Elven Nations Trilogy

Volume Two

The Kinslayer Wars

Douglas Niles

Prologue

Winter, Year of the Ram, 2215 (PC)

"The Emperor arrives–he enters the fortress at the South Gate !"

The cry rang from the walls of Caergoth, blared by a thousand trumpets and heard by

a million ears. Excitement spread through the massive tent city around the great castle,

while the towering fortress itself fairly tingled with anticipation.

The carriage of Emperor Quivalin Soth V, sometimes called Ullves, rumbled through

the huge gates, pulled by a team of twelve white horses, trailed by an escort of five

thousand men. From every parapet, every castellated tower top and high rampart in

sprawling Caergoth, silk-gowned ladies, proud noblemen, and courtiers waved and

cheered.

Sheer, gray-fronted walls of granite towered over the procession, dominating the

surrounding farmlands as a mountain looms over a plain. Four massive gates, each

formed from planks of vallenwood eighty feet long, barred the sides of the great structure

against any conceivable foe–indeed, they proudly bore the scars of dragonbreath,

inflicted during the Second Dragon War more than four centuries earlier.

The interior of Caergoth consisted of winding avenues, tall and narrow gates, stone

buildings crowded together, and always the high walls. They curved about and climbed in

terrace after terrace toward the heart of the massive castle, forming a granite maze for all

who entered.

The carriage trundled through the outer gatehouse with imperial dignity and rolled

along the streets, through open gates, and down the widest avenue toward the center of

the fortress. Banners, in black and deep red and dark blue, hung from the ramparts.

Everywhere the cheering of the crowds thundered around the emperor's coach.

Outside the walls, a vast sea of tents covered the fields around the fortress, and from

these poured the men-at-arms of the emperor's army–some two hundred thousand in all.

Though they did not mingle with the nobles and captains of the fortress, their joy was no

less boisterous. They surged toward the castle in the wake of the emperor's procession,

their shouts and hurrahs penetrating the heavy stone walls.

Finally the procession entered a broad plaza, cool and misty from the spray of a

hundred fountains. Beyond, soaring to the very clouds themselves, arose the true wonder

of Caergoth: the palace of the king. Tall towers jutted up from high walls, and lofty,

peaked roofs seemed distant and unreachable. Crystal windows reflected sunlight in

dazzling rainbows, filtering and flashing their colors through the shimmering haze of the

fountains.

The coach rumbled down the wide, paved roadway to the gates of the palace. These

portals, solid silver shined to mirrorlike brilliance, stood open wide. In their place stood

the royal personage himself, King Trangath II, Lord of Caergoth and most loyal servant

to the Emperor of Ergoth.

Here the royal coach halted. A dozen men-at-arms snapped their halberds to their

chests as the king's own daughter opened the door of the gleaming steel carriage. The

crowd surged across the plaza, even through the pools of the fountains, in an effort to see

the great person who rode within. Around the plaza, from the surrounding walls and

towers, teeming thousands shouted their adulation.

The emperor's green eyes flashed as he stepped from the high vehicle with a grace

that belied his fifty years. His beard and hair now showed streaks of gray, but his iron

will had hardened over his decades of rule until he was known, truthfully, as a ruthless

and determined leader who had led his people into a prosperity they had never before

known.

Now this regal leader, his robe of crimson fur flowing over a black silk tunic

trimmed in platinum, ignored the King of Caergoth, stepping quickly to the three men

who stood silently behind that suddenly embarrassed monarch. Each of these was

bearded and wore a cap and breastplate of gleaming steel plate. Tall boots rose above

their knees, and each held a pair of gauntlets under his arm as he waited to greet the most

powerful man in all of Ansalon.

The shrieks of the crowd reached a crescendo as the emperor seized each of these

men, one after the other, in an embrace of deepest affection. He turned once more and

waved to the masses.

Then Quivalin V led the three men toward the crystal doors of the king's palace. The

portals parted smoothly, and when they closed, the hysteria beyond fell to a muted rumble.

"Find us a place where we can speak privately," the emperor commanded, without

turning to look at King Trangath.

Immediately that royal personage scuttled ahead, bowing obsequiously and

beckoning the emperor's party through a towering door of dark mahogany.

"I hope fervently that my humble library will suit my most esteemed lord's needs,"

the old king huffed, bowing so deeply he tottered for a moment, almost losing his

balance.

Emperor Quivalin said nothing–until he and the three men had entered the library

and the doors had soundlessly closed behind them. A deep black marble floor stretched

into the far comers of the huge room. Above them, the ceiling lofted into the distance, a

dark surface of rich, brown wood. The only light came from high, narrow windows of

crystal; it fell around them as beams of heat and warmth before its reflections vanished in

the light-absorbent darkness of the floor.

Though several soft chairs stood along the walls, none of the men moved to sit.

Instead, the emperor fixed each of the others with a stare of piercing strength and

impelling command.

"You three men are my greatest generals," Quivalin V said, his voice surprisingly

soft beneath the intensity of his gaze. "And now you are the hope and the future of all humankind!"

The three stood a little taller at his words, their shoulders growing a trifle more

broad. The emperor continued. "We have borne the elven savagery long enough. Their

stubborn refusal to allow humans their rightful place in the plains has become too much

to bear. The racial arrogance of their Speaker has turned diplomacy into insults. Our

reasonable demands are mocked. Silvanesti intransigence must be wiped out."

Abruptly Quivalin's gaze flashed to one of the trio–the oldest, if his white beard and

long hair of the same color were any indication. Lines of strain and character marked the

man's face, and his short stature nevertheless bespoke a quiet, contained power.

"Now, High General Barnet, tell me your plans."

The older warrior cleared his throat. A veteran of four decades of service to this

emperor–and to Quivalin IV before him–Barnet nevertheless couldn't entirely calm himself

in the face of that august presence.

"Excellency, we will advance into the plains in three great wings–a powerful thrust

from the center, and two great hooks to the north and south. I myself will command the

central wing–a thousand heavy lancers and fifty thousand sturdy footmen with metal

armor, shields, and pikes. Sailors and woodsmen from Daltigoth and the south, mainly,

including ten thousand with crossbows.

"We shall drive directly toward Sithelbec, which we know is the heart of the elven

defense–a place the elven general must defend. Our aim is to force the enemy into

combat before us, while the northern and southern wings complete the encirclement.

They will serve as the mobile hammers, gathering the enemy against the anvil of my own

solid force."

High General Barnett looked to one of his co-commanders. "General Xalthan

commands the southern wing."

Xalthan, a red-bearded warrior with bristling eyebrows and missing front teeth,

seemed to glower at the emperor with a savage aspect, but this was simply an effect of his

warlike appearance. His voice, as he spoke, was deferential. "I have three brigades of

heavy lancers, Excellency, and as many footmen as Barnett–armored in leather, to move

more quickly."

Xalthan seemed to hesitate a moment, as if embarrassed, then he plunged boldly

ahead. "The gnomish artillery, I must admit, has not lived up to expectations. But their

engineers are busy even as we speak. I feel certain that the lava cannons will be activated

early in the campaign."

The emperor's eyes narrowed slightly at the news. No one saw the facial gesture

except for Xalthan, but the other two noticed that veteran commander's ruddy complexion

grow visibly pale.

"And you, Giarna?" asked the emperor, turning to the third man. "How goes the

grandest campaign of the Boy General?"

Giarna, whose youthfulness was apparent in his smooth skin and soft, curling beard,

didn't react to his nickname. Instead, he stood easily, with a casualness that might have

been interpreted as insolence, except there was crisp respect reflected in his expression as

he pondered his answer. Even so, his eyes unsettled the watchers, even the emperor. They

were dark and full of a deep and abiding menace that made him seem older than his

years.

The other two generals scowled privately at the young man. After all, it was common

knowledge that Giarna's favored status with the emperor was due more to the Duchess

Suzine des Quivalin–niece of the emperor, and reputed mistress to the general

himself–than to any inherent military skill.

Still, Giarna's battle prowess, demonstrated against rebellious keeps across the

Vingaard Plains, was grudgingly admitted even by his critics. It was his mastery of strategy,

not his individual courage or his grasp of tactics, that had yet to be proven.

Under ordinary circumstances, General Giarna's army command skills would not

have been tested on the battlefield for some years yet–until he was older and more seasoned.

However, a recent rash of tragic accidents–a panicked horse bucking, a jealous

husband returning home, and a misunderstood command to retreat–had cost the lives of

the three generals who had stood in line for this post. Thus Giarna, youthful though he

was, had been given his opportunity.

Now he stood proudly before his emperor and replied.

"My force is the smallest, Excellency, but also the fastest. I have twenty thousand

riders–horse archers and lancers–and also ten thousand footmen each of sword and

longbowmen. It is my intention to march swiftly and come between the Wildrunners and

their base in Sithelbec. Then I will wait for Kith-Kanan to come to me, and I will shred

his army with my arrows and my horsemen."

Giarna made his report coolly, without so much as a nod to his peers, as if the other

two commanders were excessive baggage on this, the Boy General's first great

expedition. The older generals fumed; the implication was not lost on them.

Nor on the emperor. Quivalin V smiled at the plans of his generals. Beyond the walls

of the cavernous library, within the vast palace, the roar of the admiring crowd could still

be heard.

Abruptly the emperor clapped his hands, the sound echoing sharply through the large

chamber. A side door to the room opened, and a woman advanced across the gleaming

marble. Even the two older generals, both of whom distrusted and resented her, would

have admitted that her beauty was stunning.

Her hair, of coppery red, spiraled around a diamond-encrusted tiara of rich platinum.

A gown of green silk conformed to the full outline of her breasts and hips, accented by a

belt of rubies and emeralds that enclosed her narrow waist. But it was her face that was

most striking, with her high cheekbones and proud, narrow chin and, most significant, her

eyes. They glowed with the same vibrance as the emeralds on her belt, the almost

unnatural green of the Quivalin line.

Suzine Des Quivalin curtsied deeply to her uncle, the emperor. Her eyes remained

downcast as she awaited his questions.

"What can you tell us about the state of the enemy's forces?" asked the ruler. "Has

your mirror been of use in this regard?"

"Indeed, Excellency," she replied. "Though the range to the elven army is great,

conditions have been good. I have been able to see much.

"The elven general, Kith-Kanan, has deployed his forces in thin screens throughout

the plain, well forward of the fortress of Sithelbec. He has few horsemen–perhaps five

hundred, certainly less than a thousand. Any one of your army's wings will outnumber his

entire force, perhaps by a factor of two or three."

"Splendid," noted Quivalin. Again he clapped, this time twice.

The figure that emerged from a different door was perhaps as opposite from the

woman as was conceivable. Suzine turned to leave as this stocky individual clumped into

the room. She paused only long enough to meet Giarna's gaze, as if she was searching for

something in his eyes. Whatever it was, she didn't find it. She saw nothing but the dark,

insatiable hunger for war. In another moment, she disappeared through the same door she

had entered.

In the meantime, the other figure advanced toward the four men. The newcomer was

stooped, almost apelike in posture, and barely four feet tall. His face was grotesque, an

effect accentuated by his leering grin. And where Suzine's eyes crowned her beauty with

pride and dignity, the mad, staring eyes of the dwarf showed white all around the tiny

pupils and seemed to dart frantically from person to person.

If he felt any repugnance at the dwarf's appearance, the emperor didn't show it.

Instead, he simply asked a question.

"What is the status of Thorbardin's involvement?"

"Most Exalted One, my own dwarves of the Theiwar Clan offer you their

unequivocal support. We share your hatred of the arrogant elves and wish nothing more

than their defeat and destruction."

"Nothing more, unless it be a sum of profit in the bargain," remarked the emperor,

his voice neutral.

The dwarf bowed again, too thick-skinned to be offended. "Your Eminence may take

reassurance from the fact that loyalty purchased is always owed to the wealthiest

patron–and here you have no competition in all of Krynn."

"Indeed," Quivalin added dryly. "But what of the other dwarves–the Hylar, the

Daergar?"

"Alas," sighed the Theiwar dwarf. "They have not been so open-minded as my own

clan. The Hylar, in particular, seem bound by ancient treaties and affections. Our influence

is great, but thus far insufficient to break these ties."

The dwarf lowered his voice conspiratorially. "However, your lordliness, we have an

agent in place–a Theiwar–and should be able to ensure that little excess of comfort is

delivered to your enemies."

"Splendid," agreed the emperor. If he was curious as to the precise identity of the

Theiwar agent, he gave no sign. "A vigorous season of warfare should bring them to heel.

I hope to drive them from the plains before winter. The elven cowards will be ready to

sign a treaty by spring!"

