kith of his grandmother, in the years shortly before her death. It was a revelation that disturbed him deeply.

“Sit down, Mother,” Kith said quietly, leading her back to her chair. “Are you all right?”

Nirakina looked at him, and the son had trouble facing his mother’s eyes. So much despair!

“Seeing you does much to bring my strength back,” she replied, offering a wan smile. “It seems I’m surrounded by strangers so much now.”

“Surely Sithas is here with you.”

“Oh, when he can be, but there is much to occupy him. The affairs of war, and now his child. Vanesti is a beautiful baby, don’t you agree?” Kith nodded, wondering why he didn’t hear more pleasure in his mother’s voice. This was her first grandchild.

“But Hermathya thinks that I get in the way, and her sisters are here to help. I have seen too little of Vanesti.” Nirakina’s eyes drifted to the window. “I miss your father. I miss him so much sometimes that I can hardly stand it.” Kith struggled for words. Failing, he took his mother’s hands in his own.

“The palace, the city—it’s all changing,” she continued. “It’s the war. In your absence, Lord Quimant advises your brother. It seems the palace is becoming home to all of Clan Oakleaf.”

Kith had heard of Quimant in Sithas’s letters and knew his brother considered him to be a great assistance in affairs of state.

“What of Tamanier Ambrodel?” The loyal elf had been his mother’s able aide and had saved her life during the riots that rocked the city before the outbreak of war. Sithel had promoted him to lord chamberlain to reward his loyalty. His mother and Tamanier had been good friends for many years.

“He’s gone. Sithas tells me not to worry, and I know he has embarked upon a mission in the service of the throne. But he has been absent a long time, and I cannot help but miss him.”

She looked at him, and he saw tears in her eyes. “Sometimes I feel like so much excess baggage, locked away in my room here, waiting for my life to pass!”

Kith sat back, shocked and dismayed by his mother’s despair. This was so unlike the Nirakina he had always known, an elf woman full of vigor, serene and patient against the background of his father’s rigid ideas. He tried to hide his churning emotions beneath a lighthearted tone.

“Tomorrow we’ll go riding,” he said, realizing that sunset approached quickly.

“I have to meet Sithas tonight to make my reports. But meet me for breakfast in the dining hall, won’t you?”

Nirakina smiled, for the first time with her eyes as well as well as with her lips. “I’d like that,” she said. But the memory of her lined, unhappy face stuck with him as he left her chambers and made his way to his brother’s library.

“Come in,” announced Sithas, as two liveried halberdiers of the House Protectorate snapped to attention before the silver-plated doors to the royal apartment. One of them pulled the door open, and the general entered.

“We wish to be alone,” announced the Speaker of the Stars, and the guards nodded silently.

The pair settled into comfortable chairs, near the balcony that gave them an excellent view of the Tower of the Stars, which rose into the night sky across the gardens. The red moon, Lunitari, and the pale orb of Solinari illuminated the vista, casting shadows through the winding passages of the garden paths. Sithas filled two mugs and placed the bottle of fine wine back into its bucket of melting ice. Handing one mug to his brother, he raised his own and met Kith’s with a slight clink.

“To victory,” he offered.

“Victory!” Kith-Kanan repeated.

They sat and, sensing that his brother wanted to speak first, the army commander waited expectantly. His intuition was correct.

“By all the gods, I wish I could be there with you!” Sithas began, his tone full of conviction.

Kith didn’t doubt him. “War’s not what I thought it would be,” he admitted.

“Mostly it’s waiting, discomfort, and tedium. We are always hungry and cold, but mostly bored. It seems that days and weeks go by when nothing happens of consequence.”

He sighed and paused for a moment to take a deep draft of his wine. The sweet liquid soothed his throat and loosened his tongue. “Then, when things do start to happen, you’re more frightened than you ever thought was possible. You fight for your life; you run when you have to. You try to stay in touch with what’s going on, but it’s impossible. Just as quickly, the fight’s over and you go back to being bored. Except now you have the grief, too, knowing that brave companions have died this day, some of them because you made the wrong decision. Even the right decision sometimes sends too many good elves to their deaths.”

Sithas shook his head sadly. “At least you have some control over events. I sit here, hundreds of miles away. I sent those good elves to live or die without the slightest knowledge of what will befall them.”

“That knowledge is slim comfort,” replied his brother. Kith-Kanan told his brother, in elaborate detail, about the battles in which the Wildrunners had fought the Army of Ergoth. He talked of their initial small victories, of the plodding advance of the central and southern wings. He described the fast-moving horsemen of the north wing and their keen and brutal commander, General Giarna. His voice broke as he related the tale of the trap that had ensnared Kencathedrus and his proud regiment, and for a moment, he lapsed into a miserable silence.

Sithas reached out and touched his brother on the shoulder. The gesture seemed to renew Kith-Kanan’s strength, and after drawing a deep breath, he began to speak again.

He told of their forced retreat into the fortress, of the numberless horde of humans surrounding them, barring the Wildrunners against any real penetration. The wine bottle emptied—it may as well have been by evaporation, for all the notice the brothers took—and the moons crept toward the western horizon. Sithas rang for another bottle of Thalian blond as Kith described the state of supplies and morale within Sithelbec and talked about their prospects for the future.

“We can hold out through the winter, perhaps well into next year. But we cannot shake the grip around us, not unless something happens to break this stalemate!”

“Something such as what? More reinforcements—another five thousand elves from Silvanost?” Sithas leaned close to his brother, disturbed by the account of the war. The setbacks suffered by the Wildrunners were temporary—this the speaker truly believed—and together they had to figure out some way to turn the tide.

Kith shook his head. “That would help—any reinforcements you can send would help—but even twice that many elves would not turn the tide. Perhaps the Army of Thorbardin, if the dwarves can be coaxed from their mountain retreat . . .” His voice showed that he placed little hope in this possibility.

“It might happen,” Sithas replied. “You didn’t get to know Lord Dunbarth as did I, when he spent a year among us in the city. He is a trustworthy fellow, and he bears no love for the humans. I think he realizes that his own kingdom will be next in line for conquest unless he can do something now.” Sithas described the present ambassador, the intransigent Than-Kar, in considerably less glowing terms. “He’s a major stumbling block to any firm agreement, but there still might be some way around him.”

“I’d like to talk to him myself,” Kith said. “Can we bring him to the palace?”

“I can try,” Sithas agreed, realizing how weak the phrase sounded. Father would have ordered it, he reminded himself. For a moment, he felt terribly ineffective, wishing he had Sithel’s steady nerves. Angrily he pushed the sensation of doubt away and listened to his brother speak.

“I’ll believe in dwarven help when I see their banners on the field and their weapons pointed away from us!”

“But what else?” pressed Sithas. “What other tactics do we have?”

“I wish I knew,” his brother replied. “I hoped that you might have some suggestions.”

“Weapons?” Sithas explained the key role Lord Quimant was playing to increase the munitions production at the Oakleaf Clan’s forges. “We’ll get you the best blades that elven craftsmen can make.”

“That’s something—but still, we need more. We need something that cannot just stand against the human cavalry but break it—drive it away!” The second bottle of wine began to vanish as the elven lords wrestled with their problem. The first traces of dawn colored the sky, a thin line of pale blue on the horizon, but no ready solution came to mind.

“You know, I wasn’t certain that Arcuballis could find you,” Sithas said after a pause of several minutes. The frustration of their search for a solution weighed upon them, and Kith welcomed the change of conversation.

“He never looked so good to me,” Kith-Kanan replied, “as when he came soaring into the fortress compound. I didn’t realize how much I missed this place—how much I missed you and mother—until I saw him.”

“He’s been there in the stable since you left,” Sithas said, shaking his head with a wry grin. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of sending him to you shortly after you first became besieged.”

“I had a curious dream about him—about an entire flock of griffons, actually—on the very night before he arrived. It was most uncanny.” Kith described his strange dream, and the two brothers pondered its meaning.

“A flock of griffons?” Sithas asked intently.

“Well, yes. Do you think it significant?”

“If we had a flock of griffons ... if they all carried riders into combat ... could that be the hammer needed to crack the shell around Sithelbec?” Sithas spoke with growing enthusiasm.

“Wait a minute,” said Kith, holding up his hand. “I suppose you’re right, in a hypothetical sense. In fact, the horses of the humans were spooked as I flew over, even though I was high, out of bowshot range. But who ever heard of an army of griffons?”

Sithas settled back, suddenly realizing the futility of his idea. For a moment, neither of them said anything—which was how they heard the soft rustling in the room behind them.

Kith-Kanan sprang to his feet, instinctively reaching for a sword at his hip, forgetting that his weapon hung back on the wall of his own apartment. Sithas whirled in his seat, staring in astonishment, and then he rose to his feet.

“You!” the Speaker barked, his voice taut with rage. “What are you doing here?”

Kith-Kanan crouched, preparing to spring at the intruder. He saw the figure, a mature elf cloaked in a silky gray robe, move forward from the shadows.

“Wait.” said Sithas, much to his brother’s surprise. The speaker held up his hand and Kith straightened, still tense and suspicious.

“One day your impudence will cost you,” Sithas said levelly as the elf approached them. “You are not to enter my chambers unannounced again. Is that clear?”

“Pardon my intrusion. As you know, my presence must remain discreet.”

“Who is this?” Kith-Kanan demanded.

“Forgive me,” said the gray-cloaked elf before Sithas cut him off.

“This is Vedvedsica,” said Sithas. Kith-Kanan noted that his brother’s tone had become carefully guarded. “He has ... been helpful to the House of Silvanos in the past.”

“The pleasure is mine, and it is indeed great, honored prince,” offered Vedvedsica, with a deep bow to Kith-Kanan.

“Who are you? Why do you come here?” Kith demanded.

“In good time, lord—in good time. As to who I am, I am a cleric, a devoted follower of Gilean.”

Kith-Kanan wasn’t surprised. The god was the most purely neutral in the elven pantheon, most often used to justify self-aggrandizement and profit. Something about Vedvedsica struck him as very self-serving indeed.

“More to the point, I know of your dream.”

The last was directed to Kith-Kanan and struck him like a lightning bolt between the eyes. For a moment, he hesitated, fighting an almost undeniable urge to hurl himself at the insolent cleric and kill him with his bare hands. Never before had he felt so violated.

“Explain yourself!”

“I have knowledge that the two of you may desire—knowledge of griffons, hundreds of them. And even more important, I may have knowledge as to how they can be found and tamed.”

For the moment, the elven lords remained silent, listening suspiciously as Vedvedsica moved forward. “May 1?” inquired the cleric, gesturing to a seat beside their own.

Sithas nodded silently, and all three sat.

“The griffons dwell in the Khalkist Mountains, south of the Lords of Doom.” The brothers knew of these peaks—three violent volcanoes in the heart of the forbidding range, high among vast glaciers and sheer summits. It was a region beyond the ken of elven explorers.

“How do you know this?” asked Sithas.

“Did your father ever tell you how he came to possess Arcuballis?” Again the cleric fixed Kith-Kanan with his gaze, then continued as if he already knew the answer. “He got him from me!”

Kith nodded, reluctant to believe the cleric but finding himself unable to doubt the veracity of his words.

“I purchased him from a Kagonesti, a wild elf who told me of the whereabouts of the pack. He encountered them, together with a dozen companions. He alone escaped the wrath of the griffons, with one young cub—the one given by me to Sithel as a gift, and the one that he passed along to his son. To you, Kith-Kanan.”

“But how could the flock be tamed? From what you say, a dozen elves perished to bring one tiny cub away!” Kith-Kanan challenged Vedvedsica. Despite his suspicions, he felt his own excitement begin to build.

“I tamed him, with the aid and protection of Gilean. I developed the spell that broke him to halter. It’s a simple enchantment, really. Any elf with a working knowledge of the Old Script could have cast it. But only I could bring it into being!”

“Continue,” said Sithas urgently.

“I believe that spell can be enhanced, developed so that many more of the creatures could be brought to heel. I can inscribe it onto a scroll. Then one of you can take it in search of the griffons.”

“Are you certain that it will work?” demanded Sithas.

“No,” replied the cleric frankly. “It will need to be presented under precise circumstances and with a great force of command. That is why the person who casts the spell must be a leader among elves—one of you two. No others of our race would have the necessary traits.”

“How long would it take to prepare such a scroll?” pressed Kith. A cavalry company mounted on griffons, flying over the battlefield! The thought made his heart pound with excitement. They would be unstoppable!

Vedvedsica shrugged. “A week, perhaps two. It will be an arduous process.”

“I’ll go,” Kith volunteered.

“Wait!” said Sithas sharply. “I should go! And I will!” Kith-Kanan looked at the Speaker in astonishment. “That’s crazy!” he argued.

“You’re the Speaker of the Stars. You have a wife, a child! More to the point, you’re the leader of all Silvanesti! And you haven’t ever lived in the wilderness before like I have! I can’t allow you to take the risk.” For a moment, the twins stared at each other, equally stubborn. The cleric was forgotten for the moment, and he melted into the shadows, discreet in his withdrawal.

It was Sithas who spoke.

“Do you read the Old Script?” he asked his brother bluntly. “Well enough to be certain of your words, when you know that the whole future of the realm could depend upon what you say?”

The younger twin sighed. “No. My studies always emphasized the outdoor skills. I’m afraid the ancient writing wouldn’t make much sense to me.” Sithas smiled wryly. “I used to resent that. You were always out riding horses or hunting or learning swordsmanship, while I studied the musty tomes and forgotten histories. Well, now I’m going to put that learning to use.

“We’ll both go,” Sithas concluded.

Kith-Kanan stared at him, realizing the outcry such a plan would raise. Perhaps, he had to admit, this was the reason the scheme appealed to him. Slowly, Kith relaxed, settling back into his chair.

“The trip won’t be easy,” Kith warned sternly. “We’re going to have to explore the largest mountain range on Ansalon, and winter isn’t far away. In those heights, you can be sure there’s already plenty of snow.”

“You can’t scare me off,” answered Sithas purposefully. “I know that Arcuballis can carry the two of us, and I don’t care if it takes all winter. We’ll find them, Kith. I know we will.”

“You know,” Kith-Kanan said ironically, “I must still be dreaming. In any event, you’re right. The sons of Sithel ought to make this quest together.” With a final mug of wine, as the sky grew pale above them, they began to make their plans.

9

Kith-Kanan and his mother rode through the tree-lined streets of Silvanost for several hours, talking only of fond memories and pleasant topics from many years before. They stopped to enjoy the fountains, to watch the hawks dive for fish in the river, and to listen to the songbirds that clustered in the many flowered bushes of the city’s lush gardens.

During the ride, it seemed to the elven warrior that his mother slowly came to life again, even to the point of laughing as they watched the pompous dance of a brilliant cardinal trying to impress his mate.

In the back of Kith’s mind lurked the realization that his mother would soon learn of her sons’ plans to embark on a dangerous expedition into the Khalkist Mountains. That news could wait, he decided.

“Are you going to join your brother at court?” asked Nirakina as the sun slid past the midafternoon point.

Kith sighed. “There’ll be enough time for that tomorrow,” he decided.

“Good .” His mother looked at him, and he was delighted to see that the familiar sparkle had returned to her eyes. She spurred her horse with a sharp kick, and the mare raced ahead, leaving Kith with the challenge of her laugh as he tried to urge his older gelding into catching up.

They cantered beneath the shade of towering elms and dashed among the crystal columns of the elven homes in a friendly race toward the Gardens of Astarin and the royal stables. Nirakina was a good rider, with the faster horse; though Kith tried to spur the last energy from his own steed, his mother beat him through the palace gates by a good three lengths.

Laughing, they pulled up before the stables and dismounted. Nirakina turned toward him, impulsively pulling him into a hug, “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Thank you for coming home!”

Kith held her in silence for some moments, relieved that he hadn’t discussed the twins’ plans with her.

Leaving his mother at her chambers, he made his way to his own apartments, intending to bathe and dress for the banquet his brother had scheduled for that evening. Before he reached his door, however, a figure moved out of a nearby alcove.

Reflexively the elven warrior reached for a sword, a weapon that he did not usually carry in the secure confines of the palace. At the same time, he relaxed, recognizing the figure and realizing that there was no threat—at least, no threat of harm.

“Hermathya,” he said, his voice oddly husky.

“Your nerves are stretched tight,” she observed, with an awkward little laugh. She wore a turquoise gown cut low over her breasts. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders, and as she looked up at him, Kith-Kanan thought that she seemed as young and vulnerable as ever.

He forced himself to shake his head, remembering that she was neither young nor vulnerable. Still, the spell of her innocent allure held him, and he wanted to reach out and sweep her into his arms.

With difficulty, he held his hands at his sides, waiting for Hermathya to speak again. His stillness seemed to unsettle her, as if she had expected him to make the next move.

The look in her eyes left him little doubt as to what response she was hoping for. He didn’t open the door, he didn’t move toward his room. He remained all too conscious of the private chambers and the large bed nearby. The aching in his body surprised him, and he realized with a great deal of dismay that he wanted her. He wanted her very badly indeed.

“I-I wanted to talk to you,” she said. He understood implicitly that she was lying.

Her words seemed to break the spell, and he reached past her to push open his door. “Come in,” he said as flatly as possible. He walked to the tall crystal doors, pulling the draperies aside to reveal the lush brilliance of the Gardens of Astarin. Keeping his back to her, he waited for her to speak.

“I’ve been worried about you,” she began. “They told me you had been captured, and I feared I would go out of my mind! Were they cruel to you? Did they hurt you?”

Not half so cruel as you were once, he thought silently. Half of him wanted to shout at her, to remind her that he had once begged her to run away with him, to choose him over his brother. The other half wanted to sweep her into his arms, into his bed, into his life. Yet he dared not look at her, for he feared the latter emotion and knew it was the worst treachery.

“I was only held prisoner for a day,” he said, his voice hardening. “They butchered the other elves that they held, but I was fortunate enough to escape.”

He thought of the human woman who had—unwittingly, so far as he knew—aided his flight. She had been very beautiful, for a human. Her body possessed a fullness that was voluptuous, that he had to admit he found strangely attractive. Yet she was nothing to him. He didn’t even know her name. She was far away from him, probably forever. While Hermathya ... Kith-Kanan sensed her moving closer. Her hand touched his shoulder and he stood very still.

