The Wayward Knights

Chapter 17

It would have been as well to ride out against the enemy's supplies, on the very night of the betrothal. The weather argued eloquently for delay.

"The roads will be too muddy for horses and just barely too solid for boats," Bertsa Wylum said. "Also, nothing will catch fire, or go on burning if we can set it alight to begin with."

"The sentries will all be hiding with hot cider and warm peasant girls," Elderdrake put in. "We could surprise them much more easily tonight than tomorrow."

"If we could find them at all, maybe," Gerik said. "But remember that mounted humans can't move as silently as kender. Don't take that as permission to go off and try to do the work yourself, either," he added, as a familiar smile crept across the kender's sharp features.

"Oh, I swear to do nothing that you would not do were our positions the other way around," Elderdrake said. He started to swear by both the human and kender names of the true gods. Gerik let him run through all the ones whom kender could lawfully swear by, while thinking that Elderdrake's oath might not be as confining as one could wish.

Were a kender to tell him to sit and wait while enemies gathered, bent on gorging themselves on the blood of those he loved, he might find some excuses for doing something else. But all the kender conducted themselves properly, and now it was the next night, and Gerik of Tirabot was walking downstairs from his chambers to ride out.

In the courtyard outside, he could hear the horses already stamping restlessly. It had seemed a windless, overcast night when he looked out the window, rising from bed and Ellysta's last embrace.

She walked down the stairs behind him, wearing her traveling garb and now hung about with as many pouches and bottles as Serafina. She also openly wore two daggers, and said she had others hidden in various places.

"You are the only one who will ever learn those places, without having one of the knives thrust into you," she had said, grinning. It was a relief to him that she no longer talked of fleeing so as to draw the wrath of Tirabot's enemies after her. It was not a relief to suspect that nothing could now turn that wrath aside.

Where were the promised Solamnics? Not even a letter from them had come, although to be sure they might not be willing to use the ciphers for Gerik. So their letters might have gone astray or been read, and ambushes or laws or both placed in their path. There were any number of places where even a band sent from the Keeps could vanish without a trace sufficient to raise suspicion in anyone, and enough laws for a shrewd counselor to cheat Takhisis out of her rule in the Abyss.

Gerik had written of this, in cipher, to his father. He only hoped he still had a father to receive the letter. The fleet could not have met disaster; that word would have flown about the land as if on dragon's wings. But one knight more or less could be another matter.

Time, once more, to put away fears. Gerik walked out into the courtyard, Ellysta now beside him, matching stride with him, her hand on his arm. Some of the fighters started to raise a cheer; Bertsa Wylum silenced them with a furious gesture.

He turned to Ellysta and their lips met without thought. This time the cheers could not be silenced. Even Wylum smiled.

"All that we need for you to be something out of a hero tale is a garland of flowers for me to put about your neck," Ellysta said.

"That, and nobody dying, or at least those who die, departing without pain or fear," Gerik said. He could not force out of his memories the faces of the men who had died the Night of the Runaway Horses, even if they were enemies.

"We'll find that rose garden," Ellysta said softly. "We will find it, and there we can forget death."

If he kissed her or even spoke to her again, Gerik knew he would fumble his leap into the saddle. To avoid that evil omen, he turned away, slapped his hands down on the bow of the saddle, and vaulted high.

His horse made a rude noise that seemed to sum up the complaint of all horses against all men who wearied them with fine gestures. But Gerik also felt his mount as taut as his own nerves, with readiness to go.

The gate opened with scarcely a murmur from well-oiled hinges. Gerik bent low and whispered in his mount's ear, and man and horse together broke into a trot toward the gateway.

Torvik was quickly proved right in his suspicions that few good captains would come without bringing at least some of the men they might be leading the gods knew where. Mirraleen also knew, but everyone seemed to be painfully cautious about mentioning her name in Torvik's presence.

Every fighter and sailor aboard Red Elf wanted to sail to the reef. So did all of Chuina's archers. So did two captains and twenty fighters from Vuinlod, who called themselves volunteers but whom Torvik suspected were carefully chosen by Gildas Aurhinius.

There was a good band of the most seasoned fighters among the sea barbarians, come forward to follow Jemar the Fair's children in honor of their father. There was a smaller band of Karthayans. There were more folk from Kingfisher's Claw that Sorraz the Harpooner was happy to see go, with Yavanna at their head and Beeyona prepared to heal their wounds.

There were even a few from Istar, whether to garner for their city a share of whatever glory this enterprise might bring or to spy on it, Torvik did not know. He would not refuse them, however. They would be too badly outnumbered to cause trouble even if they wished it.

The minotaurs did not send fighters, but they sent a boatload of salt provisions and another, smaller boatload full of bottled healing potions. The last came with a note from Lujimar, hoping that at the end of the battle Torvik would have a name equal to what his parents had gained in the battle of Golden Cup.

So Red Elf carried nearly two hundred armed fighters and sailors when she dropped anchor off Quillfish Lair Reef, and waited for the coming of the Dimernesti.