The emperor's eyes suddenly glowed with dull fire, the calculated sense of power

and brutality that had allowed him to send thousands of men to their deaths in a dozen of

his empire's wars. They flamed brighter at the thought of the arrogance of the long-lived

elves and their accursed stubbornness. His voice became a growl.

"But if they continue to resist, we will not be content to wage war on the plains.

Then you will march on the elven capital itself. If it is necessary to prove our might, we

will reduce Silvanost itself to ashes."

The generals bowed to their ruler, determined to do his bidding. Two of them felt

fear–fear of his power and his whim. Beads of sweat collected upon their foreheads, dripping

unnoticed down cheeks and beards.

General Giarna's brow, however, remained quite dry.

P ART 1: A T ASTE OF K ILLING

1

Late Winter, Year of the Raven,

2214 (PC)

The forest vanished into the distance on all sides, comfortingly huge, eternal, and

unchanging. That expanse was the true heart, the most enduring symbol, of the elven nation

of Silvanesti. The towering pines, with lush green needles so dark they were almost

black, dominated, but glades of oak and maple, aspen, and birch flourished in many isolated

pockets, giving the forest a diverse and ever-changing character.

Only from a truly exalted vantage–such as from the Tower of the Stars, the central

feature of Silvanost–could the view be fully appreciated. This was where Sithas, Speaker

of the Stars and ruler of Silvanesti, came to meditate and contemplate.

The sky loomed vast and distant overhead, a dome of black filled with glittering

pinpoints of light. Krynn's moons had not yet risen, and this made the pristine beauty of

the stars more brilliant, more commanding.

For a long time, Sithas stood at the lip of the tower's parapet. He found comfort in

the stars and in the deep and eternal woods beyond this island, beyond this city. Sithas

sensed that the forest was the true symbol of his people's supremacy. Like the great

trunks of forest giants, the ancient, centuries-living elves stood above the scurrying,

scampering lesser creatures of the world.

Finally the Speaker of the Stars lowered his eyes to look upon that city, and

immediately the sense of peace and splendor he had known dissipated. Instead, his mind

focused on Silvanost, the ancient elven capital, the city that held his palace and his

throne.

Faint traces of a drunken chant rose through the night air to disturb his ears. The

song thrummed in the guttural basso of dwarves, as if to mock his concern and

consternation.

Dwarves! They are everywhere in Silvanost! Everywhere, in the city of elves, he

thought grimly.

Yet the dwarves were a necessary evil, Sithas admitted with a sigh. The war with the

humans called for extremely careful negotiations with powerful Thorbardin, the dwarven

stronghold south of the disputed lands. The power of that vast and warlike nation, thrown

behind either human Ergoth or elven Silvanesti, could well prove decisive.

Once, a year earlier, the Speaker of the Stars had assumed the dwarves were firmly

in the elven camp. His negotiations with the esteemed Hylar dwarf Dunbarth Ironthumb

had presented a unified front against human encroachment. Sithas had assumed that

dwarven troops would soon stand beside the elves in the disputed plainslands.

Yet, to date, King Hal-Waith of Thorbardin had not yet sent a single regiment of

dwarven fighters, nor had he released to Kith-Kanan's growing army any of the great

stocks of dwarven weapons. The patient dwarves were not about to be hurried into any

rash wars.

So a dwarven diplomatic mission was a necessity in Silvanost. And now that war had

begun, such missions required sizable escorts–in the case of the recently arrived dwarven

general Than-Kar, some one thousand loyal axemen.

Surprising himself, Sithas thought with fondness of the previous dwarven

ambassador. Dunbarth Ironthumb had fully possessed all the usual uncouthness of a

dwarf, but he also had a sense of humor and was self-effacing, traits that had relaxed and

amused Sithas.

Than-Kar had none of these traits. A swarthy complected Theiwar, the general was

rude to the point of belligerence. Impatient and uncooperative, the ambassador actually

seemed to act as an impediment to communication.

Take, for example, the messenger who had arrived from Thorbardin more than a

week ago. This dwarf, after his months'-long march, must certainly have brought important

news from the dwarven king. Yet, Than-Kar had said nothing, had not even

requested an audience with the Speaker of the Stars. This was the reason for the

conference Sithas had scheduled for the morrow, peremptorily summoning Than-Kar to

the meeting in order to find out what the Theiwar knew.

His mood as thick as the night, Sithas let his gaze follow the dark outlines of the

river Thon-Thalas, the wide waterway surrounding Silvanost and its island. The water

was smooth, and he could see starlight reflected in its crystal surface. Then the breeze

rose again, clouding the surface with ripples and washing the chant of the dwarven

axemen away.

Seeing the river, the Speaker's mind filled with a new and most unwelcome memory,

a scene as clear in its every detail as it was painful in its recollection. Two weeks ago or

more it was now, yet it might as well have been that very morning. That was when the

newly recruited regiments had departed westward, to join Kith-Kanan's forces.

The long columns of warriors had lined the riverbank, waiting their turns to board

the ferry and cross. From the far bank of the Thon-Thalas, they were about to begin their

long march to the disputed lands, five hundred miles to the west. Their five thousand

spears, swords, and longbows would prove an important addition to the Wildrunners.

Yet, for the first time in the history of Silvanesti, the elves had needed to be bribed

into taking up arms for their Speaker, their nation. A hundred steel bounty, paid upon

recruitment, had been offered as incentive. Even this had not brought volunteers flocking

to the colors, though after several weeks of recruitment regiments of sufficient size had

finally been raised.

And then there had been the scene at the riverbank.

The cleric Miritelisina had just recently emerged from the cell where Sithas's father,

Sithel, had thrown her for treason a year earlier. The matriarch of the faith of Quenesti

Pah, benign goddess of healing and health, Miritelisina had voiced loud objections to the

war with the humans. She had had the audacity to lead a group of elven females in a

shrill, hysterical protest against the conflict with Ergoth. It had been a sickening display,

worthy more of humans than of elves. Yet the cleric had enjoyed a surprisingly large

amount of support from the onlooking citizens of Silvanesti.

Sithas had promptly ordered Miritelisina back to prison, and his guard had disrupted

the gathering with crisp efficiency. Several females had been wounded, one fatally. At

the same time, one of the heavily laden river craft had overturned, drowning several

newly recruited elves. All in all, these were bad omens.

At least, the Speaker realized, the outbreak of war had driven the last humans from

the city. The pathetic refugees of the troubles on the plains–many with elven spouses–had

marched back to their homelands. Those who could fight had joined the Wildrunners, the

army of Silvanost, centered around the members of the House Protectorate. The others

had taken shelter in the great fortress of Sithelbec. Ironic, thought Sithas, that humans

married to elves should be sheltered in an elven fortress, safe against the onslaught of

human armies!

Still, in every other way, the city that Sithas loved seemed to be slipping further and

further from his control.

His gaze lingered to the west, rising to the horizon, and he wished he could see

beyond. Kith-Kanan was there somewhere under this same star-studded sky. His twin

brother might even be looking eastward at this moment; at least, Sithas wanted to believe

that he felt some contact.

For a moment, Sithas found himself wishing that his father still lived. How he

missed Sithel's wisdom, his steady counsel and firm guidance! Had his father ever known

these doubts, these insecurities? The idea seemed impossible to the son. Sithel had been a

pillar of strength and conviction. He would not have wavered in his pursuit of this war in

the protection of the elven nation against outside corruption.

The purity of the elven race was a gift of the gods, with its longevity and its serene

majesty. Now that purity was threatened–by human blood, to be sure, but also by ideas of

intermingling, trade, artisanship, and social tolerance.

The nation faced a very crucial time indeed. In the west, he knew, elves and humans

had begun to intermarry with disturbing frequency, giving birth to a whole bastard race of

half-elves.

By all the gods, it was an abomination, an affront to the heavens themselves! Sithas

felt his face flush, and his hands clenched. If he had worn a sword, he would have seized

it then, so powerfully did the urge to fight come over him. The elves must prevail–they

would prevail!

Again he felt his distance from the conflict, and it loomed as a yawning chasm of

frustration before him. As yet they had received no word of battle, although he knew that

nearly a month earlier, the great invasion had begun. His brother had reported three great

human columns, all moving purposefully into the plainslands. Sithas wanted to go and

fight himself, to lend his strength to winning the war, and it was all he could do to hold

himself back. Inevitably his sense of reason prevailed.

At times, the war seemed so far away, so unreachable. Yet, other times, he found it

beside him, here in Silvanost, in his palace, in his thoughts ... in his very bedroom.

His bedroom. Sithas gave a rueful smile and shook his head in wonder. He thought

of Hermathya, how months earlier his feelings for her had approached loathing.

Yet with the coming of war, a change had come over his wife as well. Now she

supported him as never before, standing beside him every day against the complaints and

pettiness of his people ... and lying beside him every night as well.

He heard, or perhaps he felt, the soft rustle of silk, and then she was beside him. He

breathed a deep sigh–a sound of contentment and satisfaction. The two of them stood

alone, six hundred feet above the city, atop the Tower of the Stars, beneath the brilliant

light shower of its namesake.

Her mouth, with its round lips so unusually full for an elf, was creased by the trace of

a smile–a sly, secret smile that he found strangely beguiling. She stood beside him,

touching a hand to his chest and leaning her head on his shoulder.

He smelled her hair, rich with the scent of lilacs, yet in color as bright as copper. Her

smooth skin glowed with a milky luminescence, and he felt her warm lips upon his neck.

A warm rush of desire swept through him, fading only slightly as she relaxed and stood

beside him in silence.

Sithas thought of his volatile wife–how pleasant it was to have her come to him thus,

and how rare such instances had been in the past. Hermathya was a proud and beautiful

elf woman, used to getting her own way. Sometimes he wondered if she regretted their

marriage, arranged by their parents. Once, he knew, she had been the lover of his

brother–indeed, Kith-Kanan had rebelled against his father's authority and fled Silvanost

when her engagement to Sithas had been announced. Did she ever regret her choice?

How well had she calculated her future as wife of the Speaker of the Stars? He did not

know–perhaps, in fact, he was afraid to ask her.

"Have you seen my cousin yet?" she asked after a few minutes.

"Lord Quimant? Yes, he came to the Hall of Balif earlier today. I must say, he seems

to have an excellent grip on the problems of weapon production. He knows mining,

smelting, and smithing. His aid is much needed ... and would be much appreciated. We

are not a nation of weaponsmiths like the dwarves."

"Clan Oakleaf has long made the finest of elven blades," Hermathya replied proudly.

"That is known throughout Silvanesti."

"It is not the quality that worries me, my dear. It is in the quantity of weapons that

we lag sadly behind the humans, and the dwarves. We cleaned out the royal armories in

order to outfit the last regiments we sent to the west."

"Quimant will solve your problems, I'm certain. Will he be coming to Silvanost?"

The estate of Clan Oakleaf lay to the north of the elven capital, near the mines where

they excavated the iron for their small foundries. The clan, the central power behind

House Metalline, was the primary producer of weapons-quality steel in the kingdom of

Silvanesti. Lately its influence had grown, due to the necessity of increased weapons

production brought on by the war. The mines were worked by slaves, mostly human and

Kagonesti elves, but this was a fact Sithas had to accept because of his nation's emergency.

Lord Quimant, the son of Hermathya's eldest uncle, was being groomed as the

spokesman and leader of Clan Oakleaf, and his services for the estate were important.

"I believe he will. I've offered him chambers in the palace, as well as incentives for

the Oakleaf clan–mineral rights, steady supplies of coal ... and labor."

"It would be wonderful to have some of my family around again." Hermathya's voice

rose, joyful as a young girl's. "This can be such a lonely place, with all of your attention

directed to the war."

He lowered his hand, sliding it along the smooth silk of her gown, down her back,

his strong fingers caressing her. She sighed and held him tighter. "Well, maybe not all of

your attention," she added, with a soft laugh.

Sithas wanted to tell her what a comfort she had been to him, how much she had

eased the burdens of his role as leader of the elven nation. He wondered at the change

that had come over her, but he said nothing. That was his nature, and perhaps his

weakness.

It was Hermathya who next spoke.

"There is another thing I must tell you …."

"Good news or bad?" he asked, idly curious.

"You will need to judge that for yourself, though I suspect you will be pleased."

He turned to look at her, holding both of his hands on her shoulders. That secret

smile still played about her lips.

"Well?" he demanded, feigning impatience. "Don't tease me all night! Tell me."

"You and I, great Speaker of the Stars, are going to have a baby. An heir."