“You’d better go. I’ve got to get ready for the banquet.” Still he did not look at her.

For a second, she was silent, and he felt very conscious of her delicate touch. Then her hand fell away. “I . . .” She didn’t complete the thought. As he heard her move toward the door, he turned from the windows to watch her. She smiled awkwardly before she left, pulling the door closed behind her. For a long time afterward, he remained motionless. The image of her body remained burning in his mind. It frightened him terribly that he found himself wishing she had chosen to remain.

Kith-Kanan’s reentry into the royal court of Silvanost felt to him like a sudden immersion into icy water. Nothing in his recent experience bore any resemblance to the gleaming marble-floored hall, and the elegant nobles and ladies dressed in their silken robes, which were trimmed in fur and silver thread and embellished with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. The discussions with his family, even the banquet of the previous night, had not prepared him for the full formality of the Hall of Audience. Now he found himself speaking to a faceless congregation of stiff coats and noble gowns, describing the course of the war to date. Finally his report was done, and the elves dissolved smoothly into private discussions.

“Who’s that?” Kith-Kanan asked Sithas, indicating a tall elf who had just arrived and now made his way to the throne.

“I’ll introduce you.” Sithas rose and gestured the elf forward. “This is Lord Quimant of Oakleaf, of whom I have spoken. This is my brother, Kith-Kanan, general of the elven army.”

“I am indeed honored, My lord,” said Quimant, with a deep bow.

“Thank you,” Kith replied, studying his face. “My brother tells me that your aid has been invaluable in supporting the war effort.”

“The Speaker is generous,” the lord said to Kith-Kanan modestly. “My contribution pales in comparison to the sacrifices made by you and all of your warriors. If we can but provide you with reliable blades, that is my only wish.” For a moment, Kith was struck by the jarring impression that Lord Quimant, in fact, wished for a great deal more out of the war. That moment passed, and Kith noticed that his brother seemed to place tremendous confidence and warmth in Hermathya’s cousin.

“What word from our esteemed ambassador?” asked Sithas.

“Than-Kar will attend our court, but not until after the noon hour,” reported the lord. “He seems to feel that he has no pressing business here.”

“That’s the problem!” snapped the Speaker harshly. Quimant changed the topic. To Sithas and Kith-Kanan, he described some additional expansions of the Clan Oakleaf mines, though the general paid little attention. Restlessly his eyes roamed the crowd, seeking Hermathya. He felt a vague relief that she was not present. He had felt likewise when she didn’t attend the previous night’s banquet, pleading a mild illness. The evening passed with excruciating slowness. Kith-Kanan stood tersely as he was plied with invitations to banquets and hunting trips. Some of the ladies gave him other types of invitations, judging from the suggestive tilts of their smiles or the coy lowerings of demure eyelashes. He felt like a prize stag whose antlers were coveted for everybody’s mantel.

Kith found himself, much to his astonishment, actually looking back with fondness on the grim, battle-weary conversations he had most nights with his fellow warriors. They might have squatted around a smoky fire for illumination, caked with mud and smelling of weeks of accumulated grime, yet somehow that all seemed so much more real than did this pompous display. Finally the fanfare of trumpets announced the arrival of the dwarven ambassador and his retinue. Kith-Kanan stared in surprise as Than-Kar led a column of more than thirty armed and armored dwarves into the hall. They marched in a muddy file toward the throne, finally halting to allow their leader to swagger forward on his own.

The Theiwar dwarf bore little resemblance to the jovial Dunbarth Ironthumb, of the Hylar Clan, whom Kith-Kanan had met years before. He found Than-Kar’s wide eyes, with their surrounding whites and tiny, beadlike pupils, disturbing—like the eyes of a madman, he thought. The dwarf was filthy and unkempt, with a soiled tunic and muddy boots, almost as if he had made a point of his messy appearance for the benefit of the elven general.

“The Speaker has demanded my presence, and I have come,” announced the dwarf in a tone ripe with insolence.

Kith-Kanan felt an urge to leap from the Speaker’s platform and throttle the obscene creature. With an effort, he held his temper in check.

“My brother has returned from the front,” began Sithas, dispensing with the formality of an introduction. “I desire for you to report to him on the status of your nation’s involvement.”

Than-Kar’s weird eyes appraised Kith-Kanan, while a smirk played on the dwarf’s lips. “No change.” He said bluntly. “My king needs to see some concrete evidence of elven trustworthiness before he will commit dwarven lives to this . . . cause.”

Kith felt his face flush, and he took a step forward. “Surely you understand that all the elder races are threatened by this human aggression?” he demanded.

The Theiwar shrugged. “The humans would say that they are threatened by elven aggression.”

“They are the ones who have marched into elven lands! Lands, I might add, that border firmly against the northern flank of your own kingdom!”

“I don’t see it that way,” snorted the dwarf. “And besides, you have humans among your own ranks! It almost seems to me that it is a family feud. If they see fit to join, why should dwarves get involved?”

Sithas turned in astonishment to Kith-Kanan, though the speaker remained outwardly composed.

“We have no humans fighting on the side of our forces. There are some—women and children, mostly—who have taken shelter in the fortress for the siege. They are merely innocent victims of the war. They do not change its character!”

“More to the point, then,” spoke the ambassador, his voice an accusing hiss,

“explain the presence of elves in the Army of Ergoth!”

“Lies!” shouted Sithas, forgetting himself and springing to his feet. The hall erupted in shouts of anger and denial from courtiers and nobles pressing forward. Than-Kar’s bodyguards bristled and raised their weapons.

“Entire ranks of elves,” continued the dwarf as the crowd murmured. “They resist your imperial hegemony.”

“They are traitors to the homeland!” snapped Sithas.

“A question of semantics,” argued Than-Kar. “I merely mean to illustrate that the confused state of the conflict makes a dwarven intervention seem rash to the point of foolishness.”

Kith-Kanan could hold himself in check no longer. He stepped down from the platform and stared at the dwarf, who was a foot or more shorter than himself.

“You distort the truth in a way that can only discredit your nation!” He continued, his voice a growl. “Any elves among the ranks of Ergoth are lone rogues, lured by human coin or promises of power. Even the likes of you cannot blur the clear lines of this conflict. You spout your lies and your distortions from the safety of this far city; hiding like a coward behind the robes of diplomacy. You make me sick!”

Than-Kar appeared unruffled as he stepped aside to address Sithas. “This example of your general’s impetuous behavior will be duly reported to my king. It cannot further your cause.”

“You set a new standard for diplomatic excess, and you try my patience to its limits. Leave, now!” Sithas hissed the words with thick anger, and the hall fell deathly silent.

If the dwarf was affected by the speaker’s rage, however, he concealed his emotions well. With calculated insolence, he marched his column about and then led them from the Hall of Audience.

“Throw open the windows!” barked the Speaker of the Stars. “Clear the stench from the air!”

Kith-Kanan slumped to sit on the steps of the royal dais, ignoring the surprised looks from some of the stiff-backed elven nobles. “I could have strangled him with pleasure,” he snarled as his brother came to sit beside him.

“The audience is over,” Sithas announced to the rest of the elves, and Kith-Kanan sighed with concern as the last of the anonymous nobles left. The only ones remaining in the great hall were Quimant, the twins, and Nirakina.

“I know I shouldn’t have let him get under my skin like that. I’m sorry,” the general said to the Speaker.

“Nonsense. You said things I’ve wanted to voice for months. It’s better to have a warrior say them than a head of state.” Sithas paused awkwardly.

“What he did say—how much truth was there to it?”

“Very little,” sighed Kith-Kanan. “We are sheltering humans in the fortress, most of them the wives and families of Wildrunners. They would be slain on sight if they fell into the hands of the enemy.”

“And are elves fighting for Ergoth?” Sithas couldn’t keep the dismay from his voice.

“A few rogues, as I said,” Kith admitted. “At least, we’ve had reports of them. I saw one myself in the human camp. But these turncoats are not numerous enough that we have taken notice of them on the field.” He groaned and leaned backward, remembering the offensive and arrogant Theiwar dwarf. “That lout! I suppose it’s a good thing I didn’t have my sword at my side.” “You’re tired,” said Sithas. “Why don’t you relax for a while. This round of banquets and courts and all-night meetings, I’m sure, takes an adjustment. We can talk tomorrow.” “Your brother is right. You do need rest,” Nirakina added in a maternal tone. “I’ll have dinner sent to your apartments.”

The dinner arrived, as Nirakina had promised. Kith-Kanan guessed that his mother had sent orders to the kitchen, and someone in the kitchen had communicated the situation to another interested party. For it was Hermathya who knocked on his door and entered.

“Hello, Hermathya,” he said, sitting up in the bed. He wasn’t particularly surprised to see her, and if he was honest with himself, neither was he very much dismayed.

“I took this from the serving girl,” she said, bringing forward a large silver tray with domed, steaming dishes and crystal platters. Once again he was struck by her air of youth and innocence.

Memories of the two of them together.... Kith-Kanan felt a sudden resurgence of desire, a feeling that he thought had been gone for years. He wanted to take her in his arms. Looking into her eyes, he knew that she desired the same thing.

“I’ll get up. We can dine near the windows.” He didn’t want to suggest they go to the balcony. He felt there was something furtive and private about her visit.

“Just stay there,” she said softly. “I’ll serve you in bed.” He wondered what she meant, at first. Soon he learned, as the dinner grew cold upon a nearby table.

10

Hermathya slipped away sometime during the middle of the night, and Kith-Kanan felt profoundly grateful in the morning that she was gone. Now, in the cold light of day, the passion that had seized them seemed like nothing so much as a malicious and hurtful interlude. The flame that had once drawn them together ought not to be rekindled.

Kith-Kanan spent most of the day with his brother, touring the stables and farriers of the city. He forced himself to maintain focus on the task at hand: gathering additional horses to mount his cavalry forces for the time when the Wildrunners took to the offensive. They both knew that they would, they must, eventually attack the human army. They couldn’t simply wait out the siege.

During these hours together, Kith found that he couldn’t meet his brother’s eyes. Sithas remained cheerful and enthusiastic, friendly in a way that twisted Kith-Kanan’s gut. By midafternoon, he made an excuse to leave his twin’s company, pleading the need to give Arcuballis some exercise. In reality, he needed an escape, a chance to suffer his guilt in solitude. The following days in Silvanost passed slowly, making even the bleak confinement in besieged Sithelbec seem eventful by comparison. He avoided Hermathya, and he found to his relief that she seemed to be avoiding him as well. The few times he saw her she was with Sithas, playing the doting wife holding tightly to her husband’s arm and hanging upon his every word. In truth, the time dragged for Sithas as well. He knew that Vedvedsica was laboring to create a spell that might allow them to magically ensnare the griffons, but he was impatient to begin the quest. He ascribed Kith-Kanan’s unease to similar impatience. When they were together, they spoke only of the war and waited for a message from the mysterious cleric.

That word did not come for eight days, and then, oddly, it arrived in the middle of the night. The twins were wide awake, engaged in deep discussion in Sithas’s chambers, when they heard a rustling on the balcony beyond the open window. Sithas drew the draperies aside, and the sorcerous cleric stepped into the room.

Kith-Kanan’s eyes immediately fell upon Vedvedsica’s hand, for he carried a long ivory tube, the ends capped by cork. Several arcane sigils, in black, marked its alabaster surface.

The cleric raised the object, and the twins instinctively understood, even before Vedvedsica uncorked the end and withdrew a rolled sheet of oiled vellum. Unrolling the scroll, he showed them a series of symbols scribed in the Old Script.

“The spell of command,” the priest explained softly. “With this magic, I believe the griffons can be tamed.”

The twins planned to depart after one more day of final preparations. With the scroll at last a reality, a new urgency marked their activity. They met with Nirakina and Lord Quimant shortly after breakfast, a few hours after Vedvedsica had departed.

The four of them gathered in the royal library, where a fire crackled in the hearth to disperse the autumnal chill. Sithas brought the scroll, though he placed his cloak over it as he set it on the floor. They all sat in the great leatherbacked chairs that faced the fire.

“We have word of a discovery that may change the course of the war—for the better,” announced Kith.

“Splendid!” Quimant was enthusiastic. Nirakina merely looked at her sons, her concern showing in the furrowing of her brow.

“You know of Arcuballis, of course,” continued the warrior. “He was given to Sithel—to father—by a ‘merchant’ from the north.” According to the strategy he and Sithas had developed, they would say nothing about the involvement of the gray cleric. “We have since learned that the Khalkist Mountains are home to a great herd of the creatures—hundreds of them, at least.”

“Do you have proof of this, or is it merely rumor?” asked Nirakina. Her face had grown pale.

“They have been seen,” explained Kith-Kanan, glossing over the question. He told Quimant and Nirakina of his dream on the night before he departed Sithelbec. “Right down to the three volcanoes, it bears out everything we’ve been able to learn.”

“Think of the potential!” Sithas added. “A whole wing of flying cavalry! Why, the passage of Arcuballis alone sent hundreds of horses into a stampede. A sky full of griffons could very well rout the whole Army of Ergoth!”

“It seems a great leap,” Nirakina said slowly and quietly, “from the knowledge of griffons in a remote mountain range to a trained legion of flyers, obeying the commands of their riders.” She was still pale, but her voice was strong and steady.

“We believe we can find them,” Sithas replied levelly. “We leave at tomorrow’s sunrise to embark upon this quest.”

“How many warriors will you take?” asked Nirakina, knowing as they all did the legends of the distant Khalkists. Tales of ogres, dark and evil dwarves, even tribes of brutish hill giants—these comprised the folklore whispered by the average elf regarding the mountain range that was the central feature of the continent of Ansalon.

“Only the two of us will go.” Sithas faced his mother, who appeared terribly frail in her overly-large chair.

“We’ll ride Arcuballis,” Kith-Kanan explained quickly. “And he’ll cover the distance in a fraction of the time it would take an army—even if we had one to send.”

Nirakina looked at Kith-Kanan, her eyes pleading. Her warrior son understood the appeal. She wanted him to volunteer to go alone, leaving the Speaker of the Stars behind. Yet even as this thought flashed in her eyes, she lowered her head.

When she looked up, her voice was firm again. “How will you capture these creatures, assuming that you find them?”

Sithas removed his cloak and picked up the tube from the floor beside his chair. “We have acquired a spell of command from a friend of the House of Silvanos. If we can find the griffons, the spell will bind them to our will.”

“It is a more powerful version of the same enchantment that was used to domesticate Arcuballis,” added Kith. “It is written in the Old Script. That is one reason why Sithas must go with me—to help me cast the spell by reading the Old Script.”

His mother looked at him, nodding calmly, more out of shock than from any true sense of understanding.

Nirakina had stood beside her husband through three centuries of rule. She had borne these two proud sons. She had suffered the news of her husband’s murder at the hands of a human and lived through the resulting war that now engulfed her nation, her family, and her people. Now she faced the prospect of her two sons embarking on what seemed to her a mad quest, in search of a miracle, with little more than a prayer of success.

Yet, above all, she was the matriarch of the House of Silver Moon. She, too, was a leader of the Silvanesti, and she understood some things about strength, about ruling, and about risk-taking. She had made known her objections, and she realized that the minds of her sons were set. Now she would give no further vent to her personal feelings.

She rose from her chair and nodded stiffly at each of her sons. Kith-Kanan went to her side, while Sithas remained in his chair, moved by her loyalty. The warrior escorted her to the door.

Quimant looked at Sithas, then turned to Kith-Kanan as he returned to his chair. “May your quest be speedy and successful. I only wish I could accompany you.”

Sithas spoke. “I shall entrust you to act as regent in my absence. You know the details of the nation’s daily affairs. I shall also need you to begin the conscription of new troops. By the end of winter, we will have to raise and train a new force to send to the plains.”

“I will do everything in my power,” pledged Quimant. “Another thing,” added Sithas casually. “If Tamanier Ambrodel returns to the city, he is to be given quarters in the palace. I will need to see him immediately upon my return.” Quimant nodded, rose, and bowed to the twins. “May the gods watch over you,” he said, then left. * * * * * “I have to go. Don’t you understand that?” Sithas challenged Hermathya. She stomped about their royal bedchambers before whirling upon him. “You can’t! I forbid it!” Hermathya’s voice rose, becoming shrill. Her face, moments before blank with astonishment, now contorted in fury. “Damn it! Listen to me!” Sithas scowled, his own anger rising. Stubborn and intractable, they stared into each other’s eyes for a moment.

“I’ve told you about the spell of binding. It’s in the Old Script. Kith doesn’t have the knowledge to use it, even if he found the griffons. I’m the only one who can read it properly.” He held her shoulders and continued to meet her eyes.

“I have to do this, not just for the good it will do our nation, but for me!

That’s what you have to understand!”

“I don’t have to, and I won’t!” she cried, whirling away from him.

“Kith-Kanan has always been the one to face the dangers and the challenges of the unknown. Now there’s something that I must do. I, too, must put my life at risk. For once, I’m not just sending my brother into danger. I’m going myself!”

“But you don’t have to!”

Hermathya almost spat her anger, but Sithas wouldn’t budge. If she could see any sense in his desire to test himself, she wouldn’t admit it. Finally, in exhaustion and frustration, the Speaker of the Stars stormed out of the chambers.

He found Kith-Kanan in the stables, instructing the saddlemaker on modifications to Arcuballis’s harness. The griffon would be able to carry the two of them, but his flight would be slowed, and they would be able to take precious little in the way of provisions and equipment.

“Dried meat—enough for only a few weeks,” recited Kith-Kanan, examining the bulging saddlebags. “A pair of waterskins, several extra cloaks. Tinder and flint, a couple of daggers. Extra bowstrings. We’ll carry our bows where we can get at them in a hurry, of course. And twoscore arrows. Do you have a practical sword?”

For a moment, Sithas flushed. He knew that the ceremonial blade he had carried for years would be inadequate for the task at hand. Cast in a soft silver alloy, its shining blade was inscribed with all manner of symbols in the Old Script, reciting the glorious history of the House of Silvanos. It was beautiful and valuable, but impractical in a fight. Still, it rankled him to hear his brother speak ill of it. “Lord Quimant has procured a splendid longsword for me,” he said stiffly. “It will do quite nicely.”

