Paul Thompson - Alliances

Wapah explained in his inimitable way: “A sick man craves medicine. A well man does not. Give a well man a specific medicine, and you might kill him. Withhold medicine from a sick man, and he may die.”

“Which means what?”

“I do not love the foreigners who dwell in my country.” Wapah’s pale eyes flickered over the group. “But even less do I like what their presence has done to my people. The sooner you are all gone, the happier we shall be.”

“A lesson you should have preached to your chiefs.”

Wapah was unfazed by Planchet’s coldness. He shrugged. “Alas, the Weyadan is beyond lessons. She has fallen from balance and no longer sees the hard edges of truth, only a single vista of vengeance. But peace and purity cannot be bought with blood. The former exists in each of us and is not a chattel to be coveted. And blood, once spilled, only calls forth more blood, until no more remains.”

Gilthas allowed the discussion to continue for only a few I minutes more. By means of mirrors, they signaled Taranath that they were coming. Taranath’s reply came soon thereafter. He had gathered and saved every drop of water he could store for just such an event. His people would be ready when the Speaker arrived to lead them away.

One grave matter remained. The nomads were always watching the elves. Their view of the summit of Broken Tooth wasn’t perfect, but they could not fail to detect the exodus of so many. It was Planchet who suggested a solution. Someone must stay behind to stoke campfires, make noise, and let themselves be observed atop the plateau.

Hamaramis and the Speaker agreed but wondered who would volunteer for such a task. Those remaining behind stood a good chance of falling into the hands of the nomads.

“I have a band more than willing.” Planchet tapped the back of his left hand with one finger, a gesture instantly understood by all: he meant the male elves who had been branded by the nomads.

“How many volunteered?” asked Hamaramis.

“All of them.”

Gilthas shivered. It wasn’t illness that caused his reaction. Hundreds of elves had been cruelly maimed, their left hands rendered nearly useless. When an opportunity presented itself for them to aid their people, every one stepped forward.

“They needn’t all stay,” Hamaramis said. “The diversion can be accomplished with two hundred.”

“And me,” Planchet said.

Gilthas shook his head. “No. You’re too valuable to me, and to the nation.”

“More valuable than any of the others who would stay behind?”

Yes! Gilthas wanted to shout, but he did not. Hamaramis and Planchet argued briefly. The old general agreed that a leader was required but said any junior officer would fit the bill. Planchet stubbornly insisted there was no need to command a young warrior to take on a task for which he himself had volunteered. Hamaramis finally gave up and stomped away, radiating annoyance. Planchet turned to his king.

“Great Speaker, grant me this boon.”

Planchet had been with Gilthas since his days as the so-called Puppet King in Qualinost. The valet-cum-bodyguard had been handpicked by Gilthas’s mother, Lauralanthalasa, to serve her son. His background included service to the dark elf Porthios. Throughout occupation, exile, and battles beyond counting, Planchet had always been there, the solid center in Gilthas’s turbulent life. Even before the estrangement from Kerianseray, the young king had relied on Planchet’s sage council, his unwavering support. How could Gilthas let him sacrifice himself? How could he refuse?

With a heavy heart, Gilthas granted his wish but said severely, “Swear on your ancestors’ house you will escape and find your way back to us. Swear it, Planchet!”

Unexpectedly, Planchet went down on one knee. He swore the oath. Gilthas rested a hand briefly on his friend’s bent head, a lump rising in his throat.

During the afternoon and evening the elves prepared for their departure, and Planchet prepared to remain. He purposely chose the two hundred most disfigured, crippled, and handicapped out of the many volunteers. In addition to their maimed hands, most had wounds from sword, spear, or arrow. They would be most likely to slow the rest of the column down during the escape.

An hour before midnight, Planchet gathered his band at the northeast corner of Broken Tooth for the Speaker’s review. Every elf stood as straight as he was able. Two hundred right hands rose as one, the salute of the Branded. Planchet lifted his right hand too.

“The Band of Deceivers stands ready to carry out our mission, Great Speaker,” he declared.

“No, you are not deceivers.” Gilthas thought for a moment. “You are the Sacred Band, heroes of our nation!”

No rousing cheer greeted his declaration, all were conscious of the need not to draw nomad attention to their activities. Planchet would have left it at that, but Gilthas could not. He stepped forward and embraced his friend. For a handful of seconds, he allowed himself to lean into Planchet’s solid strength, then he stepped back.

Planchet saluted, lifting his sword to his face. “Farewell, sire. Preserve the line of Silvanos and Kith-Kanan at all costs.”

What cost was left to pay? Gilthas didn’t allow his bitter thought to show on his face as he walked slowly down the line of volunteers, meeting the eyes of each, saying thank you. When he was done, he addressed the group one last time.

“May E’li bless you all. We shall meet again!”

Taking his place at the head of the column, he followed Wapah down the steep trail to the desert floor. Their first destination was Chisel, to collect those holed up with Taranath and replenish their water supply. Very little food remained, but they could do without food far longer than they could go without water.

Yet it was not the peak before him, but the one behind that drew Gilthas’s eyes over and over. On Broken Tooth, campfires glowed and cooking pots clattered. Small groups of figures were periodically silhouetted against the starry sky. If he hadn’t known there were tens of thousands of elves behind him, he would have believed they all were still on the summit.

After the constant wind atop Broken Tooth, the desert seemed still as a tomb. The air cooled rapidly with the sunset, but sharp rocks and the heat stored in the sand, made the elves’ barefoot progress painful. The few horses and other animals they possessed were muzzled with strips of cloth, shod hooves likewise wrapped. All their carts they’d left on the plateau. The elves could descend more rapidly without them, and creaking cartwheels were very noisy. Most of the heavy impedimenta they had carried since leaving Silvanesti and Qualinesti lay abandoned on Broken Tooth. The remaining burdens were carried on backs, in litters, or in simple travois. Like the elves, Wapah led his horse.

They passed north of Lesser Fang in utter silence. Wapah thought it likely his people would station lookouts there, although he had no way of knowing exactly where they might be. Dawn was only four hours away when they reached Chisel. Wapah held up his hand. The command to stop was relayed silently down the column. Every elf knelt and waited.

Hamaramis came forward to the Speaker. “Taranath’s signal?”

“Not yet.”

Gilthas’s column could not make a sound or show any light, lest the nomads nearby discover them. It was entirely up to Taranath to time the meeting correctly and signal them.

Wapah calmed their fear of discovery by reminding them the nomad camps were all south of the Lion’s Teeth. Mounted patrols would be abroad, but by dawn the elves would be shielded by Great Fang, largest of the peaks, which lay northwest of Chisel. By day, they could take cover in the caves that riddled Great Fang. Each night they would move farther north and west. The last of the Lion’s Teeth, Pincer, was thirty miles from the mouth of Inath-Wakenti. When they left Pincer’s cover, they would face their greatest danger.