Lisa Smedman: Heirs of Prophecy

He saw more humans-residents of Essembra-on the streets below. Many of them had swords at their hips, having no doubt been pressed into service with the militia. There were also knights in full armor and a handful of elves. Some were forest elves, padding along in bare feet with bows in hand; others had the haughty bearing and pale skin of Silver elves and were clad in chain mail and helms. All seemed to be moving in the same direction, toward the sprawling, multi-hailed building known as Ilmeth’s Manor.

The massive iron doors at the front of the manor were open to the street. Elves and humans hurried up the front stairs and into its lantern-lit interior. Leifander hopped off the temple roof and flapped his way to the manor, landing atop one of the massive wooden pillars that fronted the building. By twisting his neck, he was able to peer under the rooftop and get a look inside the doors. What he saw there nearly froze his blood.

The hall had been trimmed with all of the trappings of war, including battle standards and ceremonial lances. It was filled with human soldiers-both Lord Ilmeth’s and the Red Plumes. The latter stood across the room from where the elves had assembled, no doubt warily keeping their distance. Flanking a table at the far end of the room was a group of high-ranking elves and Red Plumes officers, standing so close to one another they were almost rubbing shoulders. Worse still was the sight of Lord Ilmeth and half a dozen members of the Elven Council-including Lord Kierin-standing around a table with none other than Maalthiir, first lord of Hillsfar.

Leifander nearly gagged at the sight of the man. Short and stocky, Maalthiir had dark red hair shaved close to his scalp and eyebrows that joined above his nose in a V-shape, giving him a perpetual scowl. His jaw was square and blocky, his nose a mere stub. Had Leifander not known better, he would have guessed the man to have some orc blood in him. Perhaps that guess was correct. Self-loathing could explain the disdain Maalthiir felt for any but “trueblood” humans.

With barely suppressed hatred, Leifander stared at the man whose edicts had caused Chandrell’s death. The man’s hands might appear clean, but they were stained with the blood of countless innocent elves.

Regardless of this terrible fact, Maalthiir seemed welcome in Lord Ilmeth’s manor. He stood quietly with the group at the table, watching as each person in turn took up a quill and signed a piece of parchment that had been spread on the table-top. He smiled pleasantly as he took the pen from Lord Kierin’s hand-an elf’s hand-to sign the document himself.

The ceremony reached its conclusion, and Lord Ilmeth picked up the parchment and held it out before him. The assembled crowd immediately fell into a respectful hush, broken only by the faint clink of armor as soldiers shifted for a better look.

“By this document,” Lord Ilmeth’s voice rang out, “Lord Maalthiir of Hillsfar pledges his soldiers-ten thousand swords-to the elven cause.”

“Madness!” Leifander cawed, but his protest was lost in the cheer that echoed through the hall. Had the High Council lost their minds? How could they trust these humans?

Judging from the wary looks on some of the elves’ faces, Leifander was not the only one with doubts. Lord Kierin turned to Maalthiir and placed both hands over his heart, bowing low. Maalthiir, a smug look on his face, clasped the windrider’s shoulders in what had to be a false show of friendship.

It seemed to satisfy the assembled elves, however. Heads began to nod and a murmur of approval filled the room. Leifander knew what they must have been thinking. If so mighty a hero as Lord Kierin could bow to Maalthiir, the human must have renounced his evil ways.

Leifander, however, saw something they did not: the frozen smile on Lord Kierin’s normally scowling face. He realized, with a sudden terrible clarity, that there could only be one explanation. Leifander had betrayed Lord Kierin’s true name to that wizard, Drakkar. He, in turn, must have confided it to someone, who in turn conveyed the information to Maalthiir. The lord of Hillsfar had used that secret in a foul manner, to bend Lord Kierin to his will.

Nearly ill with guilt, Leifander vowed he would make Maalthiir pay for this evil deed-that he would, at the very least, kill the man and set Lord Kierin free. But how? It would be suicide to attack Maalthiir in a hall filled with Red Plumes. He decided instead to wait until the man was alone-or nearly so, with as few of his guards around him as possible-then he would strike.

In the hall below, the assembly was already breaking up.

“We march in the morning!” Lord Ilmeth shouted. “Pray to your gods for victory on the morrow!”

Leifander drew back from the edge of the rooftop as the soldiers began spilling out down the stairs, into the street. Among the elves, he saw a face he recognized. Surely Doriantha, of all elves, did not support this alliance? He leaned out and cawed softly down to her. She started, then glanced up and gave her head the slightest of shakes. At the same time, her fingers moved, conveying a swift and silent message: “Meet. Tent. Forest.”

She stopped signing and hurried down the street. An instant later, Maalthiir emerged from the manor and strode down the stairs, flanked by his officers. Leifander crouched atop the column, hoping he hadn’t been seen. He watched Maalthiir climb into a carriage. After a moment it rumbled up the street.

Springing into flight, Leifander followed the carriage. As he’d suspected, it drove out through the town’s northern gate and rumbled toward the Red Plumes’s camp.

Doriantha had left the walled portion of Essembra, and was walking toward the tents of the forest elves. She was careful not to glance up at the sky, even though she must have been curious as to whether or not Leifander was following her. Leifander wheeled in a circle, uncertain. Should he meet her at her tent first? If he did, he might miss a chance at Maalthiir.

Climbing higher into the sky, he circled over the Red Plume camp, watching, until the carriage at last drew up in front of a large tent hung with red pennants. Maalthiir stepped out of the carriage and strode inside.

Gliding through the humid night air high above the camp, Leifander thought. Maalthiir’s tent was guarded not only by the Red Plumes who stood at attention outside but also, almost certainly, with magical wards that would announce an enemy’s approach in an instant. How then, to get inside?

Leifander dipped into a faint current of air that ruffled his feathers, and he let it blow him along for a moment or two, savoring its coolness. If only he could render himself invisible, he might have a chance, but that was not in the repertoire of spells granted by the Lady of Air and Wind. No, the spells she blessed the faithful with dealt with the creatures of wing and feather or with harnessing the power of the stormy winds.

That was it. The winds …

Leifander began to pray. From his beak came the harsh cawing of a crow, but in his mind he heard his prayer as distinct words.

“Winged Mother, come to my aid. Transform my body into one of your gentle breezes. Turn feather, flesh, and bone to air!”

It started at his wingtips. His long black flight feathers disappeared. Losing stability, he tumbled, but the progression swiftly continued. He felt his legs disappear, then the rest of his wings, then his beak, then his hips, breast, throat and …

His body was gone, and yet his momentum through the sky continued. He slowed gradually, until he was no more than a breath of breeze in the sky. He had no weight, but somehow he still had a sense of up and down. He had no eyes or ears, but he could still see and hear. There, on the ground that drifted lazily below him, were the tents of the Red Plumes. And there, in the sky just above and behind, was the hurtling streak of a tressym, flying hard.