Paul Thompson - Alliances

Alhana indicated Hytanthas could speak on behalf of her faction. The young Qualinesti warrior, backlit by the fire, declaimed eloquently on the need to go to the aid of their people.

“Will we allow our brothers and sisters to be slaughtered in a distant desert?”

“Yes, it is distant,” Samar said. “Khur is not our land. It is no place for Qualinesti, Silvanesti, or Kagonesti. We are invaders there. No wonder the Khurs fight to drive us out.”

Alhana challenged her loyal friend. “Gilthas did not lead our people there to conquer or occupy. He sought only a haven from the barbarians who overran our countries. He dealt with the Khurish khan in good faith. Now the Khurs seek to exterminate those who were their guests. Captain Ambrodel is right: How can we sit by and let this happen?”

“Khur is very far,” Chathendor pointed out. “Many hundreds of miles. If we marched for Khur tomorrow, the Speaker and those with him would be long gone by the time we arrived. We’d be marching into the arms of those who destroyed a great host of our brethren. With not a thousand souls ourselves, what should we accomplish but our own doom?”

The elderly chamberlain’s reasoned words carried weight. A murmur arose as those in the crowd began to take sides. There were far more voices raised on the side of caution, of remaining here, than for the position espoused by Hytanthas and Alhana. Hytanthas looked at the Lioness. She’d said not a word since belatedly joining the group, and was staring at the sword lying across her knees. He feared to ask what she thought. She’d made it plain she had no desire to return to Khur.

Alhana had no such reservations. “Niece,” she said, “I must know your thoughts on this.”

Kerian began sharpening her blade again: one stroke on the right side, one stroke on the left. The metallic hiss punctuated her words.

“We all saw the image in the clouds.” Scrape. “We all agree on what we saw.” Scrape. “My question is, was it true?” Scrape.

She looked up at Alhana. “Since I arrived in Qualinesti, our paths seem to have been shaped by powers greater than ourselves or Neraka or the bandit chiefs. A city garrisoned by hundreds falls to a band of twenty. We find arms enough to equip a rebellion and elude an army of thousands hunting us. And you, aunt, are saved from certain death by some means I still don’t understand. Is this all common chance? Or are we being directed?”

The assembly pondered her words. The only sounds were the crackle of the bonfire and the faint scuff of Porthios’s leather-soled boots as he descended the pinnacle. He came closer, but remained in the shadowy edges of the bonfire’s light.

“The answer is yes,” he said.

Kerian tested the edge of her sword with the ball of her thumb. “By whom?”

When he did not reply, she added, “The time has come for plain speaking, Orexas. Speak your mind.”

Her meaning was abundantly clear to him. Tell the truth, or she would reveal his identity. Even at that distance, the smell of the fire, the feel of the heat on his scarred skin, was painful, and Porthios felt the urge to retreat into the cool darkness. Instead, he advanced a few steps, into the circle of firelight.

He told the story of his first encounter with the human-looking priest. He described the old man and related the example of the cicada and the ants. He told how the same priest had appeared to him the night Alhana lay dying. “The vision we beheld in the clouds was, I am certain, his latest intervention.”

“Who is this priest? Why would a human do these things?” asked Alhana, mystified.

“I don’t think he is human.” Porthios spoke the name of the god. If the group had been silent before, they were struck dumb by this revelation.

Kerian stood and slipped her sword into its scabbard. “I believe you,” she said.

His story helped explain her transportation from Khur to Nalis Aren in the blink of an eye, she said. It wasn’t the work of Faeterus or some nameless Khurish sorcerer, but of the god Porthios had named.

“We must go to Khur.”

And there it was, baldly stated. Hytanthas shouted in triumph. Alhana clasped her hands together, a smile of relief lighting her face. Samar glowered, and Chathendor shook his head dourly.

“Four-fifths of our race is there,” Kerian explained. “To win our war here, we need numbers, but the life’s blood of our people is pouring out on the sands of Khur. We need to rescue them, bring them home, and put the weapons we found in their hands.”

“Which home?” Samar wanted to know.

“Here. Qualinesti. Our success shows just how weak and divided Samuval’s forces are. With twenty thousand skilled warriors, I could retake Qualinesti in a year and drive the Nerakans out of the south in another year.”

“You couldn’t stop them before.”

“Things were different before. The dragons were too strong, and Qualinesti was divided and weak. But Beryl is gone now, and the army we raise will be different. The people of Qualinesti will fight for their own.”

She gestured at the volunteers from Bianost, and they answered by raising a cheer. Alhana’s guard, sitting next to them, regarded them with open skepticism.

“With Qualinesti in our hands, we can gather our strength for an invasion of Silvanesti.” Kerian looked to Porthios.

“That’s what our divine benefactor wants, isn’t it? The restoration of the elf homelands?”

He shrugged. “I do not presume to guess the motives of a god. But if it was he who showed us that distant battle, then he plainly wants us to go to Khur. Both my intuition and the signs left me by the god are telling me our destiny lies there.”

“How are we to get there in time to have any meaningful effect?” Chathendor asked.

Porthios looked toward the crude corral at the high edge of the plateau. “Griffons.”

“We have only twenty-nine,” Samar pointed out. “What can they do against hordes of barbarians?”

Kerian answered, “The nomads fight exclusively on horseback, and their horses can’t bear the sight or smell of griffons. Two dozen griffons, flying just over their heads, will panic the nomads’ mounts completely. A decisive counterattack at the right moment will bring us victory. Gilthas is leading our people to a valley protected by high mountains on all sides. The only way in is a single, hidden pass. With our people safely inside, we can hold off any number of Khur savages.”

Samar had listened in polite silence, but when she finished, he didn’t bother hiding his disbelief. “That’s hardly reasonable, lady. Twenty-nine griffon riders cannot possibly defeat tens of thousands of Khurish barbarians.”

“And what of those left behind here?” Alhana asked. “Gathan Grayden’s army is still hunting us. How will the rebellion survive?”

Fists on hips, the Lioness declared, “Those who remain will disperse into smaller groups and return to the lowland forests, taking the weapons cache with them. They will hide the arsenal in a thousand places, and the bandits will never find it.” She looked toward the Bianost elves and raised her voice, the better to be heard. “No stumbling human knows this forest better than those born to it. Until we return with the army at our backs, you will use the old ways of surprise and ambush. The bandits won’t know where to turn or even who to fight!”

Her prowess in battle wasn’t limited to fighting. At the end of her speech, all the Bianost elves were on their feet, vowing to do just as she said. Even the royal guards were cheering.

When the noise died, Chathendor asked, “You aren’t remaining to lead them, lady?”

“With or without the rest of you, I’m going back to Khur.”