Sithas gaped at her, unaware that his jaw had dropped in a most unelven lack of

dignity. His mind reeled, and a profound explosion of joy rose within his heart. He

wanted to shout his delight from the tower top, to let the word ring through the city like a

prideful cry.

For a moment, he truly forgot about everything–the war, the dwarves, the logistics

and weapons that had occupied him. He pulled his wife to him and kissed her. He held

her for a long time under the starlight, above the city that had so troubled him earlier.

But for now, all was right with the world.

* * * * *

The next day, Than-Kar came to see Sithas, though the Theiwar dwarf arrived nearly

fifteen minutes after the time indicated in the Speaker's summons.

Sithas awaited him, impatiently seated upon the great emerald throne of his

ancestors, located in the center of the great Hall of Audience. This vast chamber occupied

the base of the Tower of the Stars, with its sheer walls soaring upward into the dizzying

heights. Above, six hundred feet over their heads, the top of the tower stood open to the

sky.

Than-Kar clumped into the hall at the head of a column of twelve bodyguards,

almost as if he expected ambush. Twoscore elves of the House Protectorate–the royal

guard of Silvanesti–snapped to attention around the periphery of the hall.

The Theiwar sniffed his nose loudly, the rude gesture echoing through the hall, as he

approached the Speaker. Sithas studied the dwarf, carefully masking his distaste.

Like all Theiwar dwarves, Than-Kar's eyes seemed to stare wildly, with the whites

showing all around the pinpoint pupils. His lips curled in a perpetual sneer, and despite

his ambassadorial station, his beard and hair remained unkempt, his leather clothes filthy.

How unlike Dunbarth Ironthumb!

The Theiwar bowed perfunctorily and then looked up at Sithas, his beady eyes

glittering with antagonism.

"We'll make this brief," said the elf coldly. "I desire to know what word has come

from your king. He has had time to reply, and the questions we have sent have not been

formally answered."

"As a matter of fact, I was preparing my written reply when your courier interrupted

me with this summons yesterday. I had to delay my progress in order to hasten to this

meeting."

Yes, Than-Kar must have made haste, for he obviously hadn't taken time to run a

comb through his hair or change his grease-spattered tunic, thought Sithas. The Speaker

held his tongue, albeit with difficulty.

"However, insofar as I am here and taking up the speaker's valuable time, I can

summarize the message that I have received from Thorbardin."

"Please, do," Sithas requested dryly.

"The Royal Council of Thorbardin finds that, to date, there is insufficient cause to

support elven warmaking in the plains," announced the dwarf bluntly.

"What?" Sithas stiffened, no longer able to retain his impassive demeanor. "That is a

contradiction of everything our meetings with Dunbarth established! Surely you–your

people–recognize that the human threat extends beyond mere grazing rights on the

plains!"

"There is no evidence of a threat to our interests."

"No threat?" The elf cut him off rudely. "You know humans, they will stretch and

grab whatever they can. They will seize our plains, your mountains, the forest–-

everything!"

Than-Kar regarded him coolly, those wide, staring eyes seeming to gleam with

delight. Abruptly Sithas realized that he was wasting his time with this arrogant Theiwar.

Angrily he stood, half fearing that he would strike out at the dwarf and very much

desiring to do just that. Still, enough of his dignity and self-control remained to stay his

hand. After all, a war with the dwarves was the last thing they needed right now.

"This conference is concluded," he said stiffly.

Than-Kar nodded–smugly, Sithas thought–and turned to lead his escort from the hall.

Sithas stared after the dwarven ambassador, his anger still seething. He would not–he

could not–allow this to be the final impasse!

But what else could he do? No ideas arrived to lighten the oppressive burden of his

mood.

2

Spring, 2214 (PC)

The horse pranced nervously along the ridgetop, staying within the protective foliage

of the tree line. Thick, bluegreen pines enclosed the mount and its elven rider on three

sides. Finally the great stallion Kijo stood still, allowing Kith-Kanan to peer through the

moist, aromatic branches to the vast expanse of open country beyond.

Nearby, two of the Wildrunners–Kith's personal bodyguards–sat alertly in their

saddles, swords drawn and eyes alert. Those elves, too, were nervous at the sight of their

leader possibly exposing himself to the threat in the valley below.

And what a threat it was! The long column of the human army snaked into the

distance as far as the keen-eyed elves could see from their vantage on the ridgetop. The

vanguard of the army, a company of heavily armored lancers riding huge, lumbering

war-horses, had already passed them by.

Now ranks of spearmen, thousands upon thousands, marched past, perhaps a mile

away down the gradually sloping ridge. This was the central wing of the massive Army

of Ergoth, which followed the most direct route toward Sithelbec and presented the most

immediate threat to the Wildrunners. Kith-Kanan turned with a grim smile, and Kijo

pranced into the deeper shelter of the forest.

The commander of the Wildrunners knew his force was ready for this, the opening

battle of his nation's first war in over four centuries. Not since the Second Dragon War

had the elves of the House Protectorate taken to the field to defend their nation against an

external threat.

The ring on his finger–the Ring of Balifor–had been given to his father as a reminder

of the alliance between kender and elves during the Second Dragon War. Now he wore it

and prepared to do battle in a new cause. For a moment, he wondered what this war

would be named when Astinus took up his pen to scribe the tale in his great annals.

Though Kith-Kanan was young for an elf–he had been born a mere ninety-three

years ago–he felt the weight of long tradition riding in the saddle with him. He knew no

compelling hatred toward these humans, yet he recognized the threat they presented. If

they weren't stopped here, half of Silvanesti would be gobbled up by the rapacious human

settlers, and the elves would be driven into a small corner of their once vast holdings.

The humans had to be defeated. It was Kith-Kanan's job, as commander of the

Wildrunners, to see that the elven nation was victorious.

Another figure moved through the trees, bringing the bodyguards' swords swooshing

forth, until they recognized the rider.

"Sergeant-Major Parnigar." Kith-Kanan nodded to the veteran Wildrunner, his chief

aide and most reliable scout. The sergeant was dressed in leather armor of green and

brown, and he rode a stocky, nimble pony.

"The companies are in place, sir–the riders behind the ridge, with a thousand elves of

Silvanost bearing pike behind them." Parnigar, a veteran warrior who had fought in the

Second Dragon War, had helped recruit the first wild elves into Kith-Kanan's force. Now

he reported on their readiness to die for that cause. "The Kagonesti archers are well

hidden and well supplied. We can only hope the humans react as we desire."

Parnigar looked skeptical as he spoke, but Kith suspected this was just the elf's

cautious nature. The sergeant's face was as gray and leathery as an old map. His strapping

arms rested on the pommel of his saddle with deceptive ease. His green eyes missed

nothing. Even as he talked to his general, the sergeant-major was scanning the horizon.

Parnigar slouched casually in his saddle, his posture more like a human's than an

elf's. Indeed, the veteran had taken a human wife some years before, and in many ways

he seemed to enjoy the company of the short-lived race. He spoke quickly and moved

with a certain restless agitation–both characteristics that tended to mark humans far more

typically than elves.

Yet Parnigar knew his roots. He was an heir of the House Protectorate and had

served in the Wildrunners since he had first learned to handle a sword. He was the most

capable warrior that Kith-Kanan knew, and the elven general was glad to have him at his

side.

"The human scouts have been slain by ambush," KithKanan told him. "Their army

has lost its eyes. It is almost time. Come, ride with me."

The commander of the Wildrunners nudged Kijo's flanks with his knees, and the

stallion exploded into a dash through the forest. So nimble was the horse's step that he

dashed around tree trunks with Kith-Kanan virtually a blur. Parnigar raced behind, with

the two hapless guards spurring their steeds in a losing struggle to keep pace.

For several minutes, the pair dashed through the forest, the riders' faces lashed by

pine needles, but the horses' hooves landing true. Abruptly the trees stopped, exposing

the wide, gently rolling ridgetop. Below, to the right, marched the endless army of

humankind.

Kith-Kanan nudged Kijo again, and the stallion burst into view of the humans below.

The elven general's blond hair trailed in the sun behind him, for his helmet remained

lashed to the back of his saddle. As he rode, he raised a steel-mailed fist.

He made a grand figure, racing along the crest of the hill above the teeming mass of

his enemy. Like his twin brother Sithas, his face was handsome and proud, with

prominent cheekbones and a sharp, strong chin. Though he was slender–like every one of

his race–his tall physique lifted him above the deep pommels of the saddle.

Instantly the trumpeters of Silvanost sprang to their feet. They had lain in the grass

along this portion of the crest. Raising their golden horns in unison, they brayed a challenge

across the rolling prairie below. Behind the trumpeters, concealed from the humans

by the crest of the ridge, the elven riders mounted their horses while the bowmen knelt in

the tall grass, waiting for the command to action.

The great column of humans staggered like a confused centipede. Men turned to

gape at the spectacle, observing pennants and banners that burst from the woods in a riotous

display of color. All order vanished from the march as each soldier instinctively

yielded to astonishment and the beginnings of fear.

Then the human army gasped, for the elven riders abruptly swarmed over the

ridgetop in a long, precise line. Horses pranced, raising their forefeet in a high trot, while

banners unfurled overhead and steel lance tips gleamed before them. They numbered but

five hundred, yet every human who saw them swore later that they were attacked by

thousands of elven riders.

Onward the elven horsemen came, their line remaining parade-ground sharp. On the

valley floor, some of the humans broke and ran, while others raised spears or swords,

ready and even eager for battle.

From the front of the vast human column, the huge brigade of heavy lancers turned

its mighty war-horses toward the flank. Yet they were two miles away, and their companies

quickly lost coherence as they struggled around other regiments–the footmen–that

were caught behind them.

The elven riders raced closer to the center of the column, the thunder of their hooves

crashing and shaking the earth. Then, two hundred feet from their target, they stopped.

Each of the five hundred horses pivoted, and from the dust of the sudden maneuver, five

hundred arrows arced forth, over the great blocks of humans and then down, like deadly

hawks seeking out their terrified victims.

Another volley ripped into the human ranks, and suddenly the elven riders retreated,

dashing across the same ridge they had charged down mere moments before.

In that same instant, the humans realized they were going to be robbed of the

satisfaction of fighting, and a roar of outrage erupted from ten thousand throats. Swords

raised, shields brandished, men broke from the column without command of their

captains, chasing and cursing the elven riders. The enraged mob swept up the slope in

chaotic disarray, united only in its fury.

Abruptly a trumpet cry rang from the low summit, and ranks of green-clad elves

appeared in the grass before the charging humans, as if they had suddenly sprouted from

the ground.

In the next instant, the sky darkened beneath a shower of keen elven arrows, their

steel tips gleaming in the sunlight as they arced high above the humans, then tipped in

their inevitable descent. Even before the first volley fell, another rippled outward, as

steady and irresistible as hail.

The arrows tore into the human ranks with no regard for armor, rank, or quickness.

Instead, the deadly rain showered the mob with complete randomness, puncturing steel

helmets and breastplates and slicing through leather shoulder pads. Shrieks and cries

from the wounded rose in hysterical chorus, while other humans fell silently, writhing in

mute agony or lying still upon the now-reddening grass.

Again and again the arrows soared outward, and the mob wavered in its onrush.

Bodies littered the field. Some of these crawled or squirmed pathetically toward safety,

ignored by the mindless rush of the others.

As more of them died, fear rose like a palpable cloud over the heads of the humans.

Then, by twos and fives and tens, they turned and raced back toward the rest of the

column. Finally they retreated in hundreds, harried back down the newly mud-covered

slope by pursuing missile fire. As they vanished, so did the elven archers, withdrawing at

a trot over the crest of the ridge.

At last the human heavy lancers approached, and a cheer rose from the rest of the

great army. A thousand bold knights, clad in armor from head to toe, urged their massive

horses onward. The great beasts lumbered like monsters, buried beneath clanking plates

of barding. A cloud of bright pennants fluttered over the thundering mass.

Kith-Kanan, still mounted upon his proud stallion, studied these new warriors from

the ridgetop. Caution, not fear, tempered his hopes as the great weight of horses, men,

and metal churned closer. The heavy knights, he knew, were the army's most lethal attack

force.

He had planned for this, but only the reality of things would show whether the

Wildrunners stood equal to the task. For a moment, Kith-Kanan's courage wavered, and

he considered ordering a fast retreat from the field–a disastrous idea, he quickly told

himself, for his hope now lay in steadfast courage, not flight. The knights drew nearer,

and Kith-Kanan wheeled and galloped after the archers.

The great steeds runbled inexorably up the slope, toward the gentle crest where the

elven riders and archers had disappeared. They couldn't see the foe, but they hoped that

the elves would be found just beyond the ridgetop. The knights kicked their mounts and

shouted their challenges as they crested the rise, springing with renewed speed toward the

enemy. In their haste, they broke their tight ranks, eager to crush the deadly archers and

light elven lancers.