“Good.” Kith took no notice of his brother’s annoyance. “We’ll have to leave our metal armor behind. With this load, Arcuballis can’t handle the extra weight. Have you a good set of leathers?”

Again Sithas replied in the affirmative.

“Well, we’ll be ready to go at first light, then. Ah—” Kith hesitated, then asked, “How did Hermathya react?” Kith knew that Sithas had put off telling Hermathya that he would be gone for weeks on this journey.

“Poorly,” Sithas, said, with a grimace. He offered no elaboration, and Kith-Kanan did not probe further. They attended a small banquet that night, joined by Quimant and Nirakina and several other nobles. Hermathya was conspicuously absent, a fact for which Kith was profoundly grateful, and the mood was subdued. He had found himself anxious throughout these last days that Hermathya would tell her husband about her dalliance with his brother. Kith-Kanan had tried to put aside the memory of that night, treating the incident as some sort of waking dream. This made his guilt somewhat easier to bear. After dinner, Nirakina handed Sithas a small vial. The stoneware jar was tightly plugged by a cork.

“It is a salve, made by the clerics of Quenesti Pah,” she explained.

“Miritelisina gave it to me. If you are injured, spread a small amount around the area of the wound. It will help the healing.”

“I hope we won’t need it, but thank you,” said Sithas. For a moment, he wondered if his mother was about to cry, but again her proud heritage sustained her. She embraced each of her sons warmly, kissed them, and wished them the luck of the gods. Then she retired to her chambers. Both of the twins spent much of the night awake, taut with the prospect of the upcoming adventure. Sithas tried to see his wife in the evening and again before sunrise, but she wouldn’t open her door even to speak to him. He settled for a few moments with Vanesti, holding his son in his arms and rocking him gently while night gave way to early dawn.

11

They met at the stables before dawn. As they had requested, no one came to see them off. Kith threw the heavy saddle over the restless griffon’s back, making sure that the straps that passed around Arcuballis’s wings were taut. Sithas stood by, watching as his brother hoisted the heavy saddlebags over the creature’s loins. The elf took several minutes to make sure that everything was secure.

They mounted the powerful beast, with Kith-Kanan in the fore, and settled into the specially modified saddle. Arcuballis trotted from the stable doors into the wide corral. Here he sprang upward, the thick muscles of his legs propelling them from the ground. His powerful wings beat the still air and thrust downward. In a single fluid motion, he leaped again and they were airborne.

The griffon labored over the garden and then along the city’s main avenue, slowly gaining altitude. The twins saw the towers of the city pass alongside, then slowly fall behind. Rosy hues of dawn quickly brightened to pink, then pale blue, as the sun seemed to explode over the eastern horizon into a crisp and cloudless day.

“By the gods, this is fantastic!” cried Sithas, overcome with the beauty of their flight, with the sight of Silvanost, and perhaps with the exhilaration of at last escaping the confining rituals of his daily life.

Kith-Kanan smiled to himself, pleased with his brother’s enthusiasm. They flew above the Thon-Thalas River, following the silvery ribbon of its path. Though autumn had come to the elven lands, the day was brilliant with sunshine, the air was clear, and a brilliant collage of colors spread across the forested lands below.

The steady pulse of the griffon’s wings carried them for many hours. The city quickly fell away, though the Tower of the Stars remained visible for some time. By midmorning, however, they soared over pristine forestland. No building broke the leafy canopy to indicate that anyone—elf, human, or whatever—lived here.

“Are these lands truly uninhabited?” inquired Sithas, studying the verdant terrain.

“The Kagonesti dwell throughout these forests,” explained Kith. The wild elves, considered uncouth and barbaric by the civilized Silvanesti, did not build structures to dominate the land or monuments to their own greatness. Instead, they took the land as they found it and left it that way when they passed on. Arcuballis swept northward, as if the great griffon felt the same joy at leaving civilization behind. Despite the heavy packs and his extra passenger, he showed no signs of tiring during a flight that lasted nearly twelve hours and carried them several hundred miles. When they ultimately landed to make camp, they touched earth beside a clear pool in a sheltered forest grotto. The two elves and their mighty beast spent a peaceful night, sleeping almost from the moment of sunset straight through until dawn.

Their flight took them six days. After the first day, they took a two-hour interval at midday so that Arcuballis could rest. They passed beyond the forests on the third day, then into the barren plains of Northern Silvanesti, a virtual desert, uninhabited and undesired by the elves.

Finally they flew beside the jagged teeth of the Khalkist Range, the mountainous backbone of Ansalon. For two full days, these craggy peaks rose to their left, but Kith-Kanan kept them over the dry plains, explaining that the winds here were more easily negotiable than they would be among the jutting summits.

Eventually they reached the point where they had to turn toward the high valleys and snow-filled swales if they expected to find any trace of their quarry. Arcuballis strained to gain altitude, carrying them safely over the sheer crests of the foothills and flying above the floor of a deep valley, following the contours of its winding course as steep ridgelines rose to the right and left, high above them.

They camped that night, the seventh night of their journey, near a partially frozen lake in the base of a steep-sided, circular valley. Three waterfalls, now frozen into massive icicles, plunged toward them from the surrounding heights. They chose the spot for its small grove of hardy cedars, reasoning correctly that firewood would be a useful, and rare, commodity among these lofty realms.

Sithas helped his brother build the fire. He discovered that he relished the feel of the small axeblade cutting the wood into kindling. The campfire soon crackled merrily, and the warmth on his hands was especially gratifying because his work had provided the welcome heat.

Thus far, their journey seemed to the Speaker of the Stars to be the grandest adventure he had ever embarked upon.

“Where do you think the Lords of Doom lie from here?” he asked his brother as they settled back to gnaw on some dried venison. The three volcanoes were rumored to lie at the heart of the range.

“I don’t know exactly,” Kith admitted. “Somewhere to the north and west of here, I should say. The city of Sanction lies on the far side of the range, and if we reach it, we’ll know we’ve gone too far.”

“I never knew that the mountains could be so beautiful, so majestic,” Sithas added, gazing at the awesome heights around them. The sun had long since left their deep valley, yet its fading rays still illumined some of the highest summits in brilliant reflections of white snow and blue ice.

“Forbidding, too.”

They looked toward Arcuballis as the griffon curled up near the fire. His massive bulk loomed like a wall. “Now we’ll have to start searching,” Kith commented. “And that might take us a long time.” “How big can this range be?” asked Sithas skeptically. “After all, we can fly.” * * * * *

Fly they did, for day after grueling, bone-chilling day. The pleasant autumn of the lowlands swiftly became brutal winter in these heights. They pressed to the highest elevations, and Sithas felt a fierce exultation as they passed among the lofty ridges, a sense of accomplishment that dwarfed anything he had done in the city. When the snow blew into their faces, he relished the heavy cloak pulled tight against his face; when they spent a night in the barren heights, he enjoyed the search for a good campsite.

Kith-Kanan remained quiet, almost brooding, for hours during their aerial search. The guilt of his night with Hermathya gnawed at him, and he cursed his foolish weakness. He longed to confess to Sithas, to ask for his forgiveness, but in his heart, he sensed that this would be a mistake, that his brother would never forgive him. Instead, he bore his pain privately.

Some days the sun shone brightly, and then the white bowls of the valleys became great reflectors. They both learned, the first such day, to leave no skin exposed under these conditions. Their cheeks and foreheads were brutally seared, yet ironically the cold air prevented them from feeling the sunburn until it had reached a painful state.

On other days, gray clouds pressed like a leaden blanket overhead, cloaking the highest summits and casting the vistas in a bleak and forbidding light. Then the snow would fly, and Arcuballis had to seek firm ground until the storm passed. A driving blizzard could toss the griffon about like a leaf in the wind. Always they pushed through the highest summits of the range, searching each valley for sign of the winged creatures. They swung southward until they reached the borders of the ogrelands of Blöten. The valleys were lower here, but they saw signs of the brutish inhabitants everywhere—forestlands blackened by swath burning, great piles of tailings. Knowing that the griffons would seek a more remote habitat, they turned back to the north, following a snakelike glacier higher and higher into the heart of the range.

Here the weather hit them with the hardest blow yet. A mass of dark clouds appeared with explosive suddenness to the west. The expanse covered the sky and swiftly spread toward them. Arcuballis dove, but the snow swirled so thickly they couldn’t see the valley floor.

“There—a ledge!” shouted Sithas, pointing over his brother’s shoulder.

“I see it.” Kith-Kanan directed Arcuballis onto a narrow shelf of rock protected by a blunt overhang. Sheer cliffs dropped away below them and climbed over their heads. Winds buffeted them even as the griffon landed, and further flight seemed suicidal. A narrow trail seemed to lead along the cliff face, winding gradually downward from their perch, but they elected to wait out the storm.

“Look—it’s flat and wide here,” announced Sithas, clearing away some loose rubble. “Plenty of space to rest, even for Arcuballis.” Kith nodded.

They unsaddled the creature and settled in to wait as the winds rose to a howling crescendo and the snow flew past them.

“How long will this last?” asked Sithas.

Kith-Kanan shrugged, and Sithas suddenly felt foolish for the question. They unpacked their bedrolls and huddled together beside the warm flank of the griffon and the cold protection of the cliff wall. Their bows, arrows, and swords they placed within easy reach. Just beyond their feet, the slope of the mountainside plummeted away, a sheer precipice vanishing into the snowswept distance. They coped, on their remote ledge, for two solid days as the blizzard raged around them and the temperature dropped. They had no fuel for a fire, so they could only huddle together, taking turns sleeping so that they didn’t both drift into eternal rest, blanketed by a deep winter cold.

Sithas was awake at the end of the second day, shaking his head and pinching himself to try to remain alert. His hands and feet felt like blocks of ice, and he alternated his position frequently, trying to warm some part of his body against the bulk of Arcuballis.

He noticed the pace of the griffon’s breathing change slightly. Suddenly the creature raised his head, and Sithas stared with him into the snow-obscured murk.

Was there something there, down the path that they had seen when they landed, the one that seemed to lead away from this ledge? Sithas blinked, certain his eyes deceived him, but it had seemed as if something moved!

In the next instant, he gaped in shock as a huge shape lunged out of the blowing snow. It towered twice as high as an elf, though its shape was vaguely human. It had arms and hands—indeed, one of those clutched a club the size of a small tree trunk. This weapon loomed high above Sithas as the creature charged forward.

“Kith! A giant!” He shouted, kicking his brother to awaken him. At the same time, purely by instinct, he picked up the sword he had laid by his side. Arcuballis reacted faster than the elf, springing toward the giant with a powerful shriek. Sithas watched in horror as the monster’s club crashed into the griffon’s skull. Soundlessly Arcuballis went limp, disappearing over the side of the ledge like so much discarded garbage.

“No!” Kith-Kanan was awake now and saw the fate of his beloved steed. At the same time, the twins saw additional shapes, two or three more, materializing from the blizzard behind the first giant. Snarling with hatred, the elven warrior grabbed his blade.

The monster’s face, this close, was more grotesque than Sithas had first thought. Its eyes were small, bloodshot, and very close-set while its nose bulged like an outcrop of rock. Its mouth was garishly wide. The giant’s maw gaped open as the beast fought, revealing blood-red gums and stubs of ivory that looked more like tusks than teeth.

A deep and pervasive terror seized Sithas, freezing him in place. He could only stare in horror at the approaching menace. Some distant part of his mind told him that he should react, should fight, but his muscles refused to budge. His fear paralyzed him.

Kith-Kanan rose into a fighting crouch, menacing the giant with his sword. Tears streaked Kith’s face, but grief only heightened his rage and his deadly competence. His hand remained steady. Seeing him, Sithas shook his head, finally freeing himself from his immobility.

Sithas leaped to his feet and lunged at the monster, but his foot slipped on the icy rocks, and he fell to the rocks at the very lip of the precipice, slamming the wind from his lungs. The giant loomed over him.

But then he saw his brother, darting forward with incredible agility, raising his blade and thrusting at the giant’s belly. The keen steel struck home, and the creature howled, lurching backward. One of its huge boots slipped from the ice-encrusted ledge, and with a scream, the monster vanished into the gray storm below.

Now they saw that the three other giants approached them, one at a time along the narrow ledge. Each of the massive creatures carried a huge club. The first of these lumbered forward, and Kith-Kanan darted at him. Sithas, recovering his breath, climbed to his feet.

The giant stepped back, then swung a heavy blow at the dodging, weaving elf. Kith danced away, and then struck so quickly that Sithas didn’t see the movement. The tip of the sword cut a shallow opening in the giant’s knee before the elf skipped backward.

But that cut was telling. Sithas watched in astonishment as the giant’s leg collapsed beneath it. Thrashing in futility with its hamlike hands, the giant slid slowly over the edge, vanishing with a shriek that was quickly lost in the howling of the storm.

While the other two giants gaped in astonishment, Kith-Kanan remained a dervish of motion. He charged the massive creatures, sending them slipping and sliding backward along the ledge to avoid his keen blade, a blade that now glistened with blood.

“Kith, watch out!” Sithas found his voice and urged his brother on. Kith-Kanan appeared to stumble, and one of the giants crashed his heavy club downward. But again the elf moved too quickly, and the club splintered against bare stone. Kith rolled toward this one, rising into a crouch between its stumplike legs. He stabbed upward with all the strength in his powerful arms and shoulders, and then dove out of the way as the mortally wounded giant bellowed its pain.

Sithas raced toward his brother, recognizing Kith’s danger. He saw his twin slip as he tried to hug the cliff wall between the dying giant and its sole remaining comrade.

The latter swung his club with strength born of desperate terror. The loglike beam, nearly a foot thick at its head, crashed into Kith-Kanan’s chest and crushed his body against the rough stone wall behind him. Sithas saw his brother’s head snap back and blood explode from his skull. Slowly the elf sank to the ledge.

The wounded giant collapsed, and Sithas sent it toppling from the brink. The last of the brutes looked at the charging elf, the twin of the warrior he had just felled, and turned away. He bounded along the narrow ledge, descending across the face of the mountain, away from the niche that had sheltered the twins. In seconds, he disappeared into the distance.

Sithas paid no further attention to the monster. He knelt at Kith’s side, appalled at the blood that gushed from his brother’s mouth and nose, staining and matting his long blond hair.

“Kith, don’t die! Please!” He didn’t realize that he was sobbing. Gingerly he lifted his brother, surprised at Kith’s frailty—or perhaps at his own desperate strength. He carried him to their niche. Every cloak, every blanket and tunic that they carried, he used to cushion and wrap Kith-Kanan. His brother’s eyes were closed. A very faint motion, a rising and falling of his chest, gave the only sign that Kith lived.

Now night fell with abruptness, and the wind seemed to pick up. The snow stung Sithas’s face as sharply as did his own tears. He took Kith’s cold hand in his and sat beside his brother, not expecting either of them to be alive to greet the dawn.

12

Somehow Sithas must have dozed off, for he suddenly noticed that the wind, the snow—indeed, the entire storm—had vanished. The air, now still, had become icy cold, with an absolute clarity that only comes in the highest mountains during the deepest winter frosts.

The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the Speaker could see that all around him towered summits of unimaginable heights, plumed with great collars of snow. Gray and impassive, like stone-face giants with thick beards of frost, they regarded him from their aloof vantages.

The brothers’ ledge perched along one of the two steep sides of the valley. To the south, on Sithas’s left as he looked outward, the valley stretched and twisted toward the low, forested country from which they had come. To the right, it appeared to end in a cirque of steep-walled peaks. At one place, he saw a saddle that, while still high above him, seemed to offer a lone, treacherous path into the next section of the mountain range. Kith-Kanan lay motionless beside him. His skin had the paleness of death, and Sithas had to struggle against a resurgence of despair. He couldn’t allow himself to abandon hope; he was their only chance for survival. The quest for the griffons, the excitement and adventure of the journey he had known before, were all forgotten now, overwhelmed by the simple and basic wish to continue living.

The valley below him, he saw, was not as deep as they had guessed when the storm struck. Their shelf was a bare hundred feet above level ground. He leaned out to look over the edge, but all he saw was a vast drift of snow piled against the cliff. If the bodies of the giants or of gallant, fallen Arcuballis remained down there somewhere, he had no way to know it. No trees grew in this high valley, nor did he see any signs of animal life. In fact, the only objects that met his eyes, in any direction, were the bedrock of the mountain range and the snowy blanket that covered it.

With a groan, he slumped back against the cliff. They were doomed! He could see no possibility of any fate other than death in this remote valley. His throat ached, and tears welled in his eyes. What good was his court training in a situation like this?

“Kith!” he moaned. “Wake up! Please!”

When his brother made no response, Sithas collapsed facedown on his cloak. A part of him wished that he was as unconscious of their fate as Kith-Kanan. For the whole long day, he lay as if in a trance. He pulled their cloaks about them as night fell, certain that they would freeze to death. Kith-Kanan hadn’t moved—indeed, he barely breathed. Broken by his own anguish, the speaker finally tumbled into restless sleep.

It was not until the next morning that he regained some sense of purpose. What did they need? Warmth, but there was no firewood in sight. Water, but their skins of the liquid had frozen solid, and without fire, they couldn’t melt snow. Food, of which they had several strips of dried venison and some bread. But how could he feed Kith-Kanan while his brother remained unconscious?

Again the feeling of hopelessness seized him. If only Arcuballis were here! If only Kith could walk! If only the giants ... He snarled at himself in anger, realizing the idiocy of his ramblings.

Instead, he pushed himself to his feet, suddenly aware of a terrible stiffness in his own body. He studied the route along the narrow ledge that twisted its way from their niche to the valley floor. It looked negotiable—barely. But what could he do if he was lucky enough to reach the ground?

He noted, for the first time, a dark patch on the snow at the edge of the flat expanse. The sun had crested the eastern peaks by now, and Sithas squinted into the brightness.

What caused the change of coloration in the otherwise immaculate surface of snow? Then it dawned on him—water! Somewhere beneath that snow, water still flowed! It soaked into the powder above, turning it to slush and causing it to settle.

