Paul Thompson - Alliances

“That one. Over the side with it.”

Kerian was aghast. The slab probably weighed three or four tons. No doubt, in days gone by, elf mages could have shifted it in the blink of an eye. Unfortunately, there were no mages in sight. Ignoring her sarcastic comment, Porthios walked away and called for all available elves to gather at the stone.

Spears and pike shafts were thrust under it as levers, but most of the elves simply took hold of the slab with bare hands. Samar joined in, despite his wound. So did Hytanthas. The archers continued to loose at the longbowmen below, but their supply of arrows was running low. As each one ran out, he joined the effort. The only ones not engaged were Alhana, sitting in her litter, Porthios, arranging bodies around the slab, and Kerian, who thought it a stupid waste of effort. When Alhana rose, straightened her bandage, and made her way to the slab, Porthios gave the Lioness a sardonic look.

She slammed her sword into its scabbard. “I will if you will!”

The slab rocked, encouraging them to new efforts. The elves redistributed themselves. Porthios counted to synchronize their efforts, and they heaved with all their might. Teeth clenched, sinews cracked. The slab came free of the grasping loam and rumbled down the slope.

“Get clear! Get clear!” Kerian cried.

The archers still in action darted aside. The slab toppled forward. As the narrower top hit the ground, the slab cracked in half. The front portion dropped down the steep hillside, followed immediately by the weightier rear.

Climbing elves in the path flung themselves aside, and a shout went up as the mass hurtled past. The first piece hit the ground in front of the bandits and shattered into a thousand fragments. The wave of stone shrapnel tore through the ranks, mowing men down in bloody heaps. Then the second, and greater, portion of the stone arrived.

The dense block survived the impact intact. It bounced, rising twenty feet into the air and tumbling end over end. Bandits scattered, climbing over their own comrades in their panic to escape. Down came the slab on the road, landing not with a crash, but with a solid, sickening crunch.

Kerian rolled to her feet. The bandits were deserting en masse , mowing down any officer who got in the way. The Saifhumi longbowmen had vanished. Most were crushed under the second boulder.

“Stop gawking!” Porthios said. “The enemy is still below. Loose arrows!”

He was striding among Alhana’s royal guard, all of whom were standing and staring in dumb shock, their bows at their sides.

“They’re running. Let them go,” Kerian objected.

“Do as I command!” he shouted.

Reluctantly, they obeyed, sending a fresh cascade of death into the crazed mob beneath them. Porthios had them continue the bombardment until the last climbing elf gained Birch Trail. Finally, he gave the order to cease.

The Lioness was hardly the gentlest of fighters, but even she couldn’t bear the carnage. “So you’ve finally killed enough?” she snapped.

“Not nearly enough. But for now, it will have to do.”

Many elves had cuts, broken bones, and arrow wounds. Samar could not stand; his wound had opened as he strained to shift the slab. Hytanthas was on hands and knees, coughing uncontrollably. Porthios commanded all get up and follow him. Much to Kerian’s surprise, they did. Those more able assisted the others, and water was quickly brought to the few in greatest need, but in minutes every elf was on his or her feet, burden shouldered, following their ragged, hard-eyed leader east on the new trail. Without draft animals, the carts and wagons were drawn by hand. Not to be outdone by the Bianost townsfolk, Alhana’s guards, horseless, organized themselves to help carry the bundles of arms and armor. Kerian delayed her own departure to make sure no one was left behind.

Alhana was back in her litter. Helping to shift the stone had left her with barely enough strength to hold up her head, but her eyes were alight with triumph as she was borne past Kerian.

“We are saved! Our cause continues!” she said.

True enough, but the cost was high. Nearly two score dead since they’d arrived at Nalis Aren, and thrice that many more hurt. Porthios no longer evinced a deft touch. His tactics had become blunt and brutal, and the Lioness said so.

“You cannot judge him.”

Kerian fell in step alongside the litter. “Why? Because he once wore a crown?”

“Because he suffers more than we do.”

Alhana could never be less than beautiful, but grime and bruises had certainly taken their toll on her ethereal perfection. It was readily apparent that she, and the rest of them, had suffered, but how had Porthios been harmed?

“Did you notice how he held his right arm close to his chest?” asked Alhana. Kerian had not. “In shifting the sandstone slab, he broke his wrist.”

“How do you know?”

“I toiled beside him. I heard the snap of the bone.”

Despite herself, Kerian marveled at his fortitude. “But he never said a word!”

“No. He never did.”

Unbelievable, Kerian thought. But was it really so strange? She could easily imagine Gilthas doing the very same thing, enduring agony in the service of his people. He’d never complain either.

She wondered where Gilthas was and how he was faring. The news brought by Hytanthas was at best thirdhand, but if true, then the elf nation was facing the gravest peril it had yet encountered in Khur. And here she was, hundreds of miles from the scorching desert, following a masked lunatic, in company with a former queen who called her “niece” and a band of town-dwelling elves and royal warriors.

A twisted shape caught her eye. Lying on the hillside below her were the remains of a tower, one of four that had supported the arched bridges encircling Gilthas’s city. This is elf land, she thought with a stab of pride, nurtured and cherished by our race. The lifeless sand of Khur is not. It belongs to the nomads. Let them keep it. Much better to fight for the true elf heartland, here, and not for some alien desert.

She thought of Nalaryn’s clan, seeking griffons. How she missed the freedom and power of flight on Eagle Eye! Give her a hundred such creatures, and she would sweep the bandit horde out of existence! The image was an intoxicating one, especially after the day’s grim fight. If they could find griffons, as Alhana had suggested, then everything would change.

Another night, another ocean of stars shining down on the embattled elf nation. In a tight column three persons wide, the elves hurried across sand still hot from the sun. Behind them, hulking large against the night sky, Broken Tooth was alive with firelight.

Gilthas led the column. Like all his people, he was barefoot and bereft of even the smallest scrap of metal. Every bit had been removed and put away lest the slightest glint, the softest clanking, betray the clandestine departure. With Gilthas was the nomad Wapah, who made his way across the ocean of sand with all the confidence of a child of the desert.

Despite Gilthas’s intention to speak with Wapah immediately Planchet, ably seconded by the healer Truthanar, had convinced him to wait until the next morning. He returned to his small shelter, swallowed the mild sleeping draught Truthanar prescribed, and slept nearly twelve hours. Waken in at midday, he felt better than he had in months. At least he wouldn’t disgrace himself with another collapse.

From the first, Gilthas believed Wapah’s offer of help to be sincere. His councilors required convincing. He convened the group at the base of the stone cairn, fully intending to signal Taranath on Chisel once a plan for the elves’ departure was reached. Planchet, particularly skeptical, repeatedly asked Wapah about his change of allegiance.