Instead, they met a phalanx of elven pikemen, the gleaming steel tips of the

Wildrunners' weapons arrayed as a bristling wall of death. The elves stood shoulder to

shoulder in great blocks, facing outward from all sides. The riders and archers had taken

shelter in the middle of these blocks, while three ranks of pikemen–one kneeling, one

crouching, and one standing–kept their weapons fixed, promising certain death to any

horse reckless enough to close.

The great war-horses, sensing the danger, turned, bucked, and spun, desperate to

avoid the rows of pikes. Unfortunately for the riders, each horse, as it turned, met another

performing a similar contortion. Many of the beasts crashed to the ground, and still more

riders were thrown by their panicked steeds. They lay in their heavy armor, too weighted

down even to climb to their feet.

Arrows whistled outward from the Wildrunners. Though the shortbows of the elven

riders were ineffective against the armored knights, the longbows of the foot archers

drove their barbed missiles through the heaviest plate at this close range. Howls of pain

and dismay now drowned out the battle cries among the knights, and in moments the

cavalry, in mass, turned and lumbered back across the ridgetop, leaving several dozen of

their number moaning on the ground almost at the feet of the elven pikemen.

"Run, you bastards!" Parnigar's shout was a gleeful bark beside Kith-Kanan.

The general, too, felt his lieutenant!s elation. They had held the knights! They had

broken the charge!

Kith-Kanan and Parnigar watched the retreat of the knights from the center of the

largest contingent. The sergeant-major looked at his commander, gesturing to the fallen

knights. Some of these unfortunate men lay still, knocked unconscious by the fall from

horseback, while others struggled to their knees or twitched in obvious pain. More

humans lay at the top of the slope, their bodies punctured by elven arrows.

"Shall I give the order to finish them?" Parnigar asked, ready to send a rank of

swordsmen forward. The grim warrior's eyes flashed.

"No," Kith-Kanan said. He looked grimly at his sergeant's raised eyebrows. "This is

the first skirmish of a great war. Let it not be said we began it with butchery."

"But–but they're knights! These are the most powerful humans in that entire army!

What if they are healed and restored to arms? Surely you don't want them to ride against

us again?" Parnigar kept his voice low but made his arguments precisely.

"You're right–the power of the heavy knights is lethal. If we hadn't been fully

prepared for their assault, I'm not certain we could have held them. Still …. "

Kith-Kanan's mind balked at the situation before him, until a solution suddenly

brightened his expression. "Send the swordsmen forward–but not to kill. Have them take

the weapons of the fallen knights and any banners, pennants, and the like that they can

find. Return with these, but let the humans live."

Parnigar nodded, satisfied with his general's decision. He raised a hand and the line

of pikemen parted, allowing the sergeant-major's charger to trot forward. Selecting a hundred

veterans, he started the task of stripping the humans of their badges and pennants.

Kith turned, sensing movement behind him. He saw the pikemen parting there, too,

this time to admit someone–a grimy elven rider straddling a foaming, dust-covered horse.

Through the dust, Kith recognized a shock of hair the color of snow.

"White-lock! It's good to see you." Kith swung easily from his saddle as the

Kagonesti elf did the same. The general clasped the rider's hand warmly, searching the

wild elf's eyes for a hint of his news.

White-lock rubbed a hand across his dust-covered face, revealing the black and white

stripes painted across his forehead. Typical of the wild elves, he was fully painted for

war–and covered by the grit of his long ride. A scout and courier for the Wildrunners, he

had ridden hundreds of miles to report on the movements of the human army.

Now White-lock nodded, deferentially but coolly, toward Kith-Kanan. "The humans

fare poorly in the south," he began. "They have not yet crossed the border into elven

lands, so slowly do they march."

White-lock's tone dripped with scorn–a scorn equal to that Kith had heard him use

when describing the "civilized" elves of crystalline Silvanost. Indeed, the wild elves of

Kagonesti in many cases bore little love for their cousins in the cities–antipathy, to be

sure, that mirrored the hatred and prejudice held by the Silvanesti elves for any race other

than their own.

"Any word out of Thorbardin?"

"Nothing reliable." The Kagonesti continued his report, his tone revealing that

dwarves ranked near the bottom on his list of worthwhile peoples. 'They promise to assist

us when the humans have committed sufficient provocation, but I won't believe them till I

see them stand and fight."

"Why does the southern wing of the Ergothian army march so slowly?" Kith-Kanan,

through his Wildrunner scouts, had been tracking the three great wings of the vast

Caergoth army, each of which was far greater in size than his entire force of Wildrunners.

"They have difficulties with the gnornes," White-lock continued. "They drag some

kind of monstrous machine with them, pulled by a hundred oxen, and it steams and

belches smoke. A whole train of coal wagons follows, carrying fuel for this machine."

"It must surely be some type of weapon–but what? Do you know?"

White-lock shook his head. "It is now mired in the bottomlands a few miles from the

border. Perhaps they will leave it behind. If not …." The Kagonesti elf shrugged. It was

simply another idiocy of the enemy that he could not predict or fathom.

"You bring good news," Kith noted with satisfaction. He planted his hands on his

hips and looked at the ridgeline above, where Parnigar and his footmen were returning.

Many waved captured human banners or held aloft helmets with long, trailing plumes.

Every so often he saw a dejected and disarmed human scuttling upward and disappearing

over the ridge as if he still feared for his life.

Today Kith and the Wildrunners had directed a sharp blow against the central wing

of the human army. He hoped the confusion and frustration of the elven attack would delay

their march for several days. The news from the south was encouraging. It would take

months for a threat to develop there. But what of the north?

His worries lingered as the Wildrunners quickly reformed from battle into march

formation. They would pass through partially forested terrain, so the elven army moved

in five broad, irregular columns. They followed parallel routes, with about a quarter of a

mile between columns. If necessary, they could easily outdistance any human army,

whether mounted or on foot.

Kith-Kanan, with Parnigar and a company of riders, remained behind until sunset.

He was pleased to see the human army encamp at the scene of the attack. In the morning,

he suspected, they would send forth huge and cumbersome reconnaissances, none of

which would find any trace of the elves.

Finally the last of the Wildrunners, with Kith in the lead, turned their stocky, fast

horses to the west. They would leave the field in possession of the foe, but a foe a little

more bewildered, a little more frightened, than the day before.

The elven riders passed easily along forest trails at a fast walk, and at a canter

through moonlit meadows. It was as they crossed one of these that movement in the

fringe of the treeline pulled Kijo up sharply. A trio of riders approached. Kith recognized

the first two as members of his guard.

"A messenger, sir–from the north." The guards puffed aside as Kith stared in shock

at the third rider.

The elf slumped in his saddle like a corpse that had been placed astride a horse. As

he looked toward Kith-Kanan, his eyes flickered with a momentary hope.

"We tried to hold them back, sir–to harass them, as you commanded," the elf

reported in a rush. "The human wing to the north moved onto the plain, and we struck

them!"

The scout's voice belied his looks. It was taut and firm, the voice of a man who spoke

the truth and who desperately wanted to be believed. Now he shook his head. "But no

matter how quickly we moved, they moved more quickly. They struck at us, sir! They

wiped out a hundred elves in one camp and routed the Kagonesti back to the woods!

They move with unbelievable stealth and speed."

"They advance southward, then?" Kith-Kanan asked, instinctively knowing the

answer, for he immediately understood that the human commander of the northern wing

must be an unusually keen and aggressive foe.

"Yes! Faster than I would have believed, had I not seen it myself. They ride like the

wind, these humans. They have surrounded most of the northern pickets. I alone

escaped."

The messenger's eyes met Kith's, and the elf spoke with all the intensity of his soul.

"But that is not the worst of it, my general! Now they sweep to the east of my own path.

Already you may be cut off from Sithelbec."

"Impossible!" Kith barked the denial. The fortress, or city, of Sithelbec was his

headquarters and his base of operations. It was far to the rear of the battle zone. "There

can't be any humans within a hundred miles of there."

But again he looked into the eyes of the messenger, and he had to believe the terrible

news. "All right," he said grimly. "They've stolen a march on us. It's time for the

Wildrunners to seize it back."

3

That Night, in the Army of Ergoth

The sprawling tent stood in the center of the vast encampment. Three peaks stood

high, marking the poles that divided the shelter into a trio of chambers. Though the stains

of the season's campaign marked its sides, and seams showed where the top had been

mended, the colorless canvas structure had a certain air about it, as if it was a little more

important, a little more proud than the tents flowing to the horizon around it.

The huge camp was not a permanent gathering, and so the rows of straight-backed

tents ran haphazardly, wherever the rolling ground, crisscrossed by numerous ravines,

allowed. Green pastures, feeding grounds for twenty thousand horses, marked the hinges

of the encampment. As dusk settled, the army's shelters lined up in gray anonymity,

except for this high, three-peaked tent.

The inside of that structure, as well, would never be mistaken for the abode of some

soldier. Here cascades of silken draperies–deep browns, rich golds, and the iridescent

black that was so popular among Ergothian nobles–covered the sides, blocking any view

of the harsh realities beyond the canvas walls.

Suzine des Quivalin sat in the tent, studying a crystal glass before her. Her coppery

hair no longer coiled about the tiara of diamond-studded platinum. Instead, it gathered in

a bun at the back of her head, though its length still cascaded more than a foot down her

back. She wore a practical leather skirt, but her blouse was of fine silk. Her skin was

clean, making her unique among all these thousands of humans.

Indeed, captains and sergeants and troopers alike grumbled about the favors shown

to the general's woman–hot water for bathing! A luxurious tent–ten valuable horses were

required just to haul her baggage.

Still, though grumbling occurred, none of it happened within earshot of the

commander. General Giarna led his force with skill and determination, but he was a

terrifying man who would brook no argument, whether it be about his tactics or his

woman's comforts. Thus the men kept the remarks very quiet and very private.

Now Suzine sat upon a large chair, cushioned with silk-covered pillows of down, but

she didn't take advantage of that softness. Instead, she sat at the edge of the seat, tension

visible in her posture and in the rapt concentration of her face as she studied the crystal

surface before her.

The glass looked like a normal mirror, but it didn't show a reflection of the lady's

very lovely face. Instead, as she studied the image, she saw a long line of foot soldiers.

They were clean-shaven, blond of hair, and carried long pikes or thin, silver swords.

She watched the army of Kith-Kanan.

For a time, she touched the mirror, and her vision ran back and forth along the

winding column. Her lips moved silently as she counted longbows and pikes and horses.

She watched the elves form and march. She noted the precision with which the long, fluid

columns moved across the plains, retaining their precise intervals as they did so.

But then her perusal reached the head of the column, and here she lingered. She

studied the one who rode at the head of that force, the one she knew was Kith-Kanan,

twin brother to the elven ruler.

She admired his tall stance in the saddle, the easy, graceful way that he raised his

hand, gesturing to his outriders or summoning a messenger. Narrow wings rose to a pair

of peaks atop his dark helmet. His dark plate mail looked worn, and a heavy layer of dust

covered it, yet she could discern its quality and the easy way he wore it, as comfortably

as many a human would wear his soft cotton tunic.

Her lips parted slightly, and she didn't sense the pace of her breathing slowly

increase. The lady did not hear the tent flap move behind her, so engrossed was she in her

study of the handsome elven warrior.

Then a shadow fell across her, and she looked up with a sharp cry. The mirror faded

until it showed only the lady, her face twisted in an expression of guilt mixed with indignation.

"You could announce your presence," she snapped, standing to face the tall man who

had entered.

"I am commander of the camp. General Giarna of Ergoth need announce his

presence to no one, save the emperor himself," the armor-plated figure said quietly. His

black eyes fixed upon the woman's, then shifted to the mirror. These eyes of the Boy

General frightened her–they were hardly boyish, and not entirely human, either. Dark and

brooding, they sometimes blazed with an internal fire that was fueled, she sensed, by

something that was beyond her understanding. At other times, however, they gaped black

and empty. She found this dispassionate void even more frightening than his rage.

Suddenly he snarled and Suzine gasped in fright. She would have backed away, save

for the fact that her dressing table blocked any retreat. For a moment, she felt certain he

would strike her. It would not be the first time. But then she looked into his eyes and

knew that, for the moment, anyway, she was safe.

Instead of violent rage, she saw there a hunger that, while frightening, did not

presage a blow. Instead, it signaled a desperate yearning for a need that could never be

satisfied. It was one of the things that had first drawn her to him, this strange hunger.