With a clear goal now, Sithas began to act. He took his own nearly empty waterskin, since Kith’s contained a block of ice that would be impossible to remove. As he turned away from the sun, however, he had another idea. He set Kith’s waterskin in the sunlight, on a flat stone. He found several other dark boulders and placed them beside the skin, taking care that they didn’t block the sunlight.

Then he started down the treacherous ledge. In many places, the narrow path was piled with snow, and he used his sword to sweep these drifts away, carefully probing so that he did not step off the cliff.

Finally he reached a spot where he was able to drop into the soft snow below. He pushed his way through the deep fluff, leaving a trench behind him as he worked his way toward the dark patch of slush. The going was difficult, and he had to rest many times, but finally he reached his goal.

Pausing again, he heard a faint trill of sound from beneath the snow, the gurgling of water as it babbled along a buried stream. He poked and pressed with his sword, and the surface of snow dropped away, revealing a flowage about six inches deep.

But that was enough. Sithas suspended his skin from the tip of his sword and let it soak in the stream. Though it only filled halfway, it was more water than they had tasted in two days, and he greedily drained the waterskin. Then he refilled it, as much as possible with his awkward rig, and turned back to the cliff. It took him more than an hour to carry it back up to Kith-Kanan, but the hour of toil seemed to warm and vitalize him.

His brother showed no change. Sithas dribbled some water into Kith’s mouth, just enough to wet his tongue and throat. He also washed away the blood that had caked on the elf’s frostbitten face. There was even some water left over, since Kith’s frozen waterskin had begun to melt from the heat of the sun.

“What now, Kith?” Sithas asked softly.

He heard a sound from somewhere and looked anxiously around. Again came the noise, which sounded like rocks falling down a rough slope. Then he saw a distinct movement across the valley. White shapes leaped and sprang along the sheer face, and for a moment, he thought they flew, so effectively did they defy gravity. More rocks broke free, crashing and sliding downward. He saw that these nimble creatures moved upon hooves. He had heard about the great mountain sheep that dwelled in the high places, but never had he observed them before. One, obviously the ram, paused and looked around, raising his proud head high. Sithas glimpsed his immense horns, swirling from the creature’s forehead.

For a moment, he wondered at the presence of these great beasts as he watched them press downward. They reached the foot of the cliff, and then the ram bounded through the powder, plowing a trail for the others.

“The water!” Sithas spoke aloud to himself. The sheep needed the water, too!

Indeed, the ram was nearing the shallow stream. Alert, he looked carefully around the valley, and Sithas, though he was out of sight, remained very still. Finally the proud creature lowered his head to drink. He stopped frequently to look around, but he drank for a long time before he finally stepped away from the small hole in the snow.

Then, one by one, the females came to the water. The ram stood protectively beside them, his proud head and keen eyes shifting back and forth. The group of mountain sheep spent perhaps an hour beside the water hole, each of the creatures slaking its thirst. Finally, with the ram still in the lead, they turned back along the tracks and reclimbed the mountain wall. Sithas watched them until they disappeared from view. The magnificent creatures moved with grace and skill up the steep face of rock. They looked right at home here—so very different from himself!

A soft groan beside him pulled his attention instantly back to Kith-Kanan.

“Kith! Say something!” He leaned over his twin’s face, rejoicing to see a flicker of vitality. Kith-Kanan’s eyes remained shut, but his mouth twisted into a grimace and he was gasping for breath.

“Here, take a drink. Don’t try to move.”

He poured a few drops of water onto Kith’s lips, and the wounded elf licked them away. Slowly, with obvious pain, Kith-Kanan opened his eyes, squinting at the bright daylight before him.

“What ... happened?” he asked weakly. Abruptly his eyes widened and his body tensed. “The giants! Where ... ?”

“It’s all right,” Sithas told him, giving him more water. “They’re dead—or gone, I’m not sure which.”

“Arcuballis?” Kith’s eyes widened and he struggled to sit up, before collapsing with a dull groan.

“He’s . . . gone, Kith. He attacked the first giant, got clubbed over the head, and fell.”

“He must be down below!”

Sithas shook his head. “I looked. There’s no sign of his body—or of any of the giants, either.”

Kith moaned, a sound of deep despair. Sithas had no words of comfort.

“The giants ... what kind of beasts do you think they were?” asked Sithas.

“Hill giants, I’m sure,” Kith-Kanan said after a moment’s pause. “Relatives of ogres, I guess, but bigger. I wouldn’t have expected to see them this far south.”

“Gods! If only I’d been faster!” Sithas said, ashamed.

“Don’t!” snapped the injured elf. “You warned me—gave me time to get my sword out, to get into the fight.” Kith-Kanan thought for a moment. “When—how long ago was it, anyway? How much time has passed since—”

“We’ve been up here for two nights,” said Sithas quietly. “The sun has nearly set for the third time.” He hesitated, then blurted his question. “How badly are you hurt?”

“Bad enough,” Kith said bluntly. “My skull feels like it’s been crushed, and my right leg seems as if it is on fire.”

“Your leg?” Sithas had been so worried about the blow to his brother’s head that he had paid little attention to the rest of his body.

“It’s broken, I think,” the elf grunted, gritting his teeth against the pain. Sithas’s mind went blank. A broken leg! It might as well be a sentence of death! How would they ever get out of here with his twin thus crippled? And winter had only begun! If they didn’t get out of the mountains quickly, they could be trapped here for months. Another snowfall would make travel by foot all but impossible.

“You’ll have to do something about it,” Kith said, though it took several moments before the remark registered in Sithas’s mind.

“About what?”

“My leg!” The injured elf looked at his twin sharply, then toughened his voice. Almost without thinking, he used the tones of command he had become accustomed to when he led the Wildrunners.

“Tell me if the skin is broken, if there’s any discoloration—any infection.”

“Where? Which leg?” Sithas struggled to focus his thoughts. He had never been so disoriented before in his life.

“The right one, below the knee.”

Gingerly, almost trembling, Sithas pulled the blankets and cloaks away from his brother’s feet and legs. What he saw was terrifying.

The ugly red swelling had almost doubled the size of the limb from the knee to the ankle, and Kith’s leg was bent outward at an awkward angle. For a moment, he cursed himself, as if the injury was his own fault. Why hadn’t he thought to examine his brother two days earlier, when Kith had first been injured? Had he twisted the wound more when he moved the fallen elf into the shelter of the rocky niche?

“The—the skin isn’t broken,” he explained, trying to keep his voice calm. “But it’s red. By the gods, Kith, it’s blood red!”

Kith-Kanan grimaced at the news. “You’ll have to straighten it. If you don’t, I’ll be crippled for life.”

The Speaker of the Stars looked at his twin brother, the sense of helplessness growing inside him. But he saw the pain in Kith-Kanan’s eyes, and he knew he had no choice but to try.

“It’s going to hurt,” he warned, and Kith nodded silently, gritting his teeth. Cautiously he touched the swollen limb, and then instantly recoiled at Kith’s sharp gasp of pain. “Don’t stop,” hissed the wounded elf. “Do it—now!” Gritting his teeth, Sithas grasped the swollen flesh. His fingers probed the wound, and he felt the break in the bone. Kith-Kanan cried aloud, gasping and choking in his pain as Sithas pulled on the limb.

Kith shrieked again and then, mercifully, collapsed into unconsciousness. Desperately Sithas tugged, forcing his hands and arms to do these things that he knew must be causing Kith-Kanan unspeakable pain.

Finally he felt the bones slip into place.

“By Quenesti Pah, I’m sorry, Kith,” Sithas whispered, looking at his brother’s terribly pale face.

Quenesti Pah ... goddess of healing. The invocation of that benign goddess brought his mind around to the small vial his mother had given them before they departed. From Miritelisina, she had said, high priestess of Quenesti Pah. Frantically Sithas dug through the saddlebag, finally discovering the little ceramic jar, plugged with a stout cork.

He popped the cork from the bottle’s mouth and immediately recoiled at the pungent scent. Smearing some of the salve on his fingers, he drew off the cloak and spread the stuff on Kith’s leg, above and below the wound. That done, he covered his brother with the blankets and leaned back against the stone wall to wait.

Kith-Kanan remained unconscious throughout the impossibly long afternoon as the sun sank through the pale blue sky and finally disappeared behind the western ridge. Still, no sign of movement came from the wounded elf. If anything, he seemed even weaker.

Gently Sithas fed his brother drops of water. He wrapped him in all of their blankets and lay down beside him.

He fell asleep that way, and though he awoke many times throughout the brutally cold night, he stayed at Kith-Kanan’s side until dawn began to brighten their valley.

Kith-Kanan showed no sign of reviving consciousness. Sithas looked at his brother’s leg and was appalled to see a streak of red running upward, past his knee and into his thigh. What should he do? He had never seen an injury like this before. Unlike Kith-Kanan, he hadn’t been confronted by the horrors of battle or by the necessity of self-sufficiency in the wilds. Quickly the elf took the rest of the cleric’s salve and smeared it onto the wound. He knew enough about blood poisoning to realize that if the venomous infection could not be arrested, his brother was doomed. With no way left to treat Kith-Kanan, however, all Sithas could do was pray.

Once again the water in their skins was frozen, and so he made the arduous trek down the narrow pathway from the ledge to the valley floor. The trough in the snow made by his passage on the previous day remained, for the wind had remained blessedly light. Thus he made his way to his snow rimmed water hole with less difficulty than the day before.

But here he encountered a challenge: The bitter cold of the night had frozen even the rapidly flowing water beneath the snow. He chopped and chipped with his sword, finally exposing a small trickle, less than two inches deep. Only by stretching himself full-length in the snow, and immersing his hand into the frigid water could he collect enough to carry back to their high campsite. As he rose from the water hole, he saw the trail of the sheep across from him and remembered the magnificent creatures. Suddenly he was seized by an inspiration. He thought of his bow and arrows, still up on the ledge with Kith-Kanan. How could he conceal himself in order to get close enough to shoot?

Unlike Kith-Kanan, he was not an expert archer. A close target would be essential.

He gave up his ponderings in the effort of making his way back to the ledge. Here he found no change in Kith-Kanan, and all he could do was force his brother once again to take a few drops of water between his lips. Afterward, he strung his bow, checking the smooth surface of the weapon for flaws, the string for knots or frays. As he did so, he heard a clattering of hooves even as he stewed in his frustration. Once again led by the proud ram, the mountain sheep descended from their slope across the valley and made their way to the faint trickle of water. They took turns drinking and watching, with the ram remaining alert.

Once, when the creature’s eyes passed across the cliff where Sithas and Kith lay motionless, the animal stiffened. Sithas wondered if he had been discovered and wrestled with a compulsion to quickly nock an arrow and let it fly in the desperate hope of hitting something.

But he forced himself to remain still, and finally the ram relaxed its guard. Sithas sighed and clenched his teeth in frustration as he watched the creatures turn and plow through the snow back toward their mountain fastness. The powdery drifts came to the shoulders of the large ram, and the sheep floundered and struggled until they reached the secure footing of the rocky slope.

The rest of the day passed in frigid monotony. That night was the coldest yet, and Sithas’s own shivering kept him awake. He would have been grateful for even such an uncomfortable sign of life from his brother, but Kith-Kanan remained still and lifeless.

The fourth morning on the ridge, Sithas could barely bring himself to emerge from beneath the cloaks and blankets. The sun rose over the eastern ridge, and still he lay motionless.

Then urgency returned, and he sat up in panic. He sensed instinctively that today was his last chance. If he could not feed himself and his brother, they would not experience another dawn.

He grabbed his bow and arrows, strapped his sword to his back, and allowed himself the luxury of one woolen cloak from the pile that sheltered Kith-Kanan. He made his way down the cliff with almost reckless haste. Only after he nearly slipped fifty feet above the valley floor did he calm himself, forcing his feet to move with more precision.

He pushed toward the water hole, feeling sensation return to his limbs and anticipation and tension fill his heart. Finally he reached the place opposite where the sheep came to drink. He didn’t allow himself to ponder a distinct possibility: What if the sheep didn’t return here today? If they didn’t, he and his brother would die. It was a simple as that.

Urgently he swept a shallow excavation in the snow, fearful that the sheep might already be on their way. He swung his eyes to the southern ridge, to the slope the sheep had descended on each of the two previous days, but he saw no sign of movement.

In minutes, Sithas cleared the space he desired. A quick check showed no sign of the sheep. Trembling with tension, he freed his bow and arrows and laid them before him in the snow. Next he knelt, forcing his feet into the powdery fluff behind him. He took the cloak he had brought and lay it before him, before stretching, belly down, on top.

The last thing was the hardest to do. He pulled snow from each side into the excavation, burying his thighs, buttocks, and torso. Only his shoulders, arms, and head remained exposed.

Feeling the chill settle into his bones as he pressed deeper into the snowy cushion, he twisted to the side and pulled still more of the winter powder onto him. His bow, with several arrows ready, he covered with a faint dusting of snow directly in front of him.

Finally he buried his head, leaving an opening no more than two inches in diameter before his face. From this tiny slot, he could see the water hole and he could get enough air to breathe. At last his trap was ready. Now he had only to wait.

And wait. And wait some more. The sun passed the zenith, the hour when the sheep had come to water on each of the previous days, with no sign of the creatures. Cold numbness crept into Sithas’s bones. His fingers and toes burned from frostbite, which was bad enough, but gradually he became aware that he was losing feeling in them altogether. Frantically he wiggled and stretched as much as he could within the limitations of his confinement. Where were the accursed sheep?

An hour of the afternoon passed, and another began. He could no longer keep any sensation in his fingers. Another few hours, he knew, and he would freeze to death.

But then he became aware of strange sensations deep within his snowy cocoon. Slowly, inexplicably, he began to grow warm. The burning returned to his fingertips. The snow around his body formed a cavity, slightly larger than Sithas himself, and he noticed that this snow was wet. It packed tightly, giving him room to move. He noticed wetness in his hair, on his back. He was actually warm! The cavity had trapped his body heat, melting the snow and warming him with the trapped energy. The narrow slot had solidified before him, and it was with a sense of exhilaration that he realized he could wait here safely for some time.

But the arrival of twilight confirmed his worst fears—the sheep had not come to drink that day. Bitter with the sense of his failure, he tried to ignore the gnawing in his belly as he gathered more water and made the return to the ledge, arriving just as full darkness settled around them.

Had the sheep seen his trap? Had the flock moved on to some distant valley, following the course of some winter migration? He could not know. All he could do was try the same plan tomorrow and hope he lived long enough for the effort.

Sithas had to lean close to Kith-Kanan just to hear his brother’s breathing.

“Please, Kith, don’t die!” he whispered. Those words were the only ones he spoke before he fell asleep.

His hunger was painful when he awoke. Once again the day was clear and still, but how long could this last? Grimly he repeated his process of the previous day, making his way to the stream bank, settling himself in with his bow and arrows, and trying to conceal any sign of his presence. If the sheep didn’t come today, he knew that he would be too weak to try on the morrow. Exhausted, despairing, and starving, he passed from consciousness into an exhausted sleep.

Perhaps the snow insulated him from sound, or maybe his sleep was deeper than he thought. In any event, he heard nothing as his quarry approached. It wasn’t until the sheep had reached the water hole that he woke suddenly. They had come! They weren’t twenty feet away!

Not daring to breathe, Sithas studied the ram. The creature was even more magnificent up close. The swirled horns were more than a foot in diameter. The ram’s eyes swept around them, but Sithas realized with relief that the animal did not notice his enemy up close.

The ram, as usual, drank his fill and then stepped aside. One by one the ewes approached the small water hole, dipping their muzzles to slurp up the icy liquid. Sithas waited until most of the sheep had drank. As he had observed earlier, the smallest were the last to drink, and it was one of these that would prove his target.

Finally a plump ewe moved tentatively among her larger sisters. Sithas tensed himself, keeping his hands under the snow as he slowly reached forward for his bow.

Suddenly the ewe raised her head, staring straight at him. Others of the flock skittered to the sides. The elf felt two dozen eyes fixed upon his hiding place. Another second, he suspected, and the sheep would turn in flight. He couldn’t give them that opportunity.

With all of the speed, all of the agility at his command, he grasped his bow and arrows and lurched forward from his hiding place, his eyes fixed on the terrified ewe. Vaguely he sensed the sheep spinning, leaping, turning to flee. They struggled through the deep snow, away from this maniacal apparition who rose apparently from the very earth itself.

He saw the ram plunge forward, nudging the ewe that stood stock-still beside the water hole. With a panicked squeal, she turned and tried to spring away. As she turned, for one split second, she presented her soft flank to the elven archer. Even as he struggled to his feet, Sithas had nocked his arrow. He pulled back the string as his target became a blur before him. Reflexively he let the missile fly. He prayed to all the gods, desperate for a hit. But the gods were not impressed.

The arrow darted past the ewe’s rump, barely grazing her skin, just enough to spur the frightened creature into a maddened flight that took her bounding out of range even as Sithas fumbled with another arrow. He raised the weapon in time to see the ram kick his heels as that great beast, too, sprinted away. The herd of mountain sheep bounded through the deep snow, springing and leaping in many different directions. Sithas launched another arrow and almost sobbed aloud in frustration as the missile flew over the head of a ewe. Mechanically he nocked another arrow, but even as he did so, he knew that the sheep had escaped.

For a moment, a sensation of catastrophe swept over him. He staggered, weak on his feet, and would have slumped to the ground if something hadn’t caught his attention.

A small sheep, a yearling, struggled to break free from a huge drift. The animal was scarcely thirty feet away, bleating pathetically. He knew then he had one more chance—perhaps the last chance—for survival. He held his aim steady, sighting down the arrow at the sheep’s heaving flank. The animal gasped for breath, and Sithas released the missile.

The steel-tipped shaft shot true, its barbed head striking the sheep behind its foreleg, driving through the heart and lungs in a powerful, fatal strike. Bleating one final time, a hopeless call to the disappearing herd, the young sheep collapsed. Pink blood spurted from its mouth and nostrils, foaming into the snow. Sithas reached the animal’s side. Some instinct caused him to draw his sword, and he slashed the razor-sharp edge across the sheep’s throat. With a gurgle of air, the animal perished.