Gerik had not expected any kender to ride with him tonight except Elderdrake, so he was surprised, and at first less than pleased, when six more kender slipped out of the woods into the road, halting the advance with a request to accompany the riders.

He was not, however, entirely surprised to discover that one of them was the kender priest of Branchala, whose gifts to Elderdrake lay behind the Night of the Runaway Horses. Or at least Elderdrake assured him that the robed kender was the priest, and the other five just as trustworthy in fighting if not in magic.

The priest's five companions were roughly clad for kender, well armed (two daggers at least, plus a chapak or hoopak), and almost as grim as dwarves. The priest wore a robe of fine linen and sandals of stamped leather. He carried nothing except his staff, and wore an unvaryingly polite smile.

None of the newly-come kender would give their names, but that hardly mattered when it became plain that they would obey no one but the priest. It did matter that the priest would not give his name either, but at least there was a solution for that problem.

The priest was the only bald kender short of old age whom Gerik had ever seen. He had luxuriant sideburns and a long plait hanging below his shoulder blades, but from just above the ears he had no more hair than the new granite blocks in the walls of Tirabot Manor.

So Gerik named the priest "The Shorn One," and so addressed him. It was, after all, a politer name than "Baldy," and Gerik suspected that politeness to this priest would be wise. He might not be carrying any visible magicworking materials besides his staff, but if he was a master of practical jokes as lethal as the allergy spell, he probably did not need them.

The kender climbed onto various horses, behind various uneasy riders (the horses seemed to take the kender in stride). With emphatic gestures they refused to be tied on, so Bertsa Wylum declared that the march would not stop to pick up the fallen. It might not even slow to avoid trampling them if they fell off at the wrong time.

For all the response this warning drew from the kender, Wylum might as well have spoken in Old Ergothian. Gerik put his band into motion again, hoping that he still had enemies only to his front.

Medlessarn the Silent must have found a deep hole in the reef, then swum furiously toward the surface. When he broached, he soared from the water until his toes barely touched the surface before plunging back cleanly. When he rose again, Mirraleen thought she heard an approving chorus of shouts and whistles from Red Elf.

The newcomer Dimernesti on the rock beside her, whose name she could not recall for now, looked much less agreeable. "Showoff," he muttered. "And from where did he take the name 'Silent'? He hasn't been silent since we gathered at noon."

Medlessarn, Mirraleen thought, was quite probably and quite simply nervous. She had labored hard to make it clear that while she had been here at Suivinari for many years as the Red Walker, he was her master in the knowledge of war. Which meant that he led, however reluctantly, and however much in need of her knowledge of the island and of the assembled humans and minotaurs.

The plain truth was that she did not know war. It was equally true that this was of her own will, and she would have been far happier if Wilthur the Brown had never come to Suivinari. But he had, and at least the human fleet coming to smite him had brought with it Torvik Jemarsson, so she had something to take with her from this war, however she fared afterward.

Also, even those of the shallows-dwellers who grumbled about Medlessarn would accept his leadership. Several of the newcomers would have fought her to the death had she claimed the first place, and in so doing ruined any hope of further Dimernesti aid for the humans. She still hoped that Medlessarn's accent in Common did not make him a figure of fun to the humans. Few warriors will follow a leader who makes them smile the moment he speaks.

"Greetings, brothers and sisters in this battle for all our folk," Medlessarn began. At least his choice of words was flawless. He still had such a strong flavor of Old Kagonesti in his accent that Mirraleen heard murmurs and some laughter from the ship.

"Silence!" from the foredeck. That had to be Torvik. Nobody else could have such a young voice and so much authority. Proof of that authority: when he commanded silence, he won it.

Medlessarn went on to explain how Dimernesti and humans working together could penetrate deep within the mountain called the Smoker-

"Into the volcano?" several cried.

Medlessarn continued without needing Torvik to command silence. "Through the passages where the sea flows deep within the mountain. Those passages give us swift entry to the mage's lair. Attacked from the rear and the front at once, his fate is sure."

"What about that cursed thing that munches minotaurs?" somebody asked, to a chorus of agreement.

"What about it?" Medlessarn replied. Mirraleen smiled and her hands told him that he was doing splendid work.

"What about it?" he said again, so quietly that a hush fell on the sea as everyone aboard Red Elf strained their ears to listen. "It is a monstrosity. Not even Wilthur can trust it, and the gods hate it. It will have no friends when it is faced by true warriors, of the shallows-dwellers, the humans and other dry-other land-dwelling folk, aided by true magic worked by wizards of honor. Without friends, not even Wilthur's Creation can prevail."

Everyone seemed so taken by this prophecy of victory that no one asked how many of them would be alive to celebrate it. But then that was not a question warriors were supposed to ask themselves on the eve of battle. Another reason, thought Mirraleen, that she was not much of a warrior.

Medlessarn continued, describing how each band must have at least one captain who knew the intricacies of the passages into the Smoker, past the Creation, and upward to Wilthur's lair. Torvik had already taken this knowledge into his memory, through the true magic of the shallows-dwellors. Who would be next?