Once she had felt certain that she could slake it.

Now she knew better. The attraction that had once drawn her to Giarna had waned,

replaced for the most part by fear, and now when she saw that look in his eyes, she

mostly pitied him.

The general grunted, shaking his head wearily. His short, black hair lay sweaty and

tousled on his head. She knew he would have had his helmet on until he entered the tent,

and then taken it off in deference to her.

"Lady Suzine, I seek information and have been worried by your long silence. Tell

me, what have you seen in your magic mirror?"

"I'm sorry, my lord," replied Suzine. Her eyes fell, and she hoped that the flush

across her cheeks couldn't be noticed. She took a deep breath, regaining her composure.

"The elven army countermarches quickly–faster than you expected," she explained,

her voice crisp and efficient. "They will confront you before you can march to Sithelbec."

General Giarna's eyes narrowed, but his face showed no other emotion. "This captain

... what's his name?"

"Kith-Kanan," Suzine supplied.

"Yes. He seems alert–more so than any human commander I've faced. I would have

wagered a year's pay that he couldn't have moved so fast."

"They march with urgency. They make good tune, even through the woods."

"They'll have to stick to the forests," growled the general, "because as soon as I meet

them, I shall rule the plains."

Abruptly General Giarna looked at Suzine inquiringly. "What is the word on the

other two wings?"

"Xalthan is still paralyzed. The lava cannon is mired in the lowlands, and he seems

unwilling to advance until the gnomes free it."

The general snorted in amused derision. "Just what I expected from that fool. And

Barnet?"

"The central wing has gone into a defensive formation, as if they expect attack. They

haven't moved since yesterday afternoon."

"Excellent. The enemy comes to me, and my erstwhile allies twiddle their thumbs!"

General Giarna's black beard split apart as he grinned. "When I win this battle, the emperor

cannot help but realize who his greatest warrior is."

He turned and paced, speaking more to himself than to her. "We will drive against

him, break him before Sithelbec! We have assurances that the dwarves will stay out of

the war, and the elves alone cannot hope to match our numbers. The victory will be

mine!"

He turned back to her, those dark eyes flaming again, and Suzine felt another kind of

fear–the fear of the doe as it trembles before the slavering jaws of the wolf. Again the

general whirled in agitation, pounding his fist into the palm of his other hand.

Suzine cast a sidelong glance at the mirror, as if she feared someone might be

listening. The surface was natural, reflecting only the pair in the tent. In the mirror, she

saw General Giarna step toward her. She turned to face him as he placed his hands on her

shoulders.

She knew what he wanted, what she would–she must–give him. Their contact was

brief and violent. Giarna's passion contorted him, as if she was the vent for all of his

anxieties. The experience bruised her, gave her a sense of uncleanliness that nearly

brought her to despair. Afterward, she wanted to reach out and cover the mirror, to smash

it or at least turn it away.

Instead, she hid her feelings, as she had learned to do so well, and then lay quietly as

Giarna rose and dressed, saying nothing. Once he looked at her, and she thought he was

going to speak.

Suzine's heart pounded. Did he know what she was thinking? She thought of the face

in the mirror again–that elven face. But General Giarna only scowled as he stood before

her. After several moments, he spun on his heel and stalked from the tent. She heard the

pacing of his charger without, and then the clatter of hooves as the general galloped

away.

Hesitantly, inevitably, she turned back to the mirror.

4

In Pitched Battle

The two armies wheeled and skirmished across the flatlands, using the forests for

cover and obstruction, making sharp cavalry sweeps and sudden ambushes. Lives expired,

men and elves suffered agony and maiming, and yet the great bodies of the two

armies did not contact each other.

General Giarna's human force drove toward Sithelbec, while Kith-Kanan's

Wildrunners countermarched to interpose themselves between the Ergothian army and its

destination. The humans moved quickly, and it was only the effort of an all-night forced

march that finally brought the exhausted elves into position.

Twenty thousand Silvanesti and Kagonesti warriors finally gathered into a single

mass and prepared a defense, tensely awaiting the steadily advancing human horde. The

elven warriors averaged three to four hundred years of age, and many of their captains

had seen six or more centuries. If they survived the battle and the war, they could look

forward to more centuries, five or six hundred years, perhaps, of peaceful aging.

The Silvanesti bore steel weapons of fine craftsmanship, arrowheads that could

punch through plate mail and swords that would not shatter under the most crushing of

blows. Many of the elves had some limited proficiency in magic, and these were grouped

in small platoons attached to each company. Though these elves, too, would rely upon

sword and shield to survive the battle, their spells could provide a timely and

demoralizing counterpunch.

The Wildrunners also had some five hundred exceptionally fleet horses, and upon

these were mounted the elite lancers and archers who would harass and confuse the

enemy. They wore the grandest armor, shined to perfection, and each bore his personal

emblem embroidered in silk upon his breast.

This force stood against a human army of more than fifty thousand men. The humans

averaged about twenty-five years of age, the oldest veterans having seen a mere four or

five decades of life. Their weapons were crudely crafted by elven standards, yet they

possessed a deep strength. The blade might grow dull, but only rarely would it break.

The human elite included riders, numbering twenty thousand. They bore no insignia,

nor did they wear armor of metal. Instead, they were a ragged, evil-looking lot, with

many a missing tooth, eye, or ear. Unlike their elven counterparts, almost all were

bearded, primarily because of a disdain of shaving, or indeed grooming of any kind.

But they carried within them an inner thirst for a thing uniquely human in character.

Whether it be called glory or excitement or adventure, or simply cruelty or savagery, it

was a quality that made the short-lived humans feared and distrusted by all the

longer-lived races of Krynn.

Now this burning ambition, propelled by the steel-bladed drive of General Giarna,

pushed the humans toward Sithelbec. For two days, the elven army appeared to stand

before them, only to melt away at the first sign of attack. By the third day, however, they

stood within march of that city itself.

Kith-Kanan had reached the edge of the tree cover. Beyond lay nothing but open

field to the gates of Sithelbec, some ten miles away. Here the Wildrunners would have to

stand.

The reason for falling back this far became obvious to elf and human alike as the

Wildrunners reached their final position. Silver trumpets blared to the eastward, and a

column of marchers hove into view.

"Hail the elves of Silvanost!"

Cries of delight and welcome erupted from the elven army as, with propitious timing,

the five thousand recruits sent by Sithas two months earlier marched into the

Wildrunners' camp. At their head rode Kencathedrus, the stalwart veteran who had given

Kith-Kanan his earliest weapons training.

"Hah! I see that my former student still plays his war games!" The old veteran, his

narrow face showing the strain of the long march, greeted Kith before the commander's

tent. Wearily Kencathedrus lifted a leg over his saddle. Kith helped him to stand on the

ground.

"I'm glad you made it," Kith-Kanan greeted his old teacher, clasping his arms

warmly. "It's a long march from the city."

Kencathedrus nodded curtly. Kith-Kanan would have thought the gesture rude,

except that he knew the old warrior and his mannerisms. Kencathedrus represented the

purest tradition of the House Royal–the descendents, like Kith-Kanan and Sithas, of

Silvanos himself. Indeed, they were distant cousins in some obscure way Kith had never

understood.

But more than blood relative, Kencathedrus was in many ways the mentor of

Kith-Kanan the warrior. Strict to the point of obsession, the teacher had drilled the pupil

in the instinctive use of the longsword and in the swift and repetitive shooting of the bow

until such tasks had become second nature.

Now Kencathedrus looked Kith-Kanan up and down. The general was clad in

unadorned plate mail, with a simple steel helmet, unmarked by any sign of rank.

"What about your crest?" he asked. "Don't you fight in the name of Silvanos, of the

House Royal?"

Kith nodded. "As always. However, my guards have persuaded me that there's no

sense in making myself a target. I dress like a simple cavalryman now." He took

Kencathedrus's arm, noting that the old elf moved with considerable stiffness.

"My back isn't what it used to be," admitted the venerable captain, stretching.

"It's likely to get some more exercise soon," Kith warned him. "Thank the gods you

arrived when you did!"

"The human army?" Kencathedrus looked past the elves, lined up for battle. Kith told

the captain what he knew.

"A mile away, no more. We have to face them here. The alternative is to fall back

into the fortress, and I'm not ready to concede the plains."

"You've chosen a good field, it seems." Kencathedrus nodded at the stands of trees

around them. The area consisted of many of these thick groves, separated by wide, grassy

fields. "How many stand against us?"

"Just a third of the entire Ergoth army–that's the good news. The other two wings

have bogged down, more than a hundred miles away right now. But this one is the most

dangerous. The commander is bold and adventurous. I had to march all night to get in

front of him, and now my troops are exhausted as he prepares his attack."

"You forget," Kencathedrus chided Kith, almost harshly. "You stand with elves

against a force of mere humans."

Kith-Kanan looked at the old warrior fondly, but he shook his head at the same time.

"These 'mere' humans wiped out a hundred of my Wildrunners in one ambush. They've

covered four hundred miles in three weeks." Now the leader's voice took on a tone of

authority. "Do not underestimate them."

Kencathedrus studied Kith-Kanan before nodding his agreement. "Why don't you

show me the lines," he suggested. "I presume you want us ready at first light."

* * * * *

As it happened, General Giarna gave Kith's force one more day to rest and prepare.

The human army shifted and marched and expanded, all behind the screen of several

groves of trees. Kith sent a dozen Kagonesti Wildrunners to spy, counting on the natural

vegetation that they used so well to cover them.

Only one returned, and he to report that the human sentries were too thick for even

the skilled elves to pass without detection.

The elven force took advantage of the extra day, however. They constructed trenches

along much of their front, and in other places, they laid long, sharp stakes in the earth to

form a wall thrusting outward. These stakes would protect much of the front from the

enemy horsemen Kith knew to number in the thousands.

Parnigar supervised the excavation, racing from site to site, shouting and cursing. He

insulted the depth of one trench, the width of another. He cast aspersions on the lineage

of the elves who had done the work. The Wildrunners leaped to obey out of respect, not

fear. All along the line they dug in, proving that they used the pick and the spade as well

as the longsword and pike.

Midafternoon slowly crept toward dusk. Kith restlessly worked his way back and

forth along the line. Eventually he came to the reserve, where the men of Silvanost recovered

from their long march under the shrewd tutelage of Kencathedrus. That captain

stepped up to Kith-Kanan as the general dismounted from Kijo.

"Odd how they work for him," noted the older elf, indicating Parnigar. "My elves

wouldn't even look at an officer who talked to them like that."

Kith-Kanan looked at him curiously, realizing that he spoke the truth. "The

Wildrunners here on the plains are a different kind of force than you know from the city,"

he pointed out.

He looked at the reserve force, consisting of the five thousand elves who had

marched with Kencathedrus. Even at ease, they lounged in the sun in neat ranks across

the grassy meadows. A formation of Wildrunners, Kith reflected, would have collected in

the areas of shade.

The teacher nodded, still skeptical. He looked across the front, toward the trees that

screened the enemy army. "Do you know their deployments?" asked Kencathedrus.

"No." Kith admitted. "We've been shut off all day. I'd fall back if I could. They've

had too much time to prepare an attack, and I'd love to set those preparations to waste.

Your old lesson comes to mind: 'Don't let the enemy have the luxury of following his

plan'."

Kencathedrus nodded, and Kith nearly growled in frustration as he continued. "But I

can't move back. These trees are the last cover between here and Sithelbec. There's not so

much as a ditch to hide behind if I abandon this position."

All he could do was to deploy a company of skirmishers well to each flank of his

position and hope they could provide him with warning of any sudden flanking thrust.

It was a night of restlessness throughout the camp, despite the exhaustion of the

weary troops. Few of them slept for more than a few hours, and many campfires

remained lit well past midnight as elves gathered around them and talked of past

centuries, of their families–of anything but the terrible destiny that seemed to await them

on the morrow.

Dew crept across the land in the darkest hours of night, becoming a heavy mist that

flowed thickly through the meadows and twisted around the trunks in the groves. With it

came a chill that woke every elf, and thus they spent the last hours of darkness.

They heard the drums before dawn, a far-off rattle that began with shocking

precision from a thousand places at once. Darkness shrouded the woods, and the mists of

the humid night drifted like spirits among the nervous elves, further obscuring visibility.

Gradually the dark mist turned to pale blue. As the sky lightened overhead, the

cadence of a great army's advance swelled around the elves. The Wildrunners held to

their pikes, or steadied their prancing horses. They checked their bowstrings and their

quivers, and made certain that the bucklings on their armor held secure. Inevitably the

blue light gave way to a dawn of vague, indistinct shapes, still clouded by the haze of fog.