For a moment, Sithas raised his eyes to the ledge across the valley. The ewes scampered upward, while the ram lingered behind, staring back at the elf who had claimed one of his flock. Sithas felt a momentary sense of gratitude to the creature. His heart filled with admiration as he saw it bound higher and higher up the sheer slope.

Finally he reached down and gutted the carcass of his kill. The climb back to Kith-Kanan would be a tough one, he knew, but suddenly his body thrummed with excitement and energy.

Behind him, atop the ridge, the ram cast one last glance downward and then disappeared.

13

Sithas cut a slice of meat from his kill on the valley floor, tearing bites from the raw meat, uncaring of the blood that dribbled across his chin. Smacking greedily, he wolfed down the morsel before he carried the rest of the carcass up the steep trail to their ledge. He found Kith-Kanan as still as when he had left him, but now, at least, they had food—they had hope!

The lack of fire created a drawback, but it didn’t prevent Sithas from devouring a large chunk of meat as soon as he got it back to the ledge. The blood, while it was still warm, he dribbled into his unconscious brother’s mouth, hoping that the warmth and nourishment might have a beneficial effect, however minimal.

Finally sated, Sithas settled back to rest. For the first time in days, he felt something other than bleak despair. He had stalked his game and slain it—something he had never done before, not without beaters and weapon-bearers and guides. Only his brother’s condition cast a pall over the situation. For two more days, Kith’s condition showed no signs of change. Gray clouds rolled in, and a dusting of snow fell around them. Sithas trickled more of the ewe’s blood into Kith’s mouth, hiked down for water several times a day, and offered prayers to Quenesti Pah.

Then, toward sunset of their seventh day on the ledge, Kith groaned and moved. His eyes fluttered open and he looked around in confusion.

“Kith! Wake up!” Sithas leaned over his twin, and slowly Kith-Kanan’s eyes met his own. At first they looked dull and lifeless, but even as Sithas watched they grew brighter, more alert.

“What—how did you—?”

Sithas felt weak with relief and helped his brother to sit up. “It’s OK, Kith. You’ll be all right!” He forced more confidence into his tone than he actually felt.

Kith’s eyes fell upon the carcass, which Sithas had perched near the precipice. “What’s that?”

“Mountain sheep!” Sithas grinned proudly. “I killed it a few days ago. Here, have some!”

“Raw?” Kith-Kanan raised his eyebrows but quickly saw that there was no alternative. He took a tender loin portion and tore off a piece of meat. It was no delicacy, but it was sustenance. As he chewed, he saw Sithas watching him like a master chef savoring the reaction to a new recipe.

“It’s good,” Kith-Kanan said, swallowing and tearing off another mouthful. Excitedly Sithas told him of stalking his prey—about his two wasted arrows and the lucky break that helped him make his kill.

Kith chuckled with a heartiness that belied his wounds and their predicament.

“Your leg,” Sithas said concernedly. “How does it feel today?” Kith groaned and shook his head. “Need a cleric to work on it. I doubt it’ll heal enough to carry me.”

Sithas sat back, suddenly too tired to go on. Alone, he might be able to walk out of these mountains, but he didn’t see any way that Kith-Kanan could even get down from this exposed, perilous ledge.

For a while, the brothers sat in silence, watching the sun set. The sky domed over them, pale blue to the east and overhead but fading to a rose hue that blended into a rich lavender along the western ridge. One by one stars winked into sight. Finally darkness crept across the sky, expanding from the east to overhead, then pursuing the last lingering strips of brightness into the west.

“Any sign of Arcuballis?” asked Kith hopefully. His brother shook his head sadly.

“What do we do now?” Sithas asked.

To his dismay, his brother shook his head in puzzlement. “I don’t know. I don’t think I can get down from here, and we can’t finish our quest on this ledge.”

“Quest?” Sithas had almost forgotten about the mission that had brought them to these mountains. “You’re not suggesting we still seek out the griffons, are you?”

Kith smiled, albeit wanly. “No, I don’t think we can do much searching. You, however, might have a chance.”

Now Sithas gaped at his twin. “And leave you here alone? Don’t even think about it!”

The wounded elf gestured to stem Sithas’s outburst. “We have to think about it.”

“You won’t have a chance up here! I won’t abandon you!” Kith-Kanan sighed. “Our chances aren’t that great any way you look at it. Getting out of these mountains on foot is out of the question until spring. And the months of deep winter are still before us. We can’t just sit here, waiting for my leg to heal.”

“But what kind of progress can I make on foot?” Sithas gestured to the valley walls surrounding them.

Kith-Kanan pointed to the northwest, toward the pass that had been their goal before the storm had driven them to this ledge. The gap between the two towering summits was protected by a steep slope, strewn with large boulders and patches of scree. Strangely, snow had not collected there.

“You could investigate the next valley,” the elf suggested. “Remember, we’ve explored much of the range already.”

“That’s precious little comfort,” Sithas replied. “We flew over the mountains before. I’m not even sure I could climb that pass, let alone explore beyond it.” Kith-Kanan studied the steep slope with a practiced eye. “Sure you could. Go up on the big rocks off to the side there. Stay away from those smooth patches. They look like easy going, but it’s sure to be loose scree. You’d probably slip back farther than you climbed with each step. But if you stay on the good footing, you could make it.”

The wounded elf turned his eyes upon his skeptical brother and continued.

“Even if you don’t find the griffons, perhaps you’ll locate a cave, or better yet some herdsman’s hut. Whatever lies over that ridge, it can’t be any more barren than this place.”

The Speaker of the Stars squatted back on his haunches, shaking his head in frustration. He had looked at the pass himself over the last few days and privately had decided that he would probably be able to climb it. But he had never considered the prospect of going without his brother. Finally he made a decision. “I’ll go—but just to have a look. If I don’t see anything, I’m coming straight back here.”

“Agreed.” Kith-Kanan nodded. “Now maybe you can hand me another strip of lamb—only this time, I’d like it cooked a little more on the rare side. That last piece was too well done for my taste.”

Laughing, Sithas used his dagger to carve another strip of raw mutton. He had found that by slicing it very thin he could make the meat more palatable—at least, more easily chewed. And though it was still cold, it tasted very, very good.

Kith-Kanan sat up, leaning against the back wall of the ledge, and watched Sithas gather his equipment. It was nearly dawn.

“Take some of my arrows,” he offered, but Sithas shook his head.

“I’ll leave them with you, just in case.”

“In case of what? In case that ram comes looking for revenge?” Suddenly uncomfortable, Sithas looked away. They both knew that if the hill giants returned, Kith-Kanan would be helpless to do more than shoot a few arrows before he was overcome.

“Kith . . .” He wanted to tell his brother that he wouldn’t leave him, that he would stay at his side until his wounds had healed.

“No!” The injured elf raised a hand, anticipating his brother’s objections. “We both understand—we know that this is the only thing to do.”

“I-I suppose you’re right.”

“You know I’m right!” Kith’s voice was almost harsh.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Sithas—be careful.”

The Speaker of the Stars nodded dumbly. It made him feel like a traitor to leave his brother like this.

“Good luck, Brother.” Kith’s voice came to Sithas softly, and he turned back. They clasped hands, and then Sithas leaned forward to embrace his brother.

“Don’t run off on me,” he told Kith, with a wry smile. An hour later, he was past the water hole, where he had stopped to refill his skin. Now the pass loomed before him like an icy palisade—the castle wall of some unimaginably monstrous giant. Carefully, still some distance away from the ascent, he selected a route up the slope. He stopped to rest several times before reaching the base, but before noon, he began the rugged climb. All the time he remained conscious of Kith-Kanan’s eyes on his back. He looked behind him occasionally, until his brother became a faint speck on the dark mountain wall. Before he started up the pass, he waved and saw a tiny flicker of motion from the ledge as Kith waved back.

The pass, up close, soared upward and away from him like a steep castle wall, steeper than it had looked from the safe distance of their campsite. The base was a massive, sloping pile of talus—great boulders that, over many centuries, had been pried loose by frost or water to tumble and crash down the mountainside. Now they teetered precariously on top of each other, and powdery snow filled the gaps between them.

Sithas strung his bow across his back, next to his sword. His cloak he removed and tied around his waist, hoping to maintain full freedom of movement.

He picked his way up the talus slope, stepping from rock to rock only after testing each foothold for security. Once several rocks tumbled away beneath him, and he sprang aside just in time. Always he gained altitude, pulling himself up the sheer face with his leather-gloved hands. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and for a moment, he wondered how, in the midst of this snow-swept landscape, could he get so Abyss-cursed hot? Then a swirl of icy wind struck him, penetrating his damp tunic and leggings and bringing an instant shiver to his bones.

Soon he reached the top. Here he encountered long stretches of loose scree, small stones that seemed to slip and slide beneath each footfall, carrying him backward four feet for every five of progress.

Kith-Kanan, of course, had been right. He was always right! His brother knew his way around in country like this, knew how to survive and even how to move and explore, to hunt and find shelter.

Why couldn’t it have been Sithas to suffer the crippling injury? A healthy Kith-Kanan would have been able to care for both of them, Sithas knew. Meanwhile, he wrestled with overwhelming despair and hopelessness, and he was not yet out of sight of their base camp!

Shaking off his self-pity, Sithas worked his way sideways, toward steeper, but more solid, shoulders of bedrock. Once his feet slipped away, and he tumbled twenty or thirty feet down the slope, only stopping himself by digging his hands and feet into the loose surface. Cursing, he checked his weapons, relieved to find them intact. Finally he reached a solid rock, with a small shelf shaped much like a chair, where he collapsed in exhaustion. A quick look upward showed that he had made it perhaps a quarter of the way up the slope. At this rate, he would be stranded here at nightfall, a prospect that terrified him more than he wanted to contemplate. Resolutely he started upward again, this time climbing along rough outcrops of rock. After only a few moments, he realized that this was by far the easiest climbing yet, and his spirits rose rapidly.

Stepping upward in long strides, he relished a new sense of accomplishment. The valley floor fell away below him; the heavens—and more mountains—beckoned from above. He no longer felt the need for rest. Instead, the climb seemed to energize him.

By midafternoon, he had neared the top of the pass, and here the route narrowed challengingly. Two huge boulders teetered on the slope, with but a narrow crack of daylight between them. One, or both, could very easily roll free, carrying him back down the mountainside if they didn’t crush him between them first.

No other route presented itself. To either side of the massive rocks, sheer cliffs soared upward to the pinnacles of the two mountains. The only way through the pass lay between those two precarious boulders. He didn’t hesitate. He approached the rocks and saw that the gap was wide enough to allow him to pass—just barely. He entered the aperture, climbing upward across loose rock.

Suddenly the ground beneath his feet slipped away, and his heart lurched. He felt one of the huge boulders shift with a menacing rumble. The rock walls to either side of him pressed closer, narrowing by an inch or so. Then the rock seemed to settle into place, and he felt no more movement.

With a quick burst of speed, he darted upward, scrambling out of the narrow passage before the rocks could budge again. His momentum carried him farther up the last hundred yards of so of the ascent until finally he stood upon the summit of the pass.

Trees! He saw patches of green among the snowfields, far, far below. Trees, which meant wood, which meant fire! The slope before him, while steep and long, was nowhere near as grueling as the one he had just climbed. He glanced over his left shoulder at the sun, estimating two remaining hours of daylight. It would have to be enough. He would have a fire tonight, he vowed to himself.

He plunged recklessly downward, sometimes riding a small, tumbling pillow of snow, at other times leaping through great drifts to soft landings ten or fifteen feet below. Exhausted, sweat-soaked, and bone-weary, he finally reached a clump of gnarled cedars far down in the basin. Now, at last, his spirits soared. He used the last illumination of daylight to gather all of the dead limbs he could find. He piled the firewood before an unusually thick trio of evergreens, where he had decided to make his camp.

A mere touch of his steel dagger to the flint he carried in his belt-pouch brought a satisfactory spark. The dry wood kindled instantly, and within minutes, he relished the comfort of a crackling blaze.

Was this the curse of the gods, thought Kith-Kanan, the punishment for his betrayal of his brother’s marriage? He leaned against the cliff wall and shut his eyes, wincing not in pain but in guilt.

Why couldn’t he have simply died? That would have made things so much easier. Sithas would have been free to perform the quest instead of worrying about him like a nervous nursemaid worries about a feverish babe. In truth, Kith-Kanan felt more helpless than a crawling infant, for he didn’t have even that much mobility.

He had watched Sithas make his way up the slope until his twin had disappeared from sight. His brother had moved with grace and power, surprising Kith with the speed of his ascent.

But as long as Kith-Kanan lay here upon this ledge, he knew Sithas would be tied to this location by their bond of brotherhood. He would explore their immediate surroundings, perhaps, but would never bring himself to travel far beyond.

All because I’m so damned stupid! Kith railed at himself. They had made inadequate preparations for attack! They had both dozed off. Only the sacrifice of brave Arcuballis had given the first warning of the hill giants. Now his griffon was gone, no doubt dead, and he himself was impossibly crippled. Sithas searched alone and on foot. It seemed inevitable to Kith-Kanan that their quest would be a failure.

Sithas dried his clothes and boots, every stitch of which had been soaked by sweat or melting snow, by the crackling fire. It brightened his night, driving back the high mountain darkness that had previously stretched to infinity on all sides, and it warmed his spirits in a way that he wouldn’t have thought possible a few hours earlier.

The fire spoke to him with a soothing voice, and it danced for him in sultry allure. It was like a companion, one who could listen to his thoughts and give him pleasure. And finally the fire allowed him to cook a strip of his frozen meat.

That morsel, seared for a few minutes on a forked stick that Sithas plunged into the flames, emerged from the fire covered with ash, blackened and charred on the outside and virtually raw in the center. It was unseasoned, tough, imperfectly preserved ... and it was unquestionably the most splendid meal that the elf had ever eaten in his life.

The three pines served as a backdrop to his campsite. Sithas scraped away the small amount of snow here and cleared for himself a soft bed of pine needles. He stoked the fire until he had to back away from the blazing heat. That night he slept for a few hours, and then awoke to fuel his fire. A mountainous pile of coals radiated heat, and the ground provided a soft and comfortable cushion until the coming of dawn.

Sithas arose slowly, reluctant to break the reverie of warmth and comfort. He cooked another piece of meat, more patiently this time, for breakfast. By the time he finished, sunlight was bathing the bowl-shaped depression around him in its brilliant light. He had made a decision.

He would bring Kith-Kanan to this valley. He didn’t know how yet, but he was convinced that this was the best way to insure his brother’s recovery. His course plotted, he gathered up his few possessions and lashed them to his body. Next he took several minutes to gather a stack of firewood-light, sundried logs that would burn steadily. He trimmed the twigs off of these so that he could bundle them tightly together. This bundle he then lashed to his back. Finally he turned his face toward the pass. The slope before him still lay in shadow, as it would for most of the day. Retracing his tracks of the previous afternoon, he forced his way through the deep snow, back toward the summit of the pass.

It took him all morning, but finally he reached the summit. He paused to rest—the climb had been extremely wearying—and sought out the speck of color that he knew would mark Kith-Kanan’s presence on the ledge in the distance. He had to squint, for the sunlight reflecting from the snow-filled bowl brutally assaulted his eyes.

He couldn’t see the ledge, though he recognized the water hole where he had collected their drinking water. What was that? He saw movement near the stream, and for a moment, he wondered if the sheep had returned. His eyes adjusted to the brightness, and he understood that these could not be sheep. Large humanoid shapes lumbered through the snow. Shaggy fur seemed to cover them in patches, but the “fur” proved to be cloaks cast over broad shoulders.

They moved in single file, some ten or twelve of them, as they crossed the valley floor, taking no notice of the depth of the snow.

With a sickening realization, Sithas understood what was happening: The hill giants had returned, and they were making their way toward Kith-Kanan.

14

Sithas studied the hill giant that led the column of the brutes, perhaps two miles away and a thousand feet below him. The monster gestured to its fellows, pointing upward. Not toward Sithas, the elf realized, but toward . . . the ledge! His brother’s camp! The dozen giants trudged through the snow of the valley floor, making their way in that direction.

Sithas tried to spot his twin, but the distance was too great. Wait ... there!

Kith-Kanan, he realized, must also have seen the giants, for the wounded elf had pulled a dark cloak over himself and was now pressed against the far wall of the ledge. His camouflage seemed effective and would make him virtually invisible from below as the giants headed toward the cliff. The column of giants waded the stream. The one in the lead gestured again, this time indicating the path in the snow that Sithas had made in his travels back and forth for water. Another giant indicated a different track, the one made by Sithas on the previous day.

That slight gesture gave him a desperate idea. He acted quickly, casting around until his eyes fell upon a medium-sized boulder resting in the summit of the pass and cracked loose from the bedrock below. Seizing it in both of his hands, grunting from the exertion, he lifted the stone over his head. The last of the giants had crossed the stream, and now the file of huge, grotesque creatures was nearing the cliff wall.

Sithas pitched the boulder as hard and as far as he could. The rock plummeted down the steep, rock-strewn pass. Then it hit, crashing into another boulder with a sharp report before bouncing and smashing again and again down the mountain pass, Breathlessly Sithas watched the giants. They had to hear the commotion!

Indeed they did. Suddenly the twelve monsters whirled around in surprise. Sithas kicked another rock, and that one too clattered down the pass, rolling between the two huge boulders that he had slipped between on the previous day’s climb.

Now the beasts halted, staring upward. Breathlessly Sithas waited. It worked! He saw the first giant gesturing wildly, pointing toward the summit of the pass, toward Sithas! Kith-Kanan was left behind as the entire band of the great brutes turned and broke into a lumbering trot, pursuing the elf they probably thought they had “discovered” trying to sneak through the pass. Sithas watched them advance toward him. They plunged through the deep snow in giant strides, each stride taking them farther from Kith-Kanan. Sithas wondered if his brother was watching, if he had seen the clever diversion created by his twin. He lay still, peering around a boulder as the monsters approached the bottom of the pass.

Now what could he do? The giants had almost reached the base of the pass. He looked behind him. Everywhere the valley was blanketed by deep snow. Wherever he went, he would leave a trail so obvious that even the thick-witted hill giants would have no difficulty in following him.

