Paul Thompson - Alliances

“Where will you go now?”

Surprise widened her violet eyes. “My habits have not changed either. I go with Kerianseray and the others.”

“Even if it costs your life?”

She extended her goblet, tapping it gently against his own. “We all must die, Porthios.”

His name on her lips was like a thunderclap. Dropping his eyes, he sipped wine. The fine Qualinesti vintage burned his tongue yet had no taste at all. Since the fire, no food or drink smelled or tasted right. The only exception had been the honeydew wafers given him by the god in the forest. The wine did warm his belly, so he emptied the goblet and held it out to be refilled. She poured, and before he could withdraw the cup, she covered his hand with her own.

Porthios flinched, but to Alhana’s joy, he did not drawback. Through the gloves all she could feel was bone. It was like grasping the hand of a skeleton. But this skeleton still lived. Without warning, he released the pewter goblet and took hold of her hand, gripping it tightly with both of his own as spilled wine spattered her feet.

Well after midnight, the elves abandoned Bianost.

Kerian advocated burning the town to obscure any evidence of what had been found there, but the local militia objected. Despite the pitiful state to which Olin had reduced it, Bianost was their home, and they could not bear the thought of its wholesale destruction. Kerian was not unmoved by their pleas but likely would have overruled them except for Alhana. The former queen also advocated letting the town stand, although for a different reason. If they were to win the hearts of the ordinary folk in Qualinesti, whether elf, human, or other, they had to demonstrate their superiority to the enemy. Torching the empty town was exactly what Samuval’s bandits would do.

Kerian accepted that logic. With a grin, she said that leaving the town intact would probably delay their pursuers, who would have to work their way through the scabrous dwellings, searching for rebels.

With wagons laden with much of the arms cache, the elves departed. Hytanthas rode in a wagon with the cargo because he was still too weak to sit a horse. He had come down with a fever soon after being found. One of Nalaryn’s Kagonesti called it a fever of exhaustion, brought on by weeks of little or no food, water, or rest. They made him as comfortable as possible but he knew nothing of the lambswool blankets and soft pillows that had been found for him. He fought phantom nomads and monsters while his fever raged. In his lucid moments, he tried to convince the Lioness to return with him to Khur, to aid the beleaguered Speaker. She rebuffed every attempt. She had been cast aside, she said. Gilthas hadn’t even heard her out. He didn’t need her, didn’t want her help. For all they knew, the elf host had been decimated and Gilthas captured. What was the point in returning to Khur if the war there was over? The future of their race lay in Qualinesti, in the ancient homeland. Strange magic had delivered her here even as Orexas had begun his promising rebellion.

After consultation with Alhana and Porthios, Kerian led the elves due east out of Bianost. Twenty-five miles down the wide, royal road (its pavement broken, the cracks thick with weeds) lay the former site of Qualinost, where there was only the Lake of Death. The bandit host was bearing down on Bianost from the south. They would expect the elves to make for their home forest, west of town. Kerian hoped an eastward track would confound the bandits and allow her to put more distance between the fleeing elves and Gathan Grayden’s vengeful host before she turned the column north into the forest.

They moved by night, resting under the overhanging trees by day. Spies and informers were everywhere in the dark heart of the ruined elf kingdom. Daily Alhana’s vanguard flushed goblins out of the woods, slaying them without mercy. Surprise was one of their few assets. They couldn’t afford to have their position betrayed too soon.

Caution, as well as the laden wagons and the many civilians on foot, kept their pace slow. Samar chafed at the delays.

“What a miserable crawl! Oh, for the days when royal elves flew into battle on the backs of griffons! No foe could stand before them!”

“As I recall, the imperial hordes of Ergoth managed,” Chathendor said dryly.

That launched the two on an involved discussion of the tactics and strategy of the long-ago Kinslayer War. They proved well matched. Samar was a student of history, and Chathendor had once been a warrior of considerable prowess.

They rode in company with Alhana and Kerian. Nalaryn remained with his clan, which kept to the fringes of the woods on each side of the road. Porthios, as was his wont, came and went without a word, disappearing and rejoining the march at will.

Alhana rode slower and slower. So caught up in their argument were Samar and Chathendor, they never noticed her falling behind. Kerian circled back to collect her.

“Alhana, you must keep up,” the Lioness chided.

“If we had griffons, it would redress many imbalances,” Alhana mused.

It would indeed. Kerian mentioned her own griffon, Eagle Eye, who had seen her through many tight spots.

“But he’s far away, within Khur,” Kerian finished awkwardly. She reached for the bridle of Alhana’s white mare. “Highness, we should catch up to the column.”

Alhana shook off her reverie. She regarded Kerian for a thoughtful moment. “Would you call me ‘aunt’?” she asked. “We are family, are we not, Kerianseray? And I have so little family left.”

Surprised by the request, Kerian consented readily enough. She was even more surprised when Alhana leaned sideways and rested a hand on her shorn head. “Your beautiful hair,” Alhana said mournfully. “I know it was hardly the worst that might have happened, but it was a vicious, hurtful thing for them to have done.”

Kerian realized her mistake. “Oh, it wasn’t Olin’s trash who cut it. I did it myself, before they caught me. Seemed a good idea to conceal my identity.”

Alhana blinked at her for a heartbeat then exclaimed, “What an indomitable spirit you have, niece!”

Kerian flashed her a grin, and they urged their horses into a trot, catching up with Samar and Chathendor then passing them.

The column was still more than eight miles from the Lake of Death when signs of the devastation appeared. Broken treetops, toppled markers, and blasted hedges spoke of a huge explosion. The shattered treetops sprouted new leaves, but the effects of Beryl’s fall were unmistakable.

The Kagonesti grew restless. Normally the most uncomplaining of elves, they dragged their feet. None wanted to penetrate farther into the blighted site of Qualinost. Theryontas and the volunteers from Bianost, who had been at the rear of the line, passed the balking foresters. Kerian had to double back to speak to the laggards.

“This land is cursed!” one insisted, and another said, “All who enter will be tainted by evil!”

“I fell in the lake when I first arrived, and I survived,” she told them. Of course, soon thereafter she was captured by slavers, beaten, starved, and nearly flayed alive. Perhaps there was something to their fears after all.

The end of the caravan rounded a bend, leaving Kerian and the Kagonesti behind.

“I can’t force you to come,” she said. “But what would the Great Lord have you do?”

“We will ask him,” said Nalaryn, pointing behind her.

She whipped around in the saddle and saw Porthios limping along the edge of the road. She rode to him, asking where he’d been.

“Here and there. I had tasks to perform.”

“I saved a horse for you. You could ride with Alhana.”

Even shadowed by the mask, Kerian knew his eyes were glaring at her. “Keep your mind on your own affairs,” he snapped.