The beat of the drums grew louder. The mist drifted across the fields, leaving even

nearby clumps of trees nothing more than gray shadows. Louder still grew the precise

tapping, yet nothing could be seen of the approaching force.

"There–coming through the pines!"

"I see them–over that way."

"Here they come–from the ravine!"

Elves shouted, pointing to spots all along their front where shapes began to take form

in the mist. Now they could see great, rippling lines of movement, as if waves rolled

through the earth itself. The large, prancing figures of horsemen became apparent, several

waves of them flexing among the ranks of infantry.

Abruptly, as suddenly as it had started, the drumming ceased. The formations of the

human army appeared as darker shapes against the yellow grass and the gray sky. For a

moment, time on the field, and perhaps across all the plains, across all of Ansalon, stood

still. The warriors of the two armies regarded each other across a quarter-mile of ground.

Even the wind died, and the mist settled low to the earth.

Then a shout arose from one of the humans and was echoed by fifty thousand voices.

Swords bashed against shields, while trumpets blared and horses whinnied in excitement

and terror.

In the next instant, the human wave surged forward, the roaring sound wave of the

attack preceding it with terrifying force.

Now brassy notes rang from elven trumpets. Pikes rattled as their wielders set their

weapons. The five hundred horses of the Wildrunner cavalry nickered and kicked nervously.

Kith-Kanan steadied Kijo. From his position in the center of the line, he had a good

view of the advancing human tide. His bodyguards, increased to twelve riders today,

stood in a semicircle behind him. He had insisted that they not obstruct his view of the

field.

For a moment, he had a terrifying vision of the elven line's collapse, the human horde

sweeping across the plains and forests beyond like a swarm of insects. He shuddered in

the grip of the fear, but then the swirl of events grabbed and held his attention.

The first shock of the charge came in the form of two thousand swordsmen,

brandishing shields and howling madly. Dressed in thick leather jerkins, they raced ahead

of their metal-armored comrades, toward the block of elven pikes standing firm in the

center of Kith's line.

The clash of swordsmen with the tips of those pikes was a horrible scene. The

steel-edged blades of the pikes pierced the leather with ease as scores of humans impaled

themselves from the force of the charge. A cheer went up from the Wildrunners as the

surviving swordsmen turned to flee, leaving perhaps a quarter of their number writhing

and groaning on the ground, at the very feet of the elves who had wounded them.

Now the focus shifted to the left, where human longbowmen advanced against an

exposed portion of the Wildrunner line. Kith's own archers fired back, sending a deadly

shower against the press of men. But the human arrows, too, found marks among the

tightly packed ranks, and elven blood soon flowed thick in the trampled grass.

Kith nudged Kijo toward the archers, watching volleys of arrows arc and cross

through the air. The humans rushed forward and the elves stood firm. The elven

commander urged his steed faster, sensing the imminent clash.

Then the human advance wavered and slowed. Kith saw Parnigar, standing beside

the archers.

"Now!" cried the sergeant-major, gesturing toward a platoon of elves standing beside

him. A few dozen in number, these elves wore swords at their sides but had no weapons

in their hands. It was their bare hands that they raised, fingers extended toward the

rushing humans.

A bright flash of light made Kith blink. Magic missiles, crackling blasts of sorcerous

power, exploded from Parnigar's platoon. A whole line of men dropped, slain so suddenly

that members of the rear ranks tripped and tumbled over the bodies. Again the light

flashed, and another volley of magic ripped into the humans.

Some of those struck screamed aloud, crying for their gods or for their mothers.

Others stumbled back, panicked by the sorcerous attack. A whole company, following the

decimated formation, stopped in its tracks and then turned to flee. In another moment, the

mass of human bowmen streamed away, pursued by another volley of the keen elven

arrows.

Yet even as this attack failed, Kith sensed a crisis on his left. A line of human

cavalry, three thousand snorting horses bearing armored lancers, thundered through the

rapidly thinning mist. The charge swept forward with a momentum that made the

previous attacks look like parade-ground drills.

Before the horsemen waited a line of elves with swords and shields, soft prey for the

thundering riders. To the right and left of them, the sharp stakes jutted forward, proof

against the cavalry attack. But the gaps in the line had to be held by troops, and now these

elves faced approaching doom.

"Archers–give cover," Kith shouted as Kijo raced across the lines. Companies of

elven longbow wheeled and released their missiles, scoring hits among the horsemen. But

still the charge pounded forward.

"Fall back! Take cover in the trees!" he shouted to the captains of the longsword

companies, for there was no other choice.

Kith cursed himself in frustration, realizing that the human commander had forced

him to commit his pikes against the initial charge. Now came the horses, and his

companies of pikes, the only true defense against a wave of cavalry, were terribly out of

position.

Then he stared in astonishment. As more arrows fell among the riders, suddenly the

horsemen wheeled about, racing away from the elven position before the defenders could

follow Kith's orders to withdraw. The astonished elven swordsmen watched the horses

and the riders flee, pursued by a desultory shower of arrows. The elven defenders could

only wonder at the fortuitous turn of events.

In the back of Kith's mind, something whispered a warning. This had to be a trick, he

told himself. Certainly the arrows hadn't been thick and deadly enough to halt that

awe-inspiring charge. Less than fifty riders, and no more than two dozen horses, lay in

the field before them. His scouts had given him a good count of the human cavalry.

Though he had not been able to study these, he suspected he had seen only about half the

force.

* * * * *

"Our men fall back as you ordered," reported Suzine, her eyes locked upon the

violent images in her mirror. The glass rested on a table, and she sat before it–table,

woman, and mirror, all encased in a narrow shroud of canvas, to keep the daylight from

the crucial seeing device. She never lost view of the elven commander who sat straight

and proud in his saddle, every inch the warrior of House Royal.

Behind her, pacing in taut excitement, General Giarna looked over her shoulder.

"Excellentl And the elves–what do you see of them?"

"They stand firm, my lord."

"What?" General Giarna's voice barked violently against her, filling the small canvas

shelter where they observed the battle. "You're wrong! They must attack!"

Suzine flinched. The image in the mirror–a picture of long ranks of elven warriors,

holding their positions, failing to pursue the bait of the human retreat–wavered slightly,

She felt the general's rage explode, and then the image faded. Suzine saw only her

own reflection and the hideous face of the man behind her.

* * * * *

"My lord! Let us hit them now, while they fall back in confusion!" Kith turned to see

Kencathedrus beside him. His old teacher rode a prancing mare, and the weariness of the

march from Silvanost was totally gone from his face. Instead, the warrior's eyes burned,

and his gauntleted fist clung tightly to the hilt of his sword.

"It has to be a trick," Kith countered. "We didn't drive them away that easily."

"For the gods' sakes, Kith-Kanan–these are humans! The cowardly scum will run

from a loud noise! Let's follow up and destroy them!"

"No!" Kith's voice was harsh, full of command, and Kencathedrus's face whitened

with frustration.

"We do not face an ordinary general," Kith-Kanan continued, feeling that he owed

further explanation to the one who had girded his first sword upon him. "He hasn't failed

to surprise me yet, and I know we have seen but a fraction of his force."

"But if they fly they will escape! We must pursue!" Kencathedrus couldn't help

himself.

"The answer is no. If they are escaping, so be it. If they attempt to pull us out of our

position to trap us, they shall not."

Another roar thundered across the fields before them, and more humans came into

view, running toward the elves with all manner of weaponry. Great companies of

longbowmen readied their missiles, while bearded axemen raised their heavy blades over

their heads. Spearmen charged with gleaming points extended toward the enemy, while

swordsmen banged their swords against their shields, advancing at a steady march.

Kencathedrus, shocked by the fresh display of human might and vigor, looked at the

general with respect. "You knew," he said wonderingly.

Kith-Kanan shrugged and shook his head. "No–I simply suspected. Perhaps because

I had a good teacher."

The older elf growled, appreciating the remark but annoyed with himself. Indeed,

they both realized that, had the elves advanced when Kencathedrus had desired, they

would have been swiftly overrun, vulnerable in the open field.

Kencathedrus rejoined his reserve company, and Kith-Kanan immersed himself in

the fight. Thousands of humans and elves clashed along the line, and hundreds died.

Weapons shattered against shields, and bones shattered beneath blades. The long morning

gave way to afternoon, but the passing of time meant nothing to the desperate

combatants, for whom each moment could be their last.

The tide of battle surged back and forth. Companies of humans turned and fled,

many of them before their charging ranks even reached the determined elves. Others

hacked and slew their way into the defenders, and occasionally a company of elves gave

way. Then the humans poured through the gap like the surging surf, but always Kith--

Kanan was there, slashing with his bloody sword, urging his elven lancers into the

breach.

Wave after wave of humans surged madly across the trampled field, hurling

themselves into the elves as if to shatter them with the sheer momentum of their charges.

As soon as one company broke, one regiment fell back depleted and demoralized, another

block of steel-tipped humanity lunged forward to take its place.

The Wildrunners fought until total exhaustion gripped each and every warrior, and

then they fought some more. Their small, mobile companies banded together to form

solid lines, shifted to deflect each new charge, and flowed sideways to fill gaps caused by

their fallen or routed comrades. Always those plunging horses backed them up, and each

time, as the line faltered, the elven cavalry thundered against the breakthrough, driving it

back in disorder.

Those five hundred riders managed to seal every breach. By the time the afternoon

shadows began to lengthen, Kith noticed a slackening in the human attacks. One

company of swordsmen stumbled away, and for once there was no fresh formation to

take their place in the attack. The din of combat seemed to fade somewhat, and then he

saw another formation–a group of axemen–turn and lumber away from the fight. More

and more of the humans broke off their attacks, and soon the great regiments of Ergoth

streamed across the field, back toward their own lines.

Kith slumped wearily in his saddle, staring in suspicion at the fleeing backs of the

soldiers. Could it be over? Had the Wildrunners won? He looked at the sun–about four

good hours of daylight remained. The humans wouldn't risk an encounter at night, he

knew. Elven nightvision was one of the great proofs of the elder race's superiority over its

shorter-lived counterparts. Yet certainly the hour was not the reason for the humans'

retreat, not when they had been pressing so forcefully all along the line.

A weary Parnigar approached on foot. Kith had seen the scout's horse cut down

beneath him during the height of the battle. The general recognized his captain's lanky

walk, though Parnigar's face and clothes were caked in mud and the blood of his slain

enemies.

"We've held them, sir," he reported, his face creasing into a disbelieving smile.

Immediately, however, he frowned and shook his head. "Some three or four hundred

dead, though. The day was not without its cost."

Kith looked at the exhausted yet steady ranks of his Wildrunners. The pikemen held

their weapons high, the archers carried bows at the ready, while those with swords honed

their blades in the moments of silence and respite. The formations still arrayed in full

ranks, as if fresh and unblooded, but their ranks were shorter now. Organized in neat

rows behind each company, covered with blankets, lay a quiet grouping of motionless

forms.

At least the dead can rest, he thought, feeling his own weariness. He looked again to

the humans, seeing that they still fled in disorder. Many of them had reached the tree line

and were disappearing into the sheltering forest.

"My lord! My lord! Now is the time. You must see that."

Kith turned to see Kencathedrus galloping up to him. The elven veteran reined in

beside the general and gestured at the fleeing humans.

"You may be right." Kith-Kanan had to agree. He saw the five thousand elves of

Silvanost gathered in trim ranks, ready to advance the moment he gave the word. This

was the chance to deliver a coup de grace that could send the enemy reeling all the way

back to Caergoth.

"Quickly, my lord–they're getting away." Impatiently, his gray brows bristling,

Kencathedrus indicated the ragged humans running in small clumps, like sheep, toward

the sheltering woods in the distance.

"Very well–advance and pursue! But have a care for your flanks!"

* * * * *

"They must come after us now." General Giarna's horse twisted and pitched among

the ranks of retreating humans, many of whom were bleeding or limping, supported by

the shoulders of their sturdier comrades. Indeed, the Army of Ergoth had paid a hideous

price for the daylong attacks, all of which were mere preliminaries to his real plan of

battle.

The general paid no attention to the human suffering around him. Instead, his dark

eyes fixed with a malevolent stare on the elven positions across the mud-spattered landscape.

No movement yet–but they must advance. He felt this with a certainty that filled

his dark heart with a bloodthirsty anticipation.

For a moment, he cast a sharp glance to the rear, toward the tiny tent that sheltered

Suzine and her mirror. The gods should damn that bitch! How, in the heat of the fight,

could her powers fail her? Why now–today?

His brow narrowed in suspicion, but he had no time now to wonder about the

unreliability of his mistress. She had been a valuable tool, and it would be regrettable if

that tool were no longer at his disposal.