His attention returned to the immediate problem. He saw, with sharp panic, that the giants had disappeared from view. Moments later he understood. They were so close to the pass now that the steepness of the slope blocked his vision.

His head seemed fogged by fear, his body tensed with the anticipation of combat. The thought almost brought a smile to his lips. The prospect of facing a dozen giants with his puny sword struck him as ludicrous indeed! Yet by the same token, that prospect seemed inevitable, so that his amusement quickly gave way to stark terror.

Carefully he crept forward and looked down the pass. All he saw were the two monstrous boulders that had bracketed his ascent of the pass on the day before. As yet there was no sign of the giants.

Should he confront them at those rocks? No more than one at a time could pass through the narrow aperture. Still, with a brutally honest assessment of his own fighting prowess, he knew that one of them was all it would take to squash his skull like an eggshell. Also, he remembered the precarious balance of those boulders. Indeed, one of them had shifted several inches merely from the weight of his touch.

That recollection gave him an idea. The elf checked his longsword, which was lashed securely to his back. Quickly he unlashed the bundle of firewood and dropped the sticks unceremoniously to the ground. He hefted the longest one, which was about as long as his leg but no thicker than his arm—still, it would have to do.

Without pausing to consider, Sithas, in a running crouch, crossed through the saddle and started down the slope toward the two rocks. He could see several of the giants through the crack now, and realized with alarm that they were nearly halfway up the steep-sided pass.

In a slide of tumbling scree, Sithas crashed into one of the boulders and felt it lurch beneath his weight. But then it settled back into its place, and he couldn’t force it to move farther. Turning to the second rock, he pushed and heaved at it and was rewarded by a fractional shifting of its massive bulk. However, it, too, seemed to be nestled in a comfortable spot and would not move any farther.

Desperately Sithas slid downward through the crack between the boulders. The elf reached beneath the base of the one he judged to be the loosest and began to dig and chop with his piece of firewood.

He pried a large stone loose, and it skittered down the slope. Immediately he began prying at a different rock. A bellow of surprise reached him from below, and he knew that he didn’t have much time. He didn’t look behind him. Instead, he scrambled back upward between the rocks. He pitched his body against the rock he had worked so hard to loosen and was rewarded by a slight teetering. Then a shower of gravel sprayed from beneath it to tumble into the faces of the approaching giants.

The leader of the monsters bellowed again. The creature was a bare fifty yards below Sithas now and bounding upward with astonishing speed. After one last, futile push at the rock, Sithas knew that he would have to abandon that plan. His time had run out. Drawing his sword, he dropped through the narrow crack again, prepared to meet the first giant at the mouth of the opening. Grimly he resolved to draw as much blood as possible before he perished.

The beast came toward him, its face split by a garish caricature of a grin. Sithas saw the tiny bloodshot eyes and the stubs of teeth jutting like tusks from its gums. Its huge lips flapped with excitement as the brute prepared to squash the life from this impudent elf.

The thing held one of those monstrous clubs such as the giants had employed in their earlier attack. Now that weapon lashed outward, but Sithas ducked back into the niche, feeling the rock tremble next to him from the force of the blow. He darted outward and stabbed quickly with his steel blade. A sense of cruel delight flared within him as the weapon scored a bloody gash on the giant’s forehead.

With a cry of animal rage, the giant lunged upward, dropping its club and reaching with massive paws toward Sithas’s legs. The elf skipped backward, scrambling up and away. As he did, he stabbed downward, driving his blade clear through the monster’s hand.

Howling in pain, the giant twisted away, shrinking back down the slope to clutch its bleeding extremity. Sithas had no time to reconnoiter, however. The next monster had already caught up. This one had apparently learned from his comrade’s errors, for it thrust its heavy club into the crack and stayed out of reach.

Sithas twisted away with a curse as the crude weapon nearly crushed his left wrist. The giant reached in, and Sithas scrambled upward. But then a loose patch of scree caused him to lose his footing, and he slipped downward toward that leering, hate-filled face.

He saw the monstrous lips spread in a leering grin, darkened stubs of ivory teeth ready to tear at his flesh. Sithas kicked out, and his boot cracked into the beast’s huge, wart-covered nose.

Desperately Sithas kicked again, pushing himself upward and catching one boot on an outcrop of the rock wall beside him. The giant reached up to catch him, but the elf remained just out of his reach, barely a foot or so above him. With determination, the broad-shouldered brute pressed into the narrow crack between the boulders. The force of his body pushed the stones outward slightly.

Yet that seemed to be enough. The monster’s hand clutched Sithas’s foot. Even as the elf kicked and flailed frantically, one of the rocks teetered precariously on the brink of a fall.

The Speaker of the Stars braced his back against one of the rocks and pressed both of his boots against the other. Calling for the blessings of every god he could think of, he pushed outward, straining and gasping to move the monstrous weight.

Slowly, almost gradually, the huge boulder toppled forward. The giant stared upward, his beady eyes nearly bulging out of his skull as the huge load slid forward, then began to roll downward. Tons of rock crushed the life from the brute as the boulder broke free.

His foothold suddenly gone, Sithas slid downward in the wake of the crashing stone. He felt a sickening crunch in the earth and looked up to see the other rock also break free to crash toward the valley floor a thousand feet below. Desperately the elf sprang to one side, feeling the ground shake as the huge stone tumbled past him.

The sounds of the rockslide grew and echoed, seeming to shake the bedrock of the world. Sithas pressed his face into the ground, trying to cling with his hands as the entire wall of the pass fell away. The thunderous volume overwhelmed him, and he expected to be swept away at any second. But now the gods looked kindly on the Speaker of the Stars, and though the cliff wall a scant twelve inches from his hand plunged below, the rock to which Sithas clung remained fixed, miraculously, to the ridge.

The world crashed and surged around Sithas for what seemed like hours, though in reality it was no more than a few minutes. When he finally opened his eyes, blinking away the dust and grime, he looked down at a scene of complete devastation.

A dust cloud had settled across the formerly pristine snowfields, casting the entire valley in a dirty gray hue. The surface of the cliff gaped like a fresh scar where scree and talus, even great chunks of bedrock, had torn away. He could see none of the twelve giants, but it seemed inconceivable that any of them could have lived through that massive, crushing avalanche.

The pass was now even steeper than it had been when he climbed it, but the entire surface was clear of snow, and the rock that remained was solid mountain. Thus he had little difficulty in picking his way painstakingly down the thousand feet of descent to the valley floor.

Near the bottom, he came upon the body of one of the giants. The creature was half-buried in rubble and covered with dust.

Sithas stepped carefully along the slope, using handholds to maintain his balance, until he reached the motionless body of the giant. The creature hung over a sharp outcrop of rock, looking like a rag doll that someone had casually cast aside. When the elf reached the monster, he examined it more closely. He saw that it wore boots of heavy fur and a tunic of bearskin. The creature’s beard was long but sparsely grown, adding to the straggled and unkempt appearance of its face. The great mouth hung slackly open, and its long, floppy tongue protruded. Several broken teeth studded its gums alongside a single well-formed tusk of ivory in front. Sithas found himself feeling a spontaneous reaction of compassion as he looked at the pathetic visage. His reaction changed instantly to alarm when the giant moved, reaching out with one trunklike arm toward him. The elf stepped nervously backward, his longsword in his hand.

Then the giant groaned, smacking his lips and snorting in discomfort before finally forcing open the lid of one blank, bloodshot eye. The eye stared straight at the elf.

Sithas froze. His instincts, as soon as the beast had moved, had urged him to drive his keen steel blade into the creature’s throat or its heart. However, some inner emotion, surprising the elf with its strong compulsion, had held his hand. The blade remained poised before the giant’s face, a foot from the end of its blunt and swollen nose, but Sithas didn’t drive it home. Instead, he studied the creature as it opened its other eye. The two orbs crossed ludicrously as it appeared to study the keen steel so close to its face. Slowly the bloodshot orbs came into focus. Sithas sensed the giant tensing, and he knew that he should slay it, if it wasn’t already too late! Misgivings assailed him.

Still he held firm. The giant scowled, still trying to understand what had happened, what was going on. Finally the realization came, with a reaction that took Sithas completely by surprise. The monster yelped—a high-pitched gasp of fright—and tried to squirm backward away from the elf and the weapon. A large boulder blocked its retreat, and the beast cowered against the rock, raising its massive fists as if to ward away a blow. Sithas took a step forward, and when the beast cried out again, he lowered his blade, bemused by the strange behavior.

Sithas made a casual gesture with his sword. The giant raised its hands to protect its face and grunted something in a crude tongue. Again Sithas was struck by the one perfect tooth bobbing up and down amongst the otherwise ragged gums.

The problem remained of what to do with it. Letting the brute just wander away seemed like an unacceptable risk.

Yet Sithas couldn’t kill it out of hand, now that it cowered and gibbered at him. It didn’t seem like much of a threat anymore, despite its huge size.

“Hey, One-Tooth. Stand up!” The elf gestured with his blade, and after several moments, the giant climbed hesitantly to its feet.

The creature loomed ten feet or more tall, with a barrel-sized chest and stout, sinew-lined limbs. One-Tooth gaped pathetically at Sithas as the elf nodded, pleased. He gestured again with his sword, this time down the pass, toward the valley.

“Come on, you lead the way,” he instructed the giant. They started down the mountain, with Sithas keeping his sword ready.

But One-tooth seemed perfectly content to shuffle along ahead of the elf. On the ground, Sithas found it a great boon to follow in the footsteps of the giant, rather than break his own trail through the snow. Following an elaborate pantomime, he showed One-Tooth how to drag his feet when he walked, thus making a deeper and smoother path for the elf.

He directed the giant toward the ledge where Kith-Kanan lay helpless. At the bottom, before they picked their way up the steep, treacherous trail, Sithas turned back to the giant.

“I want you to carry him,” he explained. He cradled his arms as if he was carrying an infant and pointed to the ledge above them. “Do you understand?” The giant squinted at the elf, his eyes shrinking to tiny dots of bloodshot concentration. He looked upward.

Then his eyes widened, as if someone had just opened the shutters to a dark, little-used room. His mouth gaped happily, and the tooth bobbed up and down in enthusiastic comprehension.

“I hope so,” Sithas muttered, not entirely confident about what he was doing. Now the elf led the way, working his way up the narrow trail until he reached the ledge that had sequestered his brother.

“Well done, Brother!” Kith-Kanan was sitting upright, his back against the cliff wall and his face creased by a grin of amazed delight. “I saw them coming, and I figured that was the end!”

“That thought crossed my mind as well,” admitted Sithas. Kith looked at him with an admiring expression Sithas had never seen in his brother’s eyes before. “You could have been killed, you know!” Sithas laughed self-consciously, feeling a warm sense of pride. “I can’t let you have all the fun.”

Kith smiled, his eyes shining. “Thanks, Brother!” Clearing his throat, he nodded at One-Tooth. “But what is this—a prisoner or friend? And what idea do you have now?” “We’re going to the next valley,” Sithas replied. “I couldn’t find a horse, so you’ll have to ride a giant!”

15

The rains beat across a sea of canvas, a drumming, monotonous cadence that marked time during winter on the plains. Gray skies stretched over the brown land, encloaked by air that changed from fog to downpour to icy mist. If only it would freeze! This was the wish of every soldier in the army who had to stand guard, conduct drills, or make the arduous treks to distant woods for firewood or lumber. A hard frost would solidify the viscous earth that now churned underfoot, miring wagon wheels and making the simple act of walking an exhaustive struggle.

Sentries stood shivering on guard duty around the ring of the great human encampment. The great bulk of Sithelbec was practically invisible in the gray anonymity of the twilit gloom. The fortress walls loomed strong; they had been tested at the cost of more than a thousand men during recent months. Darkness came like a lowering curtain, and the camp became still and silent, broken only by the fires that dotted the darkness. Even these blazes were few, for all sources of firewood within ten miles of the camp had already been picked clean.

Amid this darkness, an even darker figure moved. General Giarna stalked toward the command tent of High General Barnet. Trailing him, trying to control her terror, followed Suzine.

She didn’t want to be here. Never before had she seen General Giarna as menacing as he seemed tonight. He had summoned her without explanation, his eyes distant ... and hungry. It was as if he barely knew that she was present, so intent were his thoughts on something else.

Now she understood that his victim was to be Barnet.

General Giarna reached the high general’s tent and flung aside the canvas flap, boldly entering. Suzine, more cautiously, came behind him. Barnet had been expecting company, for he stood facing the door, his hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. The three of them were alone in the dim enclosure. One lamp sputtered on a battered wooden table, and rain seeped through the waterlogged roof and sides of the tent.

“The usurper dares to challenge his master?” sneered the white-haired Barnet, but his voice was not as forceful as his words.

“Master?” The black-armored general’s voice was heavy with scorn. His eyes remained vacant, and focused on something very far away. “You are a failure—and your time is up, old man!”

“Bastard!” Barnet reacted with surprising quickness, given his age. In one smooth movement, his blade hissed from its scabbard and lashed toward the younger man’s face.

General Giarna was quicker. He raised one hand, encased in its black steel gauntlet. The blade met the gauntlet at the wrist, a powerful blow that ought to have chopped through the armor and sliced off the general’s hand. Instead, the sword shattered into a shower of silver splinters. Barnet, still holding the useless hilt, gaped at the taller Giarna and stepped involuntarily backward.

Suzine groaned in terror. Some unbelievably horrible power pulsed in the room, a thing that she sensed on a deeper level than sight or smell or touch. Her knees grew weak beneath her, but somehow she forced herself to stand. She knew that Giarna wanted her to watch, for this was to be a lesson for her as much as a punishment for Barnet.

The old man squealed—a pathetic, whimpering sound—as he stared at something in the dark eyes of his nemesis. Giarna’s hands, cloaked in the shiny black steel, grasped Barnet around the neck, and the high general’s sounds faded into strangled gasps and coughs.

Barnet’s face expanded to a circle of horror. His tongue protruded, and his jaw flexed soundlessly. His skin grew red-bright red, like a crimson rose, thought Suzine. Then the man’s face darkened to a bluish, then ashen, gray. Finally, as if his corpse was being seared by a hot fire, Barnet turned black. His face ceased to bulge, slowly shrinking until the skin pressed tight around the clear outlines of his skull. His lips stretched backward, and then split and dried into mummified husks.

His hands, Suzine saw, had become veritable claws, each an outline of white bone, with bare shreds of skin and fingernails clinging to the ghastly skeleton. Giarna cast the corpse aside, and it settled slowly to the floor, like an empty gunny sack that catches the undercurrents of air as it floats downward. When the general finally turned back to Suzine, she gasped in mindless dread. He stood taller now. His skin was bright, flushed. But his eyes were his most frightening aspect, for now they fixed upon her with a clear and deadly glow. *

Later, Suzine stared into her mirror, despairing. Though it might show ten thousand signs, to her it was still devoid of that which meant all to her. She no longer knew if Kith-Kanan was even alive, so far distant had he flown. In the ten days since General Giarna had slain Barnet, the army camp had been driven into furious activity. An array of great stone-casting catapults took shape along the lines. Building the huge wooden machines was slow work, but by the end of winter, twoscore of the war machines would be ready to rain their destruction upon Sithelbec.

A hard ground freeze had occurred during the days immediately following the brutal murder, and this had eliminated the mud that had impeded all activity. Now great parties of human riders scoured the surrounding plains, and the few bands of Wildrunners outside Sithelbec’s walls had been eliminated or driven to the shelter of the deepest forests.

Wearily Suzine turned her thoughts to her uncle, Emperor Quivalin Soth V. The mirror combed the expanse of the frozen plain to the west, and soon she found what Giarna had directed her to seek: the emperor’s great carriage, escorted by four thousand of his most loyal knights, was trundling closer to the camp.

She went to seek her commander and found him belaboring the unfortunate captains of a team sent to bring lumber from a patch of forest some dozen miles away.

“Double the size of your force if you need to!” snarled General Giarna, while six battle-scarred officers trembled before him. “But bring me the wood by tomorrow! Work on the catapults must cease until we get those timbers!”

“Sir,” ventured the boldest, “it’s the horses! We drive them until near collapse. Then they must rest! It takes two days to make the trip.”

“Drive them until they collapse, then—or perhaps you consider horseflesh to be more valuable than your own?”

“No, General!” Badly shaken, the captains left to organize another, larger, lumbering expedition.

“What have you learned?” General Giarna whirled upon Suzine, fixing her with his penetrating stare.

For a moment, Suzine looked at him, trying to banish her trembling. The Boy General reminded her, for the first time in a long time, of the vibrant and energetic officer she had first met, for whom she had once developed an infatuation. What did the death of Barnet have to do with this? In some vile way, it seemed to Suzine that the man had consumed the life force of the other, devoured his rival, and found the deed somehow invigorating.

“The emperor will arrive tomorrow,” she reported. “He makes good time, now that the ground is frozen.” “Splendid.” The general’s mind, she could see, was already preoccupied with something else, for he turned that sharp stare toward the bastion of Sithelbec. * * * * *

If Emperor Quivalin noticed any dark change in General Giarna, he didn’t say anything to Suzine. His carriage had rolled into the camp to the cheers of more than a hundred thousand of his soldiers. The great procession rumbled around the full circumference of the circular deployments before arriving at the tent where the Boy General kept his headquarters.

The two men conferred within the tent for several hours before the ruler and the commander emerged, side by side, to address the troops.

“I have appointed General Giarna as High General of the Army,” announced Quivalin, to the cheers of his men, “following the unfortunate demise of former High General Barnet.

“He has my full confidence, as do you all.” More cheers. “I feel certain that, with the coming of spring, your force will carry the walls of the elven fortress and reduce their defenses to ashes! For the glory of Ergoth, you will prevail!” Adulation rose from the troops, who surged forward to get a close look at the mighty ruler. A sweeping stare from their general, however, held them in their tracks. A slow, reluctant silence fell over the mass of warriors.

“The collapse of my predecessor, due to exhaustion, was symptomatic of the sluggishness that previously pervaded this entire army—a laxness that allowed our enemy to reach its fortress months ago,” said General Giarna. His voice was level and low, yet it seemed to carry more ominous power than the emperor’s loud exhortations.