A slim figure leaped onto the railing of Red Elf, tossed something to a friend, then plunged gracefully into the sea. When Mirraleen saw that the friend was holding up a bow and quiver, she suspected who was coming. When she saw a female version of Torvik climb out of the sea and wade inward the rocks, she knew she faced Torvik's sister Chuina.

Before she could greet the young archer, Mirraleen saw a scuffle on deck. Someone else went over the side, but not diving gracefully. He landed sprawling, and floundered about until someone threw a rope and hauled him back aboard.

"What was that all about?" the grumbling sea-elf said. His name came back to Mirraleen. "Kuyomolan-!" she snapped.

Chuina grinned. Her grin, also, was a near-twin of her brother's. "My guess is, one fellow who's been rattling on about Torvik and his elven lady. He said something like, 'a taste that runs in the family, I see,' and one of my archers threw him overboard. As long as he's not hurt, we've no need to fear," she said.

"Speak for yourself," Kuyomolan said. "Can we trust foul-wits like that at our backs? And I see no minotaurs aboard that barge."

"My brother's ship is not a barge, minotaurs do not swim well through narrow passages, and I will never stab you in the back," Chuina said. "But I may take you on face-to-face, if you blather like that again."

Kuyomolan was too stunned to reply, which was as well. An idea had just leaped into Mirraleen's mind like a porpoise leaping into the air. She turned Chuina around and whispered into her ear. The grin stayed on Chuina's face as she listened. It broadened as Mirraleen continued.

By the time the Dimernesti was finished, Chuina was laughing. They both turned and watched fighters scramble down into a boat alongside Red Elf.

"Better send that boat off quick, once the captains are here," Chuina said. "Torvik'Il have to write a note too, not just you. Darin and Rynthala see far and think deep, but they don't know you and they hardly know me."

Mirraleen nodded. She could not help noticing that Medlessarn had his eyes firmly fixed on Chuina, whose wet garments hugged her skin tightly.

Would that rude jester aboard Red Elf be so far wrong, if Medlessarn and Chuina were much in each other's company? Perhaps-and there lay yet another reason for the message to Sir Darin and his lady.

Gerik was only two places behind the lead when his band rode into a clearing already held by an enemy patrol.

This saved his life, for one of the others was alert and skilled with a crossbow. The bolt took a Tirabot fighter in the throat, tumbling her from the saddle without a cry. Only the thud of her fall marked her passing from the band's ranks.

Before her mount could panic at the loss of its rider, the Shorn One leaped down from behind Gerik. He raised his staff and tapped the horse lightly across the throat.

Instead of frightened neighing, the horse seemed to utter a bawdy chuckle. A second crossbow went spung! , but such unnatural sounds from a horse put off the archer's aim. The bolt sank deep into a tree well above Gerik's head.

Then Gerik spurred his horse forward, taking the lead, drawing his sword as he did. His body did all that it was trained to do without any commands from his wits, which had their own work. He had planned to dismount and slip the last mile or so to the supplies on foot, but this early fight would mean riding in all the way.

Arrows whistled, horses and men screamed, and suddenly Gerik's left flank was free of mounted enemies. One man was still on his feet, but a kender's bollik sailed out of the darkness and three lead-weighted thongs wrapped the man's legs into a single unsteady support. He toppled over, and a kender tapped him firmly on the jaw so that he stopped moving.

Gerik was relieved to see the kender's mercy. Kender fighting as much as they had in defense of Tirabot Manor was unusual in itself. Kender turning bloodthirsty would unsettle the mind of Paladine himself!

To Gerik's right, the enemy patrol was riding or running off down the nearest path. The Shorn One raised his staff and fire flared at its tip. The fire took flight, a ball the size of a kender's fist, racing down the path after the fugitives. Gerik's stomach churned, as he took back his thoughts about kender and blood.

Instead of scything down the fleeing enemies, however, the fireball bounced off a tree, hit the ground, bounced again to hit a branch beyond the men, bounced yet one more time to strike a very high branch and plunge vertically among the men, to bounce and emerge again-

The fugitives stopped, as if the fireball was weaving a cage of iron bars around them.

"That will halt them and dazzle them," the Shorn One said, breaking his silence for the first time. "Now we must ride on swiftly, so that the guards will only be frightened, not alert, when we come.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Those fellows must not hear us ride off, either." The Shorn One raised his staff again, this time pointing it at the kender who was retrieving his hoopak.

The hoopak leaped into the air and sailed off the same way as the fireball, so fast that its owner nearly went with it. He threw a black look at the Shorn One, which faded to a frown, and that turned into a smile as he saw his hoopak begin to whirl in the air, just short of where the bouncing fireball still wove its cage around the men.

A hoopak whirled by ordinary kender muscles was a formidable bull-roarer. This magic-driven one filled the night and the forest with a cry like a city of minotaurs gone mad. Gerik turned his horse, but let Bertsa Wylum and one of her scouts take the lead, for they knew the rest of the way better than he did. Then he spurred his mount to keep up with them.

It was, he decided, just as well that kender did not add bloodlust to their ingenuity. Then even the minotaurs and the Silvanesti might find that they had other rivals than the human ones, for the mastery of Krynn.