Perhaps, as she had claimed, the tension of the great conflict had proven too

distracting, too overpowering for her to concentrate. Or maybe the general's looming

presence had frightened her. In fact, General Giarna wanted to frighten her, just as he

wanted to frighten everyone under his command. However, if that fear was enough to

disrupt her powers of concentration, than Suzine's usefulness might be seriously limited.

No matter–at least for now. The battle could still be won by force of arms. The key

was to make the elves believe that the humans were beaten.

General Giarna's pulse quickened then as he saw a line of movement across the field.

* * * * *

"Elves of Silvanost, advance!” The captain had already turned away from his

commander. The reserve companies started forward at a brisk march, through the gaps in

the spiked fence of the elven line. The companies of the Wildrunners, battered and weary,

cleared the way for the attackers, whose gleaming spear points and shining armor stood

out in stark contrast to the muddy, bloody mess around them. Nevertheless, the

Wildrunners raised a hearty cheer as Kencathedrus led his troops into the attack.

"On the double–charge!” His horse prancing eagerly beneath him, Kencathedrus

brandished his sword and urged his complement forward. The troops needed no prodding.

All day they had seen their fellow countrymen die at the hands of these rapacious

savages, and now they had the chance to take vengeance.

The panicked humans cast down weapons, shields, helmets–anything loose and

cumbersome–in their desperate flight. They scattered away from the charging elves,

racing for the shelter of any clump of trees or thick brush they could find.

The warriors of Silvanost, disciplined even at their steady advance, remained in

close-meshed lines. They parted at the obstacles, while several who were armed with

shortswords pressed into the grove, quickly dispatching the hapless humans who sought

refuge there.

But even so, it was clear that the great bulk of the routed troops would escape, so

rapid was their flight. The close ranks of the elves could not keep pace. Finally Kencathedrus

slowed his company to a brisk walk, allowing the elves to catch their breath as they

approached the first large expanse of forest.

"Archers, stand forward to the flanks!" Kith-Kanan didn't know why he gave the

order, but suddenly he saw how vulnerable were the five thousand elves, in the event that

he had been tricked. Kencathedrus and his regiment had already advanced nearly half a

mile ahead of the main army, while the fleeing humans seemed to melt away before

them.

Two blocks of elves–his keenest longbows, some thousand strong each–trotted

ahead.

"Pikes–in the middle, quickly." One more unit Kith-Kanan sent forward, this one

consisting of his fiercest veterans, armed with their deadly, fifteen-foot weapons with

razor-sharp steel tips. They advanced at a trot, filling some of the gap between the two

blocks of longbows.

"Horsemen! To me!" A third command brought the proud elven cavalry thundering

to their commander. It seemed to Kith-Kanan that Kencathedrus and his company were

now in terrible danger. He had to catch up and give them support.

Flanked by his mounted bodyguards, the commander led his horsemen through the

lines, in a wide sweep toward the right of Kencathedrus's company. The elven archers

carried their weapons ready. Pikes rattled behind them. Had he done everything that he

could to protect the advance?

Kith sensed something in the air as the late afternoon seemed to grow sinister around

him. He listened carefully; his eyes studied the opposite tree line, scanned to the right and

left to the limits of his vision.

Nothing.

Yet now some of his elves sensed the same thing, the indefinable inkling of

something terrible and awesome and mighty. Warriors nervously fingered their weapons.

The Wildrunners' horses moved restlessly, shaking off the weariness of many hours'

battle.

Then a rumble of deep thunder permeated the air. It began as a faint drumming, but

in Kith-Kanan's mind, it grew to a deafening explosion within a few seconds.

"Sound the withdrawal!" He shouted at the trumpeters as he looked left, then

right–where, by all the gods?

He saw them appear, like a wave of brown grass on the horizon, to both

sides–countless thousands of humans mounted on thundering horses, sweeping around

the patches of woods, across the open prairie, pounding closer, with all the speed of the

wind.

The horns blared, and Kith saw that Kencathedrus had already sensed the trap. Now

the elves of Silvanost retired toward the Wildrunners' lines at a quick pace. But all who

looked on could see that they would be too late.

The archers and pikemen advanced, desperate to aid their countrymen. They

showered the human cavalry with arrows, while the long pikes bristled before the archers,

protecting them from the charge.

But the elves of Silvanost had no such protection. The human cavalry slammed into

them, and rank after rank of the elven infantry fell beneath the cruel hooves and keen,

unfeeling steel.

The pikemen and archers fell back slowly, carefully, still shredding the cavalry with

deadly arrows, felling the horsemen by the hundred with each volley. Yet thousands upon

thousands of the humans trampled across the plain, slaughtering the stranded regiment.

Kith-Kanan led his riders into the flank of the human charge, little caring that there

were ten or twenty humans for every one of his elves. With his own sword, he cut a

leering, bearded human from the saddle. Horses screamed and bucked around them, and

in moments, the two companies of cavalry mingled, each man or elf fighting the foe he

found close at hand.

More blood flowed into the already soaked ground. Kith saw a human lancer drive a

bloodstained lance toward his heart. One of his loyal bodyguards flung himself from his

saddle and took the weapon through his own throat, deflecting the blow that would have

surely been fatal. With a surge of hatred, Kith spurred Kijo forward, chopping savagely

through the neck and striking the lancer's head from his shoulders. Spouting blood like an

obscene geyser, the corpse toppled from the saddle, lost in the chaos of the melee before

it struck the ground.

Kith saw another of his faithful guards fall, this time to a human swordsman whose

horse skipped nimbly away. The fight swirled madly, flashing images of blood,

screaming horses, dying men and elves. If he had paused to think, he would have

regretted the charge that brought his riders out here to aid Kencathedrus. Now, it seemed,

both units faced annihilation.

Desperately Kith-Kanan looked for a sign of the elves of Silvanost. He saw them

through the melee. Led by a grim-faced Kencathedrus, the elven reserve force struggled

to break free of the deadly trap. Finally they tore from their neat ranks in a headlong dash

through the sea of human horsemen toward the safety of the Wildrunner lines.

Miraculously, many of them made it. They scrambled between the thick wall of

stakes, into the welcoming arms of their comrades, while the stampeding cavalry surged

and bucked just beyond. By the dozens and scores and hundreds, they limped and dodged

and tumbled to safety, until more than two thousand of them, including Kencathedrus,

had emerged. The captain tried to turn and limp back into the fray in a foredoomed effort

to bring forth more of his men, but he was restrained in the grasp of two sergeantsmajor.

The archers, too, fell back, and then it was only the riders caught on the field.

Isolated pockets of elven cavalry twisted away from the sea of human horsemen,

breaking for the shelter of their lines. Kith-Kanan himself, however, after having led the

charge, was now caught in the middle of the enemy forces.

His arm grew leaden with fatigue. Blood from a cut on his forehead streamed into his

eyes. His helmet was gone, knocked from his head by a human's bashing shield. His loyal

guards–the few who still lived–fought around him, but now the outlook was grim.

The humans fell back, just far enough to avoid the slashing elven blades. Kith-Kanan

and a group of perhaps two dozen elven riders gasped for breath, surrounded by a ring of

death–more than a thousand human lancers, swordsmen, and archers.

With a groan of despair, he cast his sword to the ground. The rest of the survivors

immediately followed his example.

* * * * *

As darkness finally closed about them, the humans turned back from the elven line.

Kencathedrus and Parnigar knew that it was only nightfall that had prevented the complete

collapse of their position. They knew, too, that the exhausted army would have to

retreat now, even before the darkness was complete.

They would have to take shelter in Sithelbec early the following day, before the

deadly human cavalry could catch them in the open. The entire force of the Wildrunners

could suffer the fate of the unblooded elves of Silvanost.

It seemed to the elven leaders that the day couldn't have been any more disastrous.

Despair settled around them like a bleak cloud as they considered the worst news of all:

Kith-Kanan, their commander and the driving force behind the Wildrunners, was

lost–possibly captured, but more likely killed.

The army marched, heads down and shambling, toward the security–and the

confinement–of Sithelbec.

Sometime after midnight, it started to rain, and it continued to pour throughout the

night and even past the gray, featureless dawn. The miserable army finally reached

Sithelbec, closing the gates behind the last of the Wildrunners, sometime around noon of

the following gray, drizzling day.

5

After the Battle

Suzine awakened to a summons from the general, delivered by a bronze-helmed

lieutenant of crossbows. The woman felt vague relief that General Giarna hadn't come to

her in person. Indeed, she hadn't seen him since before the battle's climax, when his trap

had snared so much of the elven army.

Her relief had grown from the previous night, when she had feared that he would

desire her. General Giarna frightened her often, but there was something deeper and more

abiding about the terror he inspired after he had led his troops in battle.

The darkness that seemed always to linger in his eyes became, in those moments,

like a bottomless well of despair and hopelessness, as if his hunger for killing could never

be sated. The more the blood flowed around him, the greater his appetite became.

He would take her then, using her like he was some kind of parasite, unaware and

uncaring of her feelings. He would hurt her and, when he was finished, cast her roughly

aside, his own fundamental needs still raging.

But after this battle, his greatest victory to date, he had stayed away from her. She

had retired early the night before, dying to look into her mirror, to ascertain Kith-Kanan's

whereabouts. She felt a terrible fear for his safety, but she hadn't dared to use her glass

for fear of the general. He mustn't suspect her growing fascination with Kith-Kanan.

Now she dressed quickly and fetched her mirror, safe in a felt-lined wooden case,

and then allowed the officer to lead her along the column of tents to General Giarna's

shelter of black silk. The lieutenant held the door while she entered, blinking for a

moment as she adjusted to the dim light.

And then it seemed that her world exploded.

The file of muddy elven prisoners, many of them bruised, stood at resentful

attention. There were perhaps a score of them, each with a watchful swordsman right

behind him, but Suzine's eyes flashed immediately to him.

She recognized Kith-Kanan in the instant that she saw him, and she had to forcibly

resist an urge to run to him. She wanted to look at him, to touch him in all the ways she

could not through her mirror. She fought an urge to knock the sword-wielding guard

aside.

Then she remembered General Giarna. Her face flushed, she felt perspiration gather

on her brow. He was watching her closely. Forcing an expression of cool detachment, she

turned to him.

"You summoned me, General?"

The commander seemed to look through her, with a gaze that threatened to wither

her soul. His eyes yawned before her like black chasms, menacing pits that made her

want to hurriedly step back from the edge.

"The interrogation continues. I want you to witness their testimony and gauge the

truth of their replies." His voice was like a cold gust of air.

For the first time, Suzine noticed an additional elven form. This one stretched

facedown on the carpeted floor of the tent, a tiny hole at the base of his neck showing

where he had been stabbed.

Numbly she looked back. Kith-Kanan stood second from the end of the line, near

where the killing had occurred. He paid no attention to her. The elf between him and the

dead one looked in grimly concealed fear at the human general.

"Your strength!" demanded General Giarna. "How many troops garrison your

fortress? Catapults? Ballistae? You will tell us about them all."

The final sentence was a demand, not a question.

"The fortress is garrisoned by twenty thousand warriors, with more on the way!"

blurted the prisoner beside the corpse. "Wizards and clerics, too–"

Suzine didn't need the mirror to see that he lied; neither, apparently, did General

Giarna. He chopped his hand once, and the swordsman behind the terrified speaker

stabbed at the doomed elf. His blade severed the elf's spinal cord and then plunged

through his neck, emerging under the unfortunate warrior's chin in a gurgling fountain of

blood.

The next swordsman–the one behind Kith-Kanan–prodded his charge in the back,

forcing him to stand a little straighter, as the general's eyes came to rest upon him. But

only for a moment, for the human leader allowed his scornful gaze to roam across the

entire row of his captives.

"Which of you holds rank over the others?" inquired the general, casting his eyes

along the line of remaining elves.

For the first time, Suzine realized that Kith-Kanan wore none of the trappings of his

station. He was an anonymous rider among the elven warriors. Giarna didn't recognize

him! That revelation encouraged her to take a risk.

"My general," she said quickly, hearing her voice as if another person was speaking,

"could I have a word with you–away from the ears of the prisoners?"

He looked at her, his dark eyes boring into her. Was that annoyance she saw, or

something darker?

"Very well," he replied curtly. He took her arm in his hand and led her from the tent.

She felt the mirror's case in her hand, seeking words as she spoke. "They are

obviously willing to die for their cause. But perhaps, with a little patience, I can make

them useful to us ... alive."

"You can tell me whether they speak the truth or not–but what good is that when

they are willing to die with lies in their mouths?"