Murmurs of discontent rose in many thousands of throats. Barnet had been a popular leader, and his death hadn’t been satisfactorily explained to the men. Yet the stark fear they felt for the Boy General prevented anyone from audibly muttering open displeasure.

“Our emperor informs me that additional troops will be joining us, a contingent of dwarves from the Theiwar Clan of Thorbardin. They are skilled miners and will be put to work digging excavations beneath the walls of the enemy defenses.

“Those of you who are not engaged in preparations for the attack will begin tomorrow a vigorous program of training. When the time comes to attack, you will be ready! And for the glory of our emperor, you will succeed!”

16

The firelight reflected from the walls of the cave like dancing sprites, weaving patterns of warmth and comfort. A haunch of venison sizzled on a spit over the coals, while Sithas’s cloak and leggings dried on a makeshift rack.

“No tenderloin of steer ever tasted so sweet or lay so sumptuously on the palate,” announced Kith-Kanan, with an approving smack of his lips. He reached forward and sliced another hot strip from the meat that slow-roasted above the coals.

Sithas looked at his brother, his eyes shining with pride. Unlike the sheep, which he admitted had been slain by dumb luck as much as anything, he had stalked this deer through the woods, lying in wait for long, chilly hours, until the timid creature had worked its way into bow range. He had aimed carefully and brought the animal down with one shot to the neck.

“I have to agree,” Sithas allowed as he finished his own piece. He, too, carved another strip for eating. Then he cut several other juicy morsels, piling them on a flat stone that served as a platter, before lifting the spit from the fire.

He turned to the mouth of the shallow cave, where winter’s darkness closed in. “Hey, One-Tooth.” he called. “Dinner time!” The giant’s round face, split by his characteristic massive grin, appeared. One-Tooth squinted before reaching his massive paw into the cave. His eyes lit up expectantly as Sithas handed him the spit.

“Careful—it’s hot. Eat hearty, my friend ” Sithas watched in amusement as the giant, who had learned several words of the common tongue-"hot” being high on the list-picked tentatively at the dripping meat.

“Amazing how friendly he got, once we started feeding him,” remarked Kith-Kanan. Indeed, once the hill giant had satisfied himself that the elf wasn’t going to slay him, One-Tooth had become an enthusiastic helper. He had carried Kith down the narrow trail from the ledge with all the care that a mother shows to her firstborn babe. The weight of the injured elf hadn’t seemed to slow the hill giant at all as Sithas led him back over the steep pass and into this valley. The trip had been hard on Kith-Kanan, with each step jarring his injured leg, but he had borne the punishment in silence. Indeed, he had been amazed and delighted at the degree of control with which Sithas had seized the reins of their expedition.

It had taken another day of searching, but finally the Speaker of the Stars had discovered this shallow cave, its entrance partially screened by boulders and brush. Lying in the overhang of a rock-walled riverbank, the cave itself was dry and spacious, albeit not so spacious that the giant didn’t have to remain outside. A small stream flowed within a dozen feet of its mouth, assuring a plentiful supply of water.

Now that they had reached this forested valley, Sithas had been able to rig a splint for Kith-Kanan’s wound.

Nevertheless, it galled the leader of the Wildrunners, who had always handled his own problems, to sit here in forced immobility while his brother, the Speaker of the Stars, did the hunting, wood-gathering, and exploration, as well as the simpler jobs like fire-tending and cooking.

“This is truly amazing, Sithas,” Kith said, indicating their rude shelter. “All the comforts of home.”

The cave was shallow, perhaps twenty feet deep, with a ceiling that rose almost five feet. Several dense clumps of pines and cedars grew within easy walking distance.

“Comforts,” Sithas agreed. “And even a palace guard!

One-Tooth looked attentive, sensing that they were talking about him. He grinned again, though the juice dribbling from his huge lips made the effect rather grotesque.

“I have to admit, when you first told me that I was going to ride a giant, I thought the cold had penetrated a little too far between your ears. But it worked!”

They had set up a permanent camp here, agreeing tacitly between them that without Arcuballis they were stuck in these mountains at least for the duration of the winter.

Of course, they were haunted by awareness of the distant war. They had discussed the nature of Sithelbec’s defenses and concluded that the humans probably wouldn’t be able to launch an effective assault before summer. The stout walls ought to stand against a long barrage of catapult attacks, and the hard earth would make tunneling operations difficult and time-consuming. All they could do now was wait and hope.

Sithas had gathered huge piles of pine boughs, which made fairly comfortable beds. A fire built at the mouth of the cave sent its smoke billowing outward, but radiated its impressive heat throughout their shelter. It made the cave into a very pleasant shelter, and—with the presence of One-tooth—Sithas no longer feared for his brother’s safety if he had to be left alone. They both knew that soon enough, Sithas would have to set out on foot to seek the griffons. Now they sat in silence, sharing a sense of well-being that was quite extraordinary, given the circumstances. They had shelter and warmth, and now they even had extra food! Lazily Sithas rose and checked his boots, careful not to singe their fur-covered surface. He turned them slightly to warm a different part of their soggy surface. Immediately steam began to arise from the soaked leather. He returned to his spot and flopped down on his own cloak. He looked at his brother, and Kith-Kanan sensed that he wanted to say something.

“I think you’ve got enough food here to last you for a while,” Sithas began.

“I’m going to search for the griffons.”

Kith nodded. “Despite my frustration with this—” he indicated his leg—“I think that’s the only thing to do.”

“We’re near the heart of the range,” Sithas continued, with a nod. “I figure that I can head out in one direction, make a thorough search, and get back here within a week or ten days. Even with the deep snow, I’ll be able to make some progress. I’ll stop back and check on you and let you know what I’ve found. If it’s nothing, I’ll head out in a different direction after that.”

“Sounds like a reasonable plan,” Kith-Kanan agreed. “You’ll take the scroll from Vedvedsica, of course.”

Sithas had planned on this. “Yes. If I find the griffons, I’ll try to get close enough to use the spell.”

His brother looked at him steadily. Kith-Kanan’s face showed an expression Sithas was not accustomed to. The injured elf spoke. “Let me do something before you go. It might help on your journey.”

“What?”

Kith wouldn’t explain, instead requesting that his brother bring him numerous supple pine branches—still green, unlike the dried sticks they used for firewood.

“The best ones will be about as big around as your thumb and as long as possible.”

“Why? What do you want them for?”

His brother acted mysterious, but Sithas willingly gathered the wood as soon as daylight illuminated the valley. He spent the rest of the day gathering provisions for the first leg of his trek, checking his own equipment, and stealing sidelong glances at his brother. Kith-Kanan pretended to ignore him, instead whittling away at the pine branches, weaving them into a tight pattern, even pulling threads from his woolen cloak to lash the sticks together firmly. Toward sunset, he finally held the finished creations up for Sithas’s inspection. He had made two flat objects, oval in shape and nearly three feet long by a foot wide. The sticks had been woven back and forth into a grid pattern.

“Wonderful, Kith—simply amazing. I’ve never seen anything like them! But ... what are they?”

Kith-Kanan smiled smugly. “I learned about them during that winter I spent in the Wildwood.” For a moment, his smile tightened. He couldn’t remember that time without thinking of Anaya, of the bliss they had shared, and of the strange fate that had claimed her. He blinked and went on. “They’re called ‘snowshoes’.”

Instantly Sithas saw the application. “I lash these to my boots, right?” he guessed. “And then walk around, leaving footprints in the snow like a giant?”

“You’ll be surprised, I promise. They’ll let you walk on top of the snow, even deep powder.”

Indeed, Sithas wasted no time pulling on his boots and affixing the snowshoes to them with several straps Kith had created by tearing a strip from one of their cloaks. He tripped and sprawled headlong as he left the cave but quickly dusted himself off and started into the woods on a test walk. Though the snowshoes felt somewhat awkward on his feet and forced him to walk with an unusually wide-spread gait, he trotted and marched and plodded through the woods for nearly an hour before returning to the cave.

“Big feet!” One-Tooth greeted him outside, where he had left the giant.

“Good feet!” Sithas replied, reaching up to give the giant a friendly clap on the arm.

Kith awaited him expectantly.

“They’re fantastic! I can’t believe the difference they make!” Kith was forced to admit, as he looked at his exhilarated brother, that Sithas no longer seemed to need the assistance of anyone to cope with the rigors of the high mountain winter.

Determined to begin his quest well rested, Sithas tried to force himself to sleep. But though he closed his eyes, his mind remained alert. It leaped from fear to hope to anticipation in a chaotic whirling dance that kept him wide awake as the hours drifted past. He heard One-Tooth snoring at the cave mouth and saw Kith slumbering peacefully on the other side of the fire. Finally, past midnight, Sithas slept. And when he did, his dreams were rich and bright, full of blue skies swarming with griffons. * * * * * Yellow eyes gleamed in the woods, staring at the fading fire in the mouth of the cave. The dire wolf crept closer, suppressing the urge to growl.

The creature saw and smelled the hill giant slumbering at the mouth of the cave. Though the savage canine was huge—the size of a pony, weighing more than three hundred pounds—it feared to attack the larger hill giant. Too, the fire gave it pause. It had been burned once before, and remembered well the terrifying touch of flame.

Silently the wolf slinked back into the woods. When it was safely out of hearing of the cave, it broke into a patient lope, easily moving atop the snow. But there was food in the cave. During the lean winter months, fresh meat was a rare prize in this mountain fastness. The wolf would remember, and as it roamed the valleys, it would meet others of its kind. Finally, when the pack had gathered, they would return.

Sithas’s first expedition, to the west, lasted nearly four weeks. He pressed along snow-swept ridges and through barren, rock-boundaried vales. He saw no life, save for the occasional spoor of the hardy mountain sheep or the flying speck of an eagle soaring in the distance.

He traveled alone, having persuaded One-Tooth—only after a most intricate series of contortions, pantomimes, threats, and pleas—to remain behind and guard Kith-Kanan. Each day his solitude seemed to weigh heavier on him and become an oppressive, gnawing despair.

Winds tore at him every day, and as often as not, his world vanished behind a shroud of blowing snow. The days of clear weather that had followed Kith’s injury, he now realized, had been a fortunate aberration in the typical weather patterns of the high mountains. Winter closed in with a fury, shrouding him in snow and hail and ice.

He pressed westward until at last he stood upon a high ridge and saw ground falling to foothills and plains beyond. He would find no mountainous refuge of griffons in this direction. The route he followed back to Kith-Kanan and One-Tooth diverged somewhat from the trail he had taken westward, but this, too, proved fruitless.

He found his brother and the hill giant in good spirits, with a plentiful supply of meat. Though Kith could not yet bear his weight on his leg, the limb seemed to be healing well. Given time, it would regain most of its prior strength. After a night of warmth and freshly cooked meat, Sithas began his search to the north. This time his quest took even longer, for the Khalkist Range extended far along this axis. After twenty-five days of exploring, however, he saw that he had left the highest summits of the range behind. Though the trail northward was mountainous and the land uninhabited, he could see from his lofty vantage that it lacked the towering, craggy summits that had been so vividly described in Kith-Kanan’s dream. It seemed safe to conclude that the valley of the griffons did not lie farther north.

His return to camp took another ten days and carried him through more lofty, but equally barren, country. The only significant finds he made were several herds of deer. He had stumbled across the creatures by accident and watched them race away, plunging through the deep snow. It was with a sensation approaching abject hopelessness that he plodded over the last ridge and found the camp nestled in its cave and remaining very much as he had left it. One-Tooth was eager to greet him, and Kith-Kanan looked stronger and healthier, though his leg was still awkwardly splinted. His brother was working on an intricately carved crutch, but as yet he hadn’t tried walking with it. By now the food supply had begun to run short, so Sithas remained for several days, long enough to stalk and slay a plump doe. The deer’s carcass yielded more meat than either of his previous kills, and when he returned to camp with the doe, he was surprised to find Kith waiting at the cave mouth—standing and waiting.

“Kith! Your leg!” he asked, dropping the deer and stepping quickly to his brother’s side.

“Hurts like all the fires of the Abyss,” Kith grunted, but his teeth, though clenched, forced his mouth into a tight smile. “Still, it can hold me up, with the help of my crutch.”

“Call you Three-Legs now,” observed One-Tooth dryly.

“Fair enough,” Kith agreed, still gritting his teeth.

“I think this calls for a celebration. How about some melted snow and venison?” proposed Sithas.

“Perfect,” Kith-Kanan agreed.

One-Tooth drooled happily, sharing the brothers’ elation. The trio enjoyed an evening of feasting. The giant was the first to tire, and soon he was snoring noisily in his accustomed position outside the mouth of the cave.

“Are you going back out?” Kith asked quietly after long moments of contented silence.

“I have to,” Sithas replied. They both knew that there was no other alternative.

“This is the last chance,” Kith-Kanan observed. “We’ve come up from the south, and now you’ve looked to the north and the west. If the valley doesn’t lie somewhere to the east, we’ll have to face the fact that this whole adventure might have been a costly pipe dream.”

“I’m not prepared to give up yet!” Sithas said, more sharply than he intended. Truthfully, the same suspicions had lurked in his own subconscious for many days. What if he found no sign of the griffons? What if they had to march back to Silvanost on foot, a journey that would take months and couldn’t begin until snowmelt in late spring? And what if they returned, after all this time, empty handed?

So it was that Sithas began his eastward search with a taut determination. He pushed himself harder than ever before, going to reckless lengths to scale sheer passes and traverse lofty, precipitous ridges. The mountains here were the most rugged of any in the range, and any number of times they came very close to claiming the life of the intrepid elf.

Every day Sithas witnessed thundering avalanches. He learned to recognize the overhanging crests, the steep and snow-blanketed heights that gave birth to these crushing snowslides. He identified places where water flowed beneath the snow, gaining drinking water when he needed it but avoiding a potential plunge through the ice that, by soaking him in these woodless heights, would amount to a sentence of death by freezing.

He slept on high ridges, with rocks for his pillow and bed. He excavated snow caves when he could and found that the warmth of these greatly improved his chances of surviving the long, dark nights. But once again he found nothing that would indicate the presence of griffons—indeed, of any living creatures—among these towering crags. He pressed for two full weeks through the barren vales, climbing rockstudded slopes, dodging avalanches, and searching the skies and the ridges for some sign of his quarry. He pressed forward each day before dawn and searched throughout the hours of daylight until darkness all but blinded him to any spoor that wasn’t directly in front of his nose. Then he slept fitfully, anxious for the coming of daylight so that he could resume his search. However, he was finally forced to admit defeat and turned back toward the brothers’ camp. A bleak feeling of despair came over him as he made camp on a high ridge. It was as he rearranged some rocks to form his sleeping place that Sithas saw the tracks: like a cat’s, only far bigger, larger than his own hand with the fingers fully outstretched. The rear, feline feet he identified with certainty, and now the nature of the padded forefeet became clear, too. They might have been made by an incredibly huge eagle, but Sithas knew this was not the case. The prints had been made by the great taloned griffon.

Kith-Kanan squirmed restlessly on his pine-branch bed. The once-soft branches had been matted into a hard and lumpy mat by more than two months of steady use, and no longer did they provide a pleasant cushion for his body. As he had often done before—indeed, as he did a hundred or a thousand times each day—he cursed the injury that kept him hobbled to this shelter like an invalid.

He noticed another sound that disturbed his slumber—a rumble like a leaky bellows in a steel-smelting plant. The noise reverberated throughout the cave.

“Hey, One-Tooth!” Kith snapped. “Wake up!” Abruptly the sound ceased with a snuffling gurgle, and the giant peered sleepily into the cave.

“Huh?” demanded the monstrous humanoid. “What Three-Legs want now?”

“Stop snoring! I can’t sleep with all the racket!”

“Huh?” One-Tooth squinted at him. “Not snoring!”

“Never mind. Sorry I woke you.” Smiling to himself, the wounded elf shifted his position on the rude mattress and slowly boosted himself to his feet.

“Nice fire.” The giant moved closer to the pile of coals. “Better than village firehole.”

“Where is your village?” asked Kith curiously. The giant had mentioned his small community before.

“In mountains, close to tree lands.”

This didn’t tell Kith much, except that it was at a lower altitude than the valley they now inhabited, a fact that was just as well, considering his brother’s ongoing exploration of the highlands.

“Sleep some more,” grunted the giant, stretching and yawning. His mouth gaped, and the solitary tusk protruded until One-Tooth smacked his lips and closed his eyes.

The giant had made remarkable progress in learning the elven tongue. He was no scintillating conversationalist, of course, but he could communicate with Kith-Kanan on a remarkable number of day-to-day topics.

“Sleep well, friend,” remarked Kith softly. He looked at the slumbering giant with genuine affection, grateful that the fellow had been here during these months of solitude.

Looking outward, he noticed the pale blue of the dawn sky looming behind One-Tooth’s recumbent form.

Damn this leg! Why did he have to suffer an injury now, just when his skills were most needed, when the entire future of the war and of his nation were at stake?

He had regained some limited mobility. He could totter, albeit painfully, around the mouth of the cave, getting water for himself and exercising his limbs. Today, he resolved, he would press far enough to get a few more pine branches for his crude and increasingly uncomfortable bed.

But that was nothing compared to the epic quest undertaken by his brother!

Even as Kith thought about making the cave a little more cozy, his brother was negotiating high mountain ridges and steep, snow-filled valleys, making his camp wherever the sunset found him, pressing forward each day to new vistas. More than once, Kith had brooded on the fact that Sithas faced great danger in these mountains. Indeed, he could be killed by a fall, or an avalanche, or a band of wolves or giants—by any of countless threats—and Kith-Kanan wouldn’t even know about it until much time had passed and he failed to return. Growling to himself, Kith limped to the cave mouth and looked over the serene valley. Instead of inspiring mountain scenery, however, all he saw were steep, gray prison walls, walls that seemed likely to hold him here forever. What was his brother doing now? How fared the search for the griffons?

He limped out into the clear, still air. The sun touched the tips of the peaks around him, yet it would be hours before it reached the camp on the valley floor.

Grimacing with pain, Kith pressed forward. One-Tooth’s forays for wood and water had packed down the snow for a large area around their cave, and the elf crossed the smooth surface with little difficulty.

