Paul Thompson - Dargonesti

Ahead of them, at the rear of the audience hall, seven steps led up to a raised platform. Three additional, wider steps led from this platform to the throne dais. The emerald Throne of the Stars sat in silent splendor on the dais.

The beauty of the Tower still moved the Speaker. When he spoke, it was in a whisper. “Behind the throne is a small door. It leads to a tightly spiraling stair that reaches to the battlements near the Tower’s apex.”

“Can we go up?” asked Gundabyr eagerly.

Before the Speaker could reply, an interruption occurred. “Sire, may I enter?” a voice called from the doorway.

They turned and saw an elf standing in the Tower’s main entrance. The Speaker told the newcomer to enter. When he stepped into the moonlight illuminating the hall, they saw he wore the green tabard of a herald. His clothing was muddied, and he obviously had been running hard. His breathing was labored.

“I beg to report attacks, Sire, the first attacks on the city!” he panted.

As these dreadful words rang out, a group of elves appeared in the entrance behind the courier. They crowded into the audience hall. In the group were Druzenalis, Agavenes, and several priests and warriors, Samcadaris among the latter.

Druzenalis boomed, “Majesty, I have received reports that the city is under attack!”

“I have just heard the same news,” the Speaker said dryly. “Herald, where is the enemy?”

“They have attacked from the east, Great Speaker, at the Gate of Astarin.” This was the point at which Vixa and Gundabyr had entered the city. “They have slain the sacred turtle that drew the eastern ferry, and stormed the gatehouse itself,” the herald replied.

The Speaker thrust a finger at Samcadaris. “You,” he said, “take half the royal guard and go to the Astarin Gate. Drive the enemy from our city.”

The young captain saluted crisply. “It shall be done, Great Speaker, or I will not return alive!”

“Sire? Cousin?” Vixa said quickly. “May I join the fight?”

Speaker Elendar smiled faintly. “By all means. I hear your parents are most formidable warriors-especially Lady Verhanna. I welcome her daughter to our ranks. But you cannot meet the enemy unarmed. Druzenalis, give her your sword.”

“Majesty!” The marshal was obviously taken aback. When Vixa had asked to join the battle, he hadn’t bothered to hide his displeasure. His Speaker’s command, however, caused Druzenalis’s pale face to flush. “You cannot mean it. Give up my sword to this … this outsider? ”

The loathing in those words stung her. Vixa held out her hand. The marshal did not move.

One of the Speaker’s silver-white brows rose questioningly. In a calm voice, he said, “Loan my cousin your sword, Marshal. Oblige me.”

Druzenalis yanked the brilliant blade from its scabbard. It was only two feet long-obviously ceremonial. For a moment, Vixa thought she was going to receive it point-first. But he reversed his grip and handed the hilt to her.

“I promise to do it honor, my lord,” Vixa said gravely, though Druzenalis pointedly ignored her. She looked to Gundabyr, who was grinning. “How about you? Want to come?”

He winked. “I got nothin’ better to do right now.”

Vixa, Samcadaris, and the dwarf rushed from the Tower of the Stars, preceded by the mud-spattered herald. Vixa heard heated words flash between the Marshal of Silvanost and his Speaker.

Outdoors, an orange glow lit the night sky. A fire was burning, a big one, in the wooded park that covered much of the south end of the island. Silvanesti elves ran to and fro in the streets, clutching bundles and sometimes weapons. Nevertheless, it was remarkably orderly.

“If Thorbardin were under attack, every dwarf in the kingdom would be at his front door, yelling at the top of his lungs,” Gundabyr said.

“Why?” asked Samcadaris.

“For the enemy to come and face them, of course.”

The dwarf dashed into the palace to retrieve the axe he’d fashioned at Thonbec. A cadre of five hundred elves, the cream of the Silvanesti army, was drawn up and ready in the neighboring street. Samcadaris went to the center of the boulevard and called the subordinate commanders together. He apprised them of the situation, and told them what was expected. In minutes the royal guard was surging through the streets, heading for the embattled Astarin Gate. Gundabyr, axe in hand, ran by Vixa’s side.

They saw a small blaze burning outside the wall when they reached the gate, no doubt started by Gundabyr’s gift of gnomefire. Though it was full night, the glare of the fire made it easy for the oncoming warriors to see the swarm of figures crowded into the open gatehouse. The Dargonesti were easily distinguished by their greater height, and the firelight gave their blue skin an odd tint.

Vixa found herself elbowing past the Silvanesti warriors to get at the enemy first. She was finally going to meet her enslavers on dry land, with a sword in her hand.

Weapons of the fallen littered the street, and Vixa was able to add to her armament a shield. While she paused to take it up, Gundabyr rushed by her with a whoop, leaving the ordered ranks of elves behind.

From the gatehouse roof, a rain of arrows fell. Though the scene was a jumble of blue skin and white, the well-aimed arrows of the Silvanesti archers hit only enemy bodies. Their skill was marvelous to behold. The hail of missiles was all that kept the Dargonesti from breaking through the shelter of the gate and rampaging through the city streets.

Some of the sea elves formed a line of green shields across the open gate and held off the Silvanesti defenders as others started to climb the steps inside the gatehouse to get at the pesky archers on the roof. All the while, flames leapt up from the other side of the wall, bathing the scene in hellish, shifting light.

The royal guard charged, hacking at the opposing side with their swords. Vixa traded a few blows with a spear carrier. As she closed in, she realized that this sea elf looked different from those she’d encountered in Urione. Though still fully seven feet tall, his skin was a much lighter blue and his hair was silver, not green. It was bound in a thick braid that reached below his shoulder blades, the braid studded with dozens of tiny shells. A large pearl dangled from a tiny hole in his right earlobe. He and his compatriots must be the Dimernesti, or shoal elves, she’d heard were fighting alongside Coryphene’s troops.

Screams rang out above. Some of the Silvanesti archers tumbled from the gatehouse roof, thrown down by Dimernesti who’d gained the heights. Vixa saw quickly that the real battle was up there. She backed out of range and shouted to Gundabyr, “Can you climb?”

He saw the danger, too. “You bet. After you, Princess!”

She ran around to the side of the white marble gatehouse. Here, in the quiet shadows, the wounded had crawled away to suffer or die. There was no time to help them. The Qualinesti princess and the dwarf hurried to the foot of the gatehouse wall. The marble was smooth as glass, offering no handholds.

“That line of windows, up there!” Gundabyr said, pointing. “It must be a stairwell.”

Vixa made a stirrup of her hands. Shaking his head, the dwarf told her, “You may be a warrior-hero, Princess, but you couldn’t lift me. Climb on!”

He slapped his broad shoulders. Vixa wasted no time arguing. She placed one foot on his bent knee and clambered up to his shoulders. Gundabyr swayed and grunted, but he held. The added height allowed Vixa to reach the sill of the lowest window. She hauled herself up. The dwarf’s guess had been correct-she found herself in a dimly lit stairwell.

“Princess! Catch!” Vixa leaned out the window. Gundabyr extended a discarded spear. He climbed the shaft as she anchored it, throwing her weight against the pull of his. Weeks of slavery had thinned the stocky dwarf sufficiently that he was able, just barely, to squeeze into the narrow window opening.