Paul Thompson - The Qualinesti

Verhanna slapped her palms together with a metallic clink. “All right. Gather the troop around! I want to speak to them.”

The elven warriors made a circle around their captain and the kender scout. Verhanna grinned at them, arms folded across her chest.

“The enemy has made a mistake,” she declared, rocking on her heels. “They’ve split themselves into three groups. The humans and Silvanesti are headed for their homelands, probably carrying the gold they made selling slaves. Without their Kagonesti scouts, they don’t stand a chance against us. Sergeant Tremellan, I want you to take a contingent of ten and ride after the Silvanesti. Take them alive if you can. Corporal Zilaris, you take five troopers and follow the humans. They shouldn’t give you much trouble. Four warriors will come with me to find the Kagonesti.”

“Excuse me, Captain, but I don’t think that’s wise,” Tremellan said. “I don’t need ten warriors to catch the Silvanesti slavers. You should take more with you. The dark elders will be the hardest to catch.”

“He’s right.” chimed in Rufus. His topknot bobbed as he nodded vigorously.

“Who’s captain here?” Verhanna demanded. “Don’t question my orders, Sergeant. You don’t imagine I need numbers to track the woods-wise Kagonesti, do you? No, of course not! Stealth is what’s needed, Sergeant. My orders stand.”

A rumble of thunder rolled across the plain and was ignored. Without further discussion, Tremellan collected half the warriors and redistributed food and water among them. He formed his group around him while Verhanna gave him final orders.

“Pursue them hard, Sergeant,” she urged. Her blood was up, and her brown eyes were brilliant. “They’ve a week’s head start, but they might not yet know anyone is after them, so they won’t be moving fast.”

“And the border, Captain?” asked Tremellan.

“Don’t talk to me about borders,” snapped the captain. “Get those damned slavers! This is no time for faint hearts or half measures!”

Tremellan suppressed his irritation, saluted, and spurred his horse. The troop rode off through the maple saplings as thunder boomed at their backs.

Verhanna felt a tug on her haqueton. She turned and looked down, seeing Rufus standing close beside her. “What is it?”

“Look up. There are no clouds, ” he said, turning his small face heavenward. “Thunder, but no clouds.”

“So the storm is over the horizon,” Verhanna replied briskly. She left the kender still staring at the clear-blue sky. Corporal Zilaris took his detachment and headed north after the human slavers. Verhanna was watching them recede in the distance when suddenly a bolt of lightning lanced down a scant mile away. Dirt flew up in the air, and the crack of thunder was like a blow from a mace.

“By Astra!” she exclaimed. “That was close!”

The next one was closer still. With no warning, a column of blue-white fire slammed into the ground less than fifty paces from Verhanna, Rufus, and the remaining warriors. The horses screamed and reared, some falling back on their startled riders. Verhanna, still on the ground, kept a tight hand on her straining mount’s bridle. Rufus had just remounted, and when his horse began to snort and dance, the kender climbed onto its neck to get a better hold. His cape flopped over the horse’s eyes, a fortuitous accident, and the beast calmed.

The shock of the lightning strike passed, and the elves slowly recovered. One warrior lay moaning on the ground, his leg broken when his horse fell on him. Verhanna and the others set to binding his shattered limb. Rufus, not being needed, wandered over to the crater gouged by the lightning.

The hole was twenty feet across and nearly as deep. The sides of the pit were black and steaming. Tiny flames licked the dry prairie grass around the rim of the hole. Rufus stamped on the fires he saw and gazed with awe at the gaping pit. A shadow fell over him. He turned to see that Verhanna had joined him.

“Someone’s hurling thunderbolts at us, my captain,” he said seriously.

“Rot,” was her reply, though her tone was uncertain. “It was just an act of nature.” The next flash of lightning came in an instant. Verhanna uttered a brief warning cry and threw herself down. The bolt struck some distance away, and she sheepishly raised her head. Rufus was shading his eyes, staring at the southern horizon.

“It’s moving that way,” he announced.

Verhanna stood up and brushed dirt and grass from her haqueton. Her cheeks were stained crimson with embarrassment, and she was grateful that the kender ignored her nervous dive for cover. “What’s moving away?” she asked quickly.

“The lightning,” he replied. “Three strikes we’ve seen, each one farther south than the last.”

“That’s crazy,” said Verhanna dismissively. “Lightning is random.”

“Ain’t no ordinary lightning,” the kender insisted.

The warriors made their injured comrade comfortable, and when Verhanna and Rufus rejoined them, she ordered one of the warriors to remain with the injured elf to help him back to Qualinost.

“Now we are four,” she remarked as they formed up to resume their hunt. A glance at Rufus caused her to amend her statement. “Four and a half, I mean.”

“Not good odds, captain,” one of the warriors said.

“Even if I were alone, I’d go on,” stated Verhanna firmly. “These criminals must be caught, and they will be.” To the south, where the plain seemed to stretch on endlessly, the flash and crack of lightning continued. It was in that direction the little band rode.

The audience hall of the Speaker’s house was crammed with Qualinesti, all talking at once. The breeze stirred up by the roiling crowd had set the banners hanging from the high ceiling to waving gently. The scarlet flags were embroidered in gold, hand-worked by hundreds of elven and human girls. The crest of Kith-Kanan’s family—the royal family of Qualinesti, not the old line in Silvanost—was a composite of the sun and the Tree of Life.

In the midst of this maelstrom, the Speaker of the Sun sat calmly on his throne while his aides tried to sort out the confusion. However, his inner conflict showed in the small circular movements of his thumbs on the creamy wooden arm of his throne. The wood was rare, a gift from an Ergothian trader who called it vallenwood and said it came from trees that grew to enormous size. Once polished, the vallenwood seemed to glow with an inner light. Kith-Kanan thought it the most beautiful wood in the world. It felt smooth and comforting under his nervously moving fingers.

Tamanier Ambrodel was arguing heatedly with Senators Clovanos and Xixis. “Four towers have been toppled by lightning strikes!” Clovanos said, his voice becoming shrill. “A dozen of my tenants were hurt. I want to know what’s being done to stop all this!”

“The Speaker is attending to the problem,” Tamanier said, exasperated. His white hair stood out from his head as he ran his hand through it in distraction. “Go home! You are only adding to the problem by being hysterical.”

“We are senators of the Thalas-Enthia!” Xixis snapped. “We have a right to be heard!”

All through this mayhem, thunder boomed outside and flashes of lightning, mixed with the bright morning sun, gave the hall eerie illumination. Kith-Kanan glanced out a nearby window. Three columns of smoke were visible, rising from spots where trees had been set afire by lightning. After two days of lightning, the damage was mounting.

Kith-Kanan slowly rose to his feet. The crowd quickly fell silent and ceased its nervous shuffling.

“Good people,” began the Speaker, “I understand your fear. First the darkness came, weakening the crops and frightening the children. Yet the darkness left after causing no real harm, as I promised it would. Today begins our third day of lightning—”