He reached the edge of the packed snow, stepping into the spring mush and sinking to his knee. He took another step, and another, wincing at the effort it took to move his leg.

Then he froze, motionless, his eyes riveted to the snow before him. His hand reached for a sword that he was not wearing.

The tracks were clear in the soft snow. They must have been made the night before. A pack of huge wolves, perhaps a dozen or more, had run past the cave in the darkness. Luckily he could see no sign of them now as he carefully backed toward the cave.

He remembered the fire they had built the night before and imagined the wolves sidling past, fearful of the flames. Yet he knew, as he studied the silent woods, that sooner or later they would return.

17

Sithas reached upward, pulling himself another several inches closer to his goal. Sweat beaded upon his forehead, fatigue numbed his arms and legs, and a dizzying expanse of space yawned below him. All of these factors he ignored in his grim determination to reach the crest of the ridge.

The rocky barrier before him loomed high, with sheer sides studded with cracked and jagged outcrops of granite. A month ago, he reflected as he paused to gasp for breath, he would have called the climb impossible. Now it represented merely another obstacle, one that he would treat with respect yet was confident that he would successfully overcome.

High hopes surged in his heart, convincing him to keep on climbing. This had to be the place! The night before, those tracks on the ledge had seemed so clear, such irrefutable proof that the griffons lived somewhere nearby. Now doubts assailed him. Perhaps his mind played tricks on him, and this tortuous climb was simply another exercise in futility.

Beyond this steep-walled ridge, he knew, lay a stretch of the Khalkist Mountains that he had not yet explored. The region sprawled, a chaos of ridges, glaciers, and valleys. Finally he pulled himself up over the rocky summit of the divide. He looked into the deep valley beyond, squinting against the bright sunlight. He no longer wore his scarf protectively across his face. Four months of exposure to wind, snow, and sun had given his skin the consistency and toughness of leather.

No movement greeted his eyes, no sign of life in the wide and deep vale. Yet before him-and far, far below-he saw a wide expanse of dark green forest. Amidst these trees, he glimpsed a sparkling reflection that he knew must be a pond or small lake, and unlike any other body of water he had seen for the last two months, this one was unfrozen!

He scrambled over the top of the ridge, only to be confronted by a precipitous descent beyond. Undismayed, he followed the knifelike crest, until at last he found a narrow ravine that led downward at an angle. Quickly, almost recklessly, Sithas slid down the narrow chute. Always he kept his eyes on the heavens, searching for any sign of the magnificent half-lion, half-eagle beasts that he sought.

Would he be able to tame them? He thought of the scroll he had carried during these weeks of searching. When he paused to rest, he removed it and examined its ivory tube. Uncorking the top, he checked to see that the parchment was still curled, well protected, within. From somewhere, a nagging doubt troubled him, and for the first time, he wondered if the enchantment would work. How could mere words, read from such a scroll, have an effect on creatures as proud and free as the griffons? He could only hope that Vedvedsica had spoken the truth.

The ravine provided him good cover and a relatively easy descent that carried him steadily downward for thousands of feet. He moved carefully, taking precautions that his footsteps didn’t trigger any slide of loose rock. And though he saw no sign of his quarry, he wanted to make every effort to ensure that it was he who discovered them, rather than the other way around. It took Sithas several hours to make the long, tedious descent. Steep walls climbed to his right and left, sometimes so close together that he could reach out his hands and touch each side of the ravine simultaneously. Once he came to a sharp drop-off, some twelve feet straight down. Turning to face the mountain, he lowered himself over the precipice, groping with his feet until he found a secure hold. Very carefully, he braced himself and sought lower grips for his hands. In this painstaking fashion, he negotiated the cliff. The floor of the passage wound back and forth like a twisting corridor, and sometimes Sithas could see no more than a dozen feet in front of him. At such times, he moved with extra caution, peering around the bend before proceeding ahead. Thus it was that he came upon the nest.

At first he thought it to be an eagle’s eyrie. A huge circle of twigs, sticks, and branches rested on a slight shoulder of the ravine. Steep cliffs dropped away below it. A hollow in the middle of the nest had obviously been smoothed out, creating a deep and sheltering lair that was nearly six feet across. Three small feathered creatures moved there, immediately turning to him with gaping beaks and sharp, demanding squawks.

The animals rose, spreading their wings and bleating with increased urgency. Their feathers, Sithas saw, were straggly and thin; they looked incapable of flight. Their actions seemed like those of fledglings, yet already the young griffons were the size of large hawks.

Sithas peeked carefully over the lip of a boulder. The tiny griffons, he saw, had collected themselves into a bundle of feathers and fur, talons and beaks. They hissed and spat, the feathers along the napes of their eagle necks bristling. At the same time, feline tails lashed back and forth in excitement and tension.

For several moments, the elf dared not draw a breath or even open his mouth. So powerful was the sense of triumph sweeping over him that he had to resist the temptation to shout his delight aloud.

He forced himself to keep still, hiding in the shadow of the huge rock, trying to restrain the pounding of his heart.

He had found the griffons! They lived!

Of course, these nestlings were not the proud creatures he sought, but the nearness of the flock was no longer a matter of doubt. It remained only a matter of time before he would discover the full-grown creatures. How many were there? When would they return? He watched and waited.

For perhaps half an hour, he remained immobile. He searched the skies above, even as he shrank against the wall of the ravine and tried to conceal himself from overhead view.

With sudden urgency, he pulled the ivory scroll tube from his backpack. Unrolling the parchment, he studied the symbols of enchantment. It would require concentration and discipline, he saw, in order to pronounce the old elvish script, which was full of archaic pronunciations and mystical terminology. He allowed his tongue to shape the unusual sounds, practicing silently.

“Keerin-silvan! . . . Thanthal ellish, Quirnost . . . Hothist kranthas, Karin Than-tanthas!”

Such a simple spell. Perhaps it was madness to expect success from it. It certainly seemed rash, now that he stood here, to face a multitude of savage carnivores with nothing more than these words to protect him. Again his restlessness returned, and finally he had to move. With as much stealth as he could muster, Sithas worked his way up the slope of the ravine. He sought a place with a commanding view of the valley. His instincts told him that the events of the rest of this day would prove the worth of the entire quest. Indeed, they might measure the worth of his entire life. He found a broad shoulder of the ridge, an open ledge that nevertheless lay in the shadow of an overhanging shelf of rock. From here, he believed, he could see all of the valley below him, but he could not be seen, or attacked, from above.

He settled down to wait. The sun seemed to hang motionless in the sky, mocking him.

He dozed for a while, lulled by the warmth of the sun and perhaps drained by his own tension. When he awoke, it was with abrupt alarm. He thought momentarily that he had entered a bizarre dream.

Blinking and shaking his head, Sithas saw a tiny spot of movement, no more than a speck of darkness against the clear sky. From the great distance, he knew that whatever he saw must be very large indeed. He saw a pair of broad wings supporting a body that seemed to grow with each passing moment. He stared, but could see nothing else beyond this lone scout.

The streamlined bird shape swooped into a low dive, settling toward the ridge across the valley. Even at this great distance, Sithas saw the leonine rear legs descend, supporting the griffon’s weight on the ground while it used its wings to slowly settle its forefeet. He could plainly see the creature’s size and sense its raw, contained power.

Another flying beast hove into view, and then several more, all of them settling beside the first. From this far away, he might have been looking at a flock of blackbirds settling toward a farmer’s field lush with ripening corn. But he knew that each of the griffons was larger than a horse.

The beasts returned to their valley, flying in a great flock and shrieking their delight at the homecoming. They sounded like great eagles, though louder and fiercer than even those proud birds. The flock spread across a mile or more, darkening the sky with their impressive presence.

They settled along the jagged ridge and gathered upon nearby summits, still miles away from Sithas. The many rocky knobs disappeared beneath slowly beating wings and smooth, powerful bodies seeking comfortable perches. For the first time, Sithas became aware of many nests, all along the ridges and slopes of his side of the valley, as dozens of fledglings squawked and squirmed in their nests. So splendidly were they camouflaged that he hadn’t noticed the presence of several within a hundred feet of his vantage point. Now several of the adults took to the air again, springing into the valley with long, graceful dives, allowing their hind legs to trail out behind them in sleek, streamlined efficiency. As they drew closer, Sithas could see long strips of red meat dangling from their mouths. Birdlike, they would tend to the feeding of their young.

The rest of the flock followed, once again filling the sky with the steady pulse of their wingbeats. They numbered in the hundreds, perhaps half a thousand, though Sithas did not take the time to count. Instead, he knew that he had to act boldly and promptly.

With quick, certain gestures, he unfurled the scroll and took a look at the bizarre, foreign-looking symbols. Gritting his teeth, he stepped boldly outward, to the lip of the precipice, raising the scroll before him. Now he felt totally naked and exposed.

His movement provoked a stunning and instant reaction. The valley rang with a chorus of shrill cries of alarm as the savage griffons spotted him and squalled their challenges. The ones in the lead, those carrying food for the young, immediately dove to the sides, away from the elven interloper. The rest tucked their wings and dove straight toward the Speaker of the Stars. Terror choked in Sithas’s throat. Never had he faced such a terrible onslaught. The griffons rocketed closer with astonishing speed. Huge talons reached toward him, eager to tear the flesh from his limbs. He forced himself to look down at the scroll, thinking that his voice would never even be heard in this din!

But he read the words anyway. His voice came from somewhere deep within him, powerful and commanding. The sounds of the old elvish words seemed suddenly like the language he had known all his life. He spoke with great strength, his tone vibrant and compelling, betraying no sign of the fear that threatened to overwhelm him.

“Keerin-silvan!”

At this first phrase, a silence descended so suddenly that the absence of sound struck Sithas almost like a physical force, knocking him off his feet. He sensed that the griffons were still diving, still swooping toward him, but their shrill cries had been silenced by his first words. This enhanced his confidence.

“Thanthal ellish, Quirnost.”

The words seemed to flame on the scroll before him, each symbol erupting into life as he read it. He did not dare to look up.

“Hothist kranthas, Karin Than-tanthas!”

The last of the symbols flared and waned, and now the elf looked up, boldly seeking the griffons with his eyes. He would meet his death bravely or he would tame them.

The first thing he saw was the hate-filled visage of a diving griffon. The monstrous creature’s beak gaped, and both the eagle claws of its front legs and the lion talons of its rear limbs reached toward Sithas, ready to tear him asunder.

But then suddenly it veered upward, spreading its broad wings and coming to rest upon the shelf of rock directly before the tall form of Sithas, Speaker of the Stars, scion of the House of Silvanos.

“Come to me, creatures of the sky!” Sithas cried. An awe inspiring sense of power swept over him, and he raised his arms, his hands clenched into fists held skyward.

“Come, my griffons! Answer the call of your master!” And come to him they did.

The flock, dramatically spellbound, swirled around him and settled toward places of vantage on the towering ridges nearby. One of these approached the elf, creeping along the crest of rock. Sithas saw a slash of white feathers across its brown breast, and his spirits soared in sudden recognition.

“Arcuballis!” he cried as the griffon’s head rose in acknowledgment. The great creature lived and had somehow found a home with this flock of his kin!

The proud griffon sprang to Sithas, rearing before him and spreading his vast wings. The elf saw a gouge along one side of Arcuballis’s head where the giant’s club had cracked him. Sithas was surprised at the joy he felt at the discovery of his brother’s lifelong steed, and that joy, he knew, would pale compared to Kith-Kanan’s own delight.

The others, too, moved toward him—with pride and power, but no longer did they seem to be threatening. Indeed, curiosity seemed to be their dominant trait.

By the gods, he had done it! His quest had succeeded! Because of his elation, the distant war seemed already all but won.

18

The dire wolves attacked suddenly, bursting from the concealment of trees that grew within a hundred feet of the cave mouth. Kith-Kanan and One-Tooth had planned their defense, but nevertheless, the onslaught came with surprising speed.

“There! Hounds come!” shouted the giant, first to see the huge, shaggy brutes.

Kith-Kanan seized his bow and pulled himself to his feet, cursing the stiffness that still impaired the use of his leg.

The largest of the dire wolves led the charge. A nightmarish brute, with murderous yellow eyes and a great, bristling mane of black fur, the beast sprinted toward the cave, while others of its pack followed in its wake. It snarled, curling its black, drooling lips to reveal teeth as long as Kith’s fingers. The dire wolves had the same narrow muzzles, alert, pointed ears, and furcoated bodies and tails of normal wolves. However, they were much larger than their more common cousins, and of far more fearsome disposition. A dozen erupted from the trees in the first wave, and Kith saw more of the dim gray shapes lurking in the woods beyond.

The elf propped himself up against a wall. With mechanical precision, he launched an arrow, nocked another, and fired again. He released a dizzying barrage of missiles at the loping canines. The razor-sharp steel of the arrowheads cut through fur and sinew, gouging deep wounds into the bristling canines, but even the bloodiest cuts seemed only to enrage the formidable creatures.

One-Tooth lumbered forward, his club raised. The hill giant grunted and swung, but his target skipped to one side. Whirling, the dire wolf reached with hungry fangs for the giant’s unprotected calf, but One-Tooth leaped away with surprising quickness. Instead of lunging after the giant, the monster darted toward Kith-Kanan as a snarling trio of its fellow wolves took up the assault on the hill giant.

The elf smoothly raised his bow and let fly another arrow. Though the missile scored a bloody gash on the beast’s flank it didn’t seem to appreciably affect its charge. One-Tooth whirled in a circle, clearing the menacing forms away from himself, and then swung desperately, knocking the rear legs of one large monster to the side. The wolf crashed to the ground and then sprang away. The wolves began to circle One-Tooth. Kith-Kanan shot at yet another wolf, and another, dropping each with arrows to the throat. A wolf turned from the giant, loping toward the elf, and Kith brought it down—but not before driving three arrows into its chest, and even then the beast didn’t stop until it had practically reached him.

Once again they came in a rush, a nightmarish image of snarling lips, glistening fangs, and gleaming, hate-filled eyes. The elf shot his arrows one after the other, scarcely noting the effect of one before the next was nocked. The giant bashed at the shaggy beasts, while they in turn tore at his legs, ripping gory wounds with their fangs.

The packed snow around the cave mouth was covered with gray bodies, and great patches of it were stained crimson by the spilled blood of the slain wolves. One-Tooth stumbled, nearly going down amid the viciously snarling attackers. A wolf leaped for the giant’s neck, but the elven archer killed it in midair with a single arrow to the heart.

Then Kith-Kanan reached for another arrow and realized he had used them all. Grimly drawing his sword, he pushed himself away from the wall and limped toward the beleaguered giant. He felt terribly vulnerable without the rock wall behind him, but he couldn’t leave the courageous hill giant to die by himself.

Then suddenly, before Kith reached the melee, the wolves sprang away from the giant and darted back to the shelter of the trees, leaving a dozen of their number behind, dead.

“Where go hounds?” demanded the hill giant, shaking his fist after the wolves.

“I don’t know,” admitted the elf. “I don’t think I scared them away.”

“Good fight!” One-Tooth beamed at Kith-Kanan, wiping a trunklike wrist below his running nose. “Big hounds mean, too!”

“Not so mean as we are, my friend,” Kith noted, still puzzled by the sudden retreat of the wolves just when their victory had seemed assured. Kith-Kanan was relieved to see that One-Tooth’s wounds, while bloody, were not deep. He showed the giant how to clean them with snow, meanwhile keeping his eyes nervously on the surrounding pines.

He heard the disturbance in the air before One-Tooth did, but both of them instinctively looked up at the sky. They saw them coming from the east—a horizon full of great soaring shapes, with proudly spread wings and long, powerful bodies.

“The griffons!” Kith cried, whooping with glee. The giant stared at him as if he had lost his mind while he danced about the clearing, waving and shouting. The great flock settled across the valley floor, squawking and growling over the best perches. Sithas came to earth, riding one of the griffons, and Kith-Kanan recognized his mount immediately.

“Arcuballis! Sithas!”

His brother, equally elated, leaped to the ground. The twins embraced, too full of emotion for words.

“Big lion-bird,” grunted One-Tooth, eyeing Arcuballis carefully. “Rock-nose bring home.”

“Bring home—to your village?” asked Kith.

“Yup. Lion-bird hurt. Rock-nose feed, him fly away.”

“The giants must have taken him with them that night they first attacked us,” Kith-Kanan guessed. “They nursed him back to health.”

“And then he escaped, and found the flock in the wild. He was with them when I finally discovered their nests,” Sithas concluded. Sithas related the tale of his search and the discovery of the flock. “I left the nestlings and several dozen females who had been feeding them in the valley. The rest came with me.”

“There are hundreds,” observed Kith-Kanan, amazed.

“More than four hundred, I think, though I haven’t made an exact count.”

“And the spell? It worked like it was supposed to?”

“I thought they were going to tear me apart. My hands were shaking so much I could hardly hold the scroll,” Sithas exaggerated. “I read the incantation, and the words seemed to flame off the page. I had just finished the spell when the first one attacked.”

“And then what?”

“He just landed in front of me, as if he was waiting for instructions. They all settled down. That’s when I saw Arcuballis. When I mounted him and he took to the air, the others followed.”

“By the gods! Let’s see the humans try to stand against us now!” Kith-Kanan practically crowed his excitement.

“How have you fared? Not without some trouble, I see.” Sithas indicated the pile of dead wolves, and Kith told him about the attack.

“They must have heard you coming,” Kith speculated.

“Let’s get back to the city. A whole winter has passed!” Sithas urged. Kith turned toward the cave, suddenly spotting One-Tooth. The giant had observed—at first with interest, but then with ill-concealed concern—the exchange between the brothers.

It surprised the elf to realize the depth of the bond that had developed between them.

“Three-Legs fly away?” One-Tooth looked at Kith, frowning quizzically. Kith didn’t try to explain. Instead, he clasped one of the giant’s big hands in both of his own. “I’ll miss you,” he said quietly. “You saved my life today—and I’m grateful to have had your friendship and protection!”

“Good-bye, friend,” said the giant sadly.

Then it was time for the elves to mount the griffons and to turn their thoughts toward the future . . . toward home.