Douglas Niles - The Kinslayer Wars

Kith-Kanan shook his head, knowing that it was a human victory whenever his griffon cavalry lost even one precious body. The Windriders numbered a bare hundred and fifty stalwart veterans now, scarcely a third of their original number. There were no more griffons; to ride, nor trained elven warriors to mount them. Yet the tide of humans flowing across the plains seemed to grow thicker every year.

“What kind of beings are these that they could spill so much blood, lose so many lives, and still carry forward their war?” Sithas demanded, exasperated. Even after forty years of warfare, the Speaker of the Stars couldn’t fathom the motivations of the humans or their various allies.

“They breed like rabbits,” observed Quimant. “We have no hope of matching their numbers, and our treasury runs dry simply to maintain the troops that we have.”

“Knowing that this is true and doing something about it are two different things,” Sithas retorted.

The council lapsed into glum silence. There was a depressing familiarity to their predicament. The national attrition caused by the war had become readily apparent thirty years earlier.

“The winter, at least, has been mild,” suggested Parnigar, trying to improve their mood. “We lost very few casualties to cold or snow.”

“Yes, but in the past, such winters have given us the heaviest spring storms,” answered Kith-Kanan. “And the summers are always bloody,” he concluded.

“We could send peace feelers to the emperor,” suggested Tamanier Ambrodel. “It may be that Quivalin the Seventh is more amenable than his father or grandfather.”

Parnigar snorted. “He’s been ruler for four years. In that time, we’ve seen, if anything, an increase in the pace of Ergoth’s attacks.! They butcher their prisoners. This past summer, they began poisoning wells wherever they passed. No, Quivalin the Seventh is no peacemonger.”

“Perhaps it is not the emperor’s true will,” suggested Quimant, drawing another snort from Parnigar. “General Giarna has made an empire for himself of the battlefield. He would be reluctant to relinquish it—and what better way to sustain his power than to ensure that the war continues?”

“There is the matter of General Giarna,” grunted Dunbarth, with an uncharacteristic scowl. “He presses forward with every opportunity, more brutal than ever. I don’t think he’d desist even if given the order. War has become his life. It sustains him!”

“Surely after all these years . . .?” Tamanier wondered.

“The man doesn’t age! Our spies tell us he looks the same as he did forty years ago, and he has the vitality of a young man. His own troops hate and fear him, but there are worse ways to ensure the obedience of your subordinates.”

“We have taken the extreme step of sending assassins after him, a brigade comprised of humans and elves both.” Kith related the tale of the assassination attempt. “None survived. From what we have pieced together, they reached Giarna in his tent. His personal security seemed lax. They attacked with daggers and swords but couldn’t even injure him.”

“Surely that’s an exaggeration,” suggested his brother. “If they got that close, how could they not have been successful?”

“General Giarna has survived before, under circumstances where I would have expected him to die. He has been showered with arrows. Though his horse may be slain beneath him, he gets away on foot. He has fought his way out of deadly ambushes, leaving dozens of dead Wildrunners behind him.”

“Something unnatural is at work there,” pronounced Quimant. “It’s dangerous to think of peace with such a creature.”

“It is dangerous to fight such a creature as well,” remarked Parnigar pointedly. Quimant understood the intent of the remark. Parnigar had done nearly a half century of fighting, after all, while Quimant’s family had spent those years raking in a fortune in munitions profits. But the lord coolly ignored the warrior’s provocation.

“We cannot talk of peace, yet,” emphasized Sithas. He turned to his brother.

“We need something that will allow us to bargain from a position of strength.”

“Do you mean to suggest that you’d be willing to bargain?” asked Kith-Kanan, surprised.

Sithas sighed. “You’re right. You’ve all been right, but for years, I’ve refused to believe you. But it has begun to seem inconceivable that we can win a complete victory over the humans. And we cannot maintain this costly war forever!”

“I must inform you,” interjected Dunbarth, clearing his throat. “Though I have stalled my king for several years now, his patience will not last forever. Already many dwarves are agitating for us to return home. You must realize that King Pandelthain is not so suspicious of humans as was King Hal-Waith.” And you, old friend—you deserve the chance to go home, to rest and retire. Kith-Kanan kept that thought to himself. Nevertheless, the changes wrought by age in Dunbarth were more apparent than any that were manifest in the elves. The dwarf’s beard and hair were the color of silver. His once husky shoulders had a frail look to them, as if his body was a mere shell of its former self. The skin of his face was mottled and wrinkled.

Yet his eyes still shined with a merry light and keen perceptiveness. Now, as if he followed Kith’s thoughts, he turned to the elven general and chuckled.

“Tell ’em, young fellow. Tell ’em what we’ve got up our sleeves.” Kith nodded. The time was right.

“We have word that the humans are planning a trap against the Windriders. They will lure the griffons into an archery ambush. We want to amass the Wildrunners, using all the mercenaries, garrison forces, and dwarves—our entire army. We want to come at them from the north, east, and south. If we hit them hard and we keep the advantage of surprise, we’ll achieve the kind of setback that will force them to the bargaining table.”

“But Sithelbec—you’d leave the fortress unscreened?” Sithas asked. In the course of the Kinslayer War, the siege of those high palisades had become an epic tale, and a bustling military city had blossomed around the walls. The place had a tremendous symbolic as well as practical importance to the Silvanesti cause, and a sizable proportion of the Wildrunners were permanently garrisoned there.

“It’s a risk,” Kith-Kanan admitted. “We will move quickly, striking before the humans can learn our intentions. Then the Windriders will act as the bait of the trap, and while the enemy is distracted, we will strike.”

“It’s worth a try,” urged Parnigar, supporting his general’s plan. “We can’t keep chasing shadows year after year!”

“Some shadows are more easily caught,” observed Quimant acidly. “The human women, for example.”

Parnigar leaped to his feet, knocking his chair over backward and lunging toward the lord.

“Enough!” The Speaker of the Stars reached out and pushed the warrior back toward his chair. Even in his rage, Parnigar heeded his ruler.

“Your insulting remark was uncalled for!” barked Kith-Kanan, staring at Quimant.

“True,” Sithas agreed. “But neither would it be invited if you and your officers kept your loyalties a little more clear in your own heads!” Kith-Kanan flushed with anger and frustration. Why did it always come down to this? He glared at Sithas as if his twin was a stranger. A noise at the tent flap pulled their attention away from the conference. Vanesti, Ulvian, and Verhanna, the children of the royal twins, erupted into the tent with impertinent boldness. Hermathya followed.

Kith-Kanan met her eyes and froze, suddenly numb. By the gods, he had forgotten how beautiful she was! Furious and guilty, he nonetheless watched her furtively. She cast him a sideways glance, and as always, he saw the beckoning in her eye that only furthered his pain. Never again, he knew, would he betray his brother. And now there was the matter of his own wife.