Roland Green - The Wayward Knights

Bad news, but not the worst. The enemy was starting in the south, so that Gerik's armed band was between them and most of the refugees. The southernmost ones had departed the earliest, were the farthest along, and had the best chance of hiding in the forests even without the help of the kender.

Also, a small band with good archers had several natural ambush sites against a larger force coming up from the south. To Gerik, the best seemed where the trail came up from Forge Vale, said to have once been home to a dwarven band working bog iron.

"Of course, that must have been in the time of Vinas Solamnus," Gerik added. "But then, the tales run that most of this land was bog then, so perhaps there's truth in it."

More important was there being truth in the kender's tale. Gerik would be risking not only his life and that of nearly thirty of his best fighters, but the last sure shield for Tirabot's people. Hiding in the forest was more likely to mean starvation than safety, and even kender might betray hiding places or cease to give help if enough of their homes were burned and enough of their kin slaughtered.

House Dirivan had gone too far to draw back, so the only target Gerik had now was the fighting spirit of their men. Kill enough of those, and the spirit might break, ending the pursuit.

He had begun with law and hoped to stay with it. Now it would end with killing. He said as much to Bertsa Wylum.

"I've never yet seen a sheet of parchment that could turn a sword cut," she said. Then she slapped his armored shoulder. "But I've never yet seen anyone get through a sword blade to tear the scroll of laws behind it, either."

The gods (at least those named by men as True Gods) contemplated the battle unfolding on Suivinari Island.

Having held the balance, they had done all that was permitted them. Victory or defeat, life or death, now lay in the hands of those on the island.

Wilthur the Brown was far too busy to contemplate anything. Having gathered in vitality from so many of the dead, he could now choose whether to send it to his Creation, his defenses, or himself.

Taking it into himself would aid only his flight, and he sensed that his flight beyond the island would not be unopposed.

He had no further communication with the Creation. A pity it was so self-willed, but to live in the sea he had deemed that degree of intelligence necessary. Now, however, it was shutting him out, from pride at fighting its own battle against a foe ready to hand.

He trusted it would succeed. Strengthened as he could have made it, its victory would be certain. Now, the only certainty was delaying his enemies, perhaps at a great price. Of course, if the Creation gained victory by its own strength, it might be a menace to him until he brought it under control, or the gods dealt with it for their own purposes and in their own good time. Perhaps delay was enough.

Certainly it had its uses. Given time, he could pour the vitality into the other defenses. He had too few for comfort, but they should not be too few to halt his enemies.

Messages poured over Pirvan like a tropical downpour.

Tarothin was dead. This was no surprise. Grief, yes, but not a surprise.

The last of the birds were gone. So were the last of the snakes.

All minotaurs and humans who had intended to land had either landed or died trying.

The Smoker was emitting steam from both old and new vents.

The mouth of the cave where Darin's party had entered the Smoker had collapsed. Pirvan could barely keep a sober countenance at this. He swore the messenger to silence.

The minotaurs had found a cave in the flank of the Smoker, perhaps the opening to an underground passage into the bowels of the mountains. They were continuing their advance on the surface, but Zeskuk and Lujimar had led a strong party of warriors underground.

A minotaur brought this last message, going first to Fulvura. She ordered him to Pirvan, with a peremptory gesture that was nearly a blow. The messenger bridled; all six of Fulvura's companions glared at him; the messenger obeyed. No need to fear anything from Fulvura, Pirvan decided. But what were Zeskuk and Lujimar doing, plunging down into darkness that might already have swallowed up Darin, Torvik, and their company?

"If we follow them, at least we'll all be buried in the same grave," he muttered.

An eloquent look from Haimya told him that he had spoken nearly loud enough to be heard by others besides herself. Pirvan shook his head, which did not help. He drank from his water bottle, which was empty when he put it down, but that did help. With his head clearing and his throat capable of speech, he called to all within hearing.

"The minotaurs say they have a way into the mountain. Let us be quick to join them."

"Not so quick that we fall over from the heat," someone shouted.

"Quick enough that we can help them if they need it," shouted another with a Karthayan accent.

Pirvan and Haimya exchanged glances. Both seemed to wonder alike: would helping the minotaurs honor or shame them?

It hardly mattered. It would be madness to turn back from victory now. Also, minotaurs were always proud, much less often foolish.

Pirvan pushed his way through the crowd, toward Fulvura, to ask her counsel. It seemed as if the ground had sprouted messengers, so many that if all had been armed they could have fought for a none-too-small barony. Or, under his son's banner, driven House Dirivan back to the stews from which it should never have been allowed to rise. Gerik's last letter had not inspired confidence in Pirvan.

Pirvan never caught up with Fulvura. She bellowed a war cry, her standard-bearer strode to the front of the minotaur wedge, and the seven were off. The human advance was, briefly, a scramble to keep up with Zeskuk's sister and her warriors.

Sir Darin heaved at a rock that not even he could hope to move alone. Sweat streamed off him, and rough stone scraped his hands raw until others came to help him. Even then, they were all panting as if they'd run a race for life, before the stone moved. They were making a new passage. They would make it, however the battle above ended. But they might not make the new passage in time to do more than avenge their comrades.

Darin realized that they should have held back a few of the smaller fighters to act as messengers. He turned to Rynthala and said, "Find the smallest of those we have left. Tell them to crawl into the upper passage as far as they can. We need to relay messages, to and fro."

Rynthala nodded and strode off. From above a chorus of shouts warred with a heavy splashing. The Creation seemed to have no voice, but Darin could feel the shaking of the rock as it flung itself against the shore of the lake, seeking prey.

A rumble from above turned into a shriek of rock against rock. Then came a shriek of human agony. A man-sized boulder bounced down the barrier, clattering and crashing, trailing dust and rock chips. Behind it rolled a Karthayan fighter, his face a mask of dust and blood and one leg a crushed horror.

The man landed almost at Darin's feet, in a small puddle of water. Darin had not noticed the puddle before, nor the trickle from the rocks that fed it. He wished the lake wouldn't waste its time trickling through the lower passage. If it could just wash out the upper one-

But no. That passage was solid rock. If muscle or water or both together could do anything in time, it would be down here.

"Healers!" Darin shouted. The cave gave back echoes, twice-and thrice-distorted.

Then someone screamed from above. The Creation had found a victim. Darin scrambled back onto the rocks of the barrier. They moved under his weight, as they had not before. He rejoiced, even though they might tumble away under him, and send him to the fate of the fallen man.