"But there is more to the glass," she said insistently. "Given a quiet place and some

time–and some close personal attention to one of these subjects–I can probe deeper than

mere questions and answers. I can see into their minds, to the secret truths they would

never admit to such as you."

General Giarna's black brows came together in a scowl. "Very well. I will allow you

to try." He led her back into the tent. "Which one will you start with?"

Trying to still the trembling in her heart, Suzine raised an imperious hand and

indicated Kith-Kanan. She spoke to the guard behind him. "Bring this one to my tent,"

she said matter-of-factly.

She avoided looking at the general, afraid those black eyes would paralyze her with

suspicion or accusation. But he said nothing. He merely nodded to the guard behind Kith

and the swordsman beside him, the one who had just slain the fallen elf. The pair of

guards prodded Kith-Kanan forward, and Suzine preceded him through the silken flap of

General Giarna's tent.

They passed between two tents, the high canvas shapes screening them from the rest

of the camp. She could feel his eyes on her back as she walked, and finally she could no

longer resist the urge to turn and look at him.

"What do you want with me?" he asked, his voice surprising her with its total lack of

fear.

"I won't hurt you," she replied, suddenly angry when the elf smiled slightly in

response.

"Move, you!" grunted one of the guards, stepping in front of his companion and

waving his blade past Kith-Kanan's face.

Kith-Kanan reached forward with the speed of a striking snake, seizing the guard's

wrist as the blade veered away from his face. Holding the man's hand, the elf kicked him

sharply in the groin. The swordsman gasped and collapsed.

His companion, the warrior who had slain the elf in the tent, gaped in momentary

shock–a moment that proved to be his last. Kith pulled the blade from the fallen guard's

hand and, in the same motion, drove the point into the swordsman's throat. He died, his

jaw soundlessly working in an effort to articulate his shock.

The dead guard's helmet toppled off as he fell, allowing his long blond hair to spill

free when he collapsed, face first, on the ground.

Kith lowered the blade, ready to thrust it through the neck of the groaning man he

had kicked. Then something stayed his hand, and he merely admonished the guard to be

silent with a persuasive press of the blade against the man's throat.

Turning to the one he had slain, Kith looked at the body curiously. Suzine hadn't

moved. She watched him in fascination, scarcely daring to breathe, as he brushed the

blond hair aside with the toe of his boot.

The ear that was revealed was long and pointed.

"Do you have many elves in your army?" he asked.

”No-not many," Suzine said quickly. "They are mostly from the ranks of traders and

farmers who have lived in Ergoth and desire a homeland on the plains."

Kith looked sharply at Suzine. There was something about this human woman. . . .

She stood still, paralyzed not so much by fear for herself as by dismay. He was about

to escape, to leave her!

"I thank you for inadvertently saving my life," he said before darting toward the

corner of a nearby tent.

"I know who you are!" she said, her voice a bare whisper.

He stopped again, torn between the need to escape and increasing curiosity about this

woman and her knowledge.

"Thank you, too, then, for keeping the secret," he said, with a short bow. "Why did

you ... "

She wanted to tell him that she had watched him for a long time, had all but lain

beside him, through the use of her mirror. Suzine looked at him now, and he was more

glorious, prouder, and taller than she had ever imagined. She wanted to ask him to take

her away with him–right now–but, instead, her mouth froze, her mind locked by terror.

In another moment, he had disappeared. It was several moments longer before she

finally found the voice to scream.

* * * * *

The elation Kith-Kanan felt at his escape dissipated as quickly as the gates of

Sithelbec shut behind him and enclosed him within the sturdy walls of the fortress. His

stolen horse, staggering from exhaustion, stumbled to a halt, and the elf swung to the

ground.

He wondered, through his weariness, about the human woman who had given him

his chance to flee. The picture of her face, crowned by that glory of red hair, remained indelibly

burned into his mind. He wondered if he would ever see her again.

Around him loomed the high walls, with the pointed logs arrayed along the top.

Below these, he saw the faces of his warriors. Several raised a halfhearted cheer at his

return, but the shock of defeat hung over the Wildrunners like a heavy pall.

Sithelbec had grown rapidly in the last year, sprawling across the surrounding plain

until it covered a circle more than a mile in diameter. The central keep of the fortress was

a stone structure of high towers, soaring to needlelike spires in the elven fashion. Around

this keep clustered a crowded nest of houses, shops, barracks, inns, and other buildings,

all within other networks of walls, blockhouses, and battle platforms.

Expanding outward through a series of concentric palisades, mostly of wood, the

fortress protected a series of wells within its walls, ensuring a steady supply of water.

Food–mostly grain–had been stockpiled in huge barns and silos. Supplies of arrows and

flammable oil, stored in great vats, had been collected along the walls' tops. The greater

part of Kith-Kanan's army, through the alert withdrawal under Parnigar, had reached the

shelter of those ramparts.

Yet as the Army of Ergoth moved in to encircle the fortress, the Wildrunners could

only wait.

Now Kith-Kanan walked among them, making his way to the small office and

quarters he maintained in the gatehouse of the central keep. He felt the tension, the fear

that approached despair, as he looked at the wide, staring eyes of his warriors.

And even more than the warriors, there were the women and children. Many of the

women were human, their children half-elves, wives and offspring of the western elves

who made up the Wildrunners. Kith shared their sorrow as deeply as he felt that of the

elven females who were here in even greater numbers.

They would all be eating short rations, he knew. The siege would inevitably last into

the autumn, and he had little doubt the humans could sustain the pressure through the

winter and beyond.

As he looked at the young ones, Kith felt a stab of pain. He wondered how many of

them would see spring.

6

Autumn, Year of the Raven

Lord Quimant came to Sithas in the Hall of Audience. His wife's cousin brought

another elf–a stalwart-looking fellow, with lines of soot set firmly in his face, and the

strapping, sinewy arms of a powerful wrestler–to see the Speaker of the Stars.

Sithas sat upon his emerald throne and watched the approaching pair. The Speaker's

green robe flowed around him, collecting the light of the throne and diffusing it into a

soft glow that seemed to surround him. He reclined casually in the throne, but he

remained fully alert.

Alert, in that his mind was working quickly. Yet his thoughts were many hundreds of

miles and years away.

Weeks earlier, he had received a letter from Kencathedrus describing Kith-Kanan's

capture and presumed loss. That had been followed, barely two days later, by a missive

from his brother himself, describing a harrowing escape: the battle with guards, the theft

of a fleet horse, a mad dash from the encampment, and finally a chase that ended only

after Kith-Kanan had led his pursuers to within arrow range of the great fortress of

Sithelbec.

Sithelbecnamed for his father, the former Speaker of the Stars. Many times Sithas

had reflected on the irony, for his father had been slain on a hunting trip, practically within

sight of the fortress's walls. As far as Sithas knew, it had been his father's first and only

expedition to the western plains. Yet Sithel had been willing to go to war over those

plains, to put the nation's future at stake because of them. And now Sithas, his firstborn,

had inherited that struggle. Would he live up to his father's expectations?

Reluctantly Sithas forced his mind back to the present, to his current location. He

cast his eyes around his surroundings to force the transition in his thoughts.

A dozen elven guards, in silver breastplates and tall, plumed helmets, snapped their

halberds to attention around the periphery of the hall. They stood impassive and silent as

the noble lord marched toward the throne. Otherwise the great hall, with its gleaming

marble floor and the ceiling towering six hundred feet overhead, was empty.

Sithas looked at Quimant. The elven noble wore a long cloak of black over a silk

tunic of light green. Tights of red, and soft, black boots, completed his ensemble.

Lord Quimant of Oakleaf was a very handsome elf indeed. But he was also

intelligent, quick-witted, and alert to many threats and opportunities that might otherwise

have missed Sithas's notice.

"This is my nephew," the lord explained. "Ganrock Ethu, master smith. I recommend

him, my Speaker, for the position of palace smith. He is shrewd, quick to learn, and a

very hard worker."

"But Herrlock Redmoon has always handled the royal smithy," Sithas protested.

Then he remembered: Herrlock had been blinded the week before in a tragic accident,

when he had touched spark to his forge. Somehow the kindled coal had exploded

violently, destroying his eyes beyond the abilities of Silvanost's clerics to repair. After

seeing that the loyal smith was well cared for and as comfortable as possible, Sithas had

promised to select a replacement.

He looked at the young elf before him. Ganrock's face showed lines of maturity, and

the thick muscle of his upper torso showed proof of long years of work.

"Very well," Sithas agreed. "Show him the royal smithy and find out what he needs

to get started." He called to one of his guards and told the elf to accompany Ganrock Ethu

to the forge area, which lay in the rear of the Palace of Quinari.

"Thank you, Your Eminence," said the smith, with a sudden bow. "I shall endeavor

to do fine work for you."

"Very good," replied the Speaker. Quimant lingered as the smith left the hall.

Lord Quimant's narrow face tightened in determination as he turned back to Sithas.

"What is it, my lord? You look distressed." Sithas raised a hand and bade Qiumant

stand beside him.

"The Smelters Guild, Your Highness," replied the noble elf. "They refuse–they

simply refuse–to work their foundries during the hours of darkness. Without the additional

steel, our weapon production is hamstrung, barely adequate for even peacetime

needs."

Sithas cursed quietly. Nevertheless, he was thankful that Quimant had informed him.

The proud heir of Clan Oakleaf had greatly improved the efficiency of Silvanost's war

preparations by spotting details–such as this one–that would have escaped Sithas's notice.

"I shall speak to the smelter Kerilar," Sithas vowed. "He is a stubborn old elf, but he

knows the importance of the sword. I will make him understand, if I have to."

"Very good, Excellency," said Lord Quimant, with a bow. He straightened again. "Is

there news of the war?"

"Not since the last letter, a week ago. The Wildrunners remain besieged in Sithelbec,

while the humans roam the disputed lands at will. Kith has no chance to break out. He's

now surrounded by a hundred thousand men."

The lord shook his head grimly before fixing Sithas with a hard gaze. "He must be

reinforced–there's no other way. You know this, don't you?"

Sithas met Quimant's gaze with equal steadiness. "Yes–I do. But the only way I can

recruit more troops is to conscript them from the city and the surrounding clan estates.

You know what kind of dispute that will provoke!"

"How long can your brother hold his fort?"

"He has rations enough for the winter. The casualties of the battle were terrible, of

course, but the remainder of his force is well disciplined, and the fortress is strong."

The news of the battlefield debacle had hit the elven capital hard. As the knowledge

spread that two thousand of the city's young elves–two out of every five who had

marched so proudly to the west–had perished in the fight, Silvanost had been shrouded in

grief for a week.

Sithas learned of the battle at the same time as he heard that his brother had fallen

and was most likely lost. For two days, his world had been a grim shroud of despair.

Knowing that Kith had reached safety lightened the burden to some extent, but their

prospects for victory still seemed nonexistent. How long would it be, he had agonized,

before the rest of the Wildrunners fell to the overwhelming tide around them?

Then gradually his despair had turned to anger–anger at the shortsightedness of his

own people. Elves had crowded the Hall of Audience on the Trial Days, disrupting the

proceedings. The emotions of the city's elves had been inflamed by the knowledge that

the rest of the Wildrunners had suffered nowhere near the size of losses inflicted upon the

elves of Silvanost. It was not uncommon now to hear voices raised in the complaint that

the western lands should be turned over to the humans and the Wildrunner elves, to let

them battle each other to extinction.

"Very well–so he can hold out." Quimant's voice was strong yet deferential. "But he

cannot escape! We must send a fresh army, a large one, to give him the sinew he needs!"

"There are the dwarves. We have yet to hear from them," Sithas pointed out.

"Pah! If they do anything, it will be too late! It seems that Than-Kar sympathizes

with the humans as much as with us. The dwarves will never do anything so long as he

remains their voice and their ears!"

Ah–but he is not their voice and ears. Sithas had that thought with some small

satisfaction, but he said nothing to Quimant as the lord continued, though his thoughts

considered the potential of hope. Tamanier Ambrodel, I am depending upon you!

"Still, we must tolerate him, I suppose. He is our best chance of an alliance."

"As always, good cousin, your words are the mirror of my thoughts." Sithas

straightened in his throne, a signal that the interview drew to a close. "But my decision is

still to wait. Kith-Kanan is secure for now, and we may learn more as time goes on."

He hoped he was right. The fortress was strong, and the humans would undoubtedly

require months to prepare a coordinated assault. But what then?

"Very well." Quimant cleared his throat awkwardly, then added, "What is the word

of my cousin? I have not seen her for some weeks now."

"Her time is near," Sithas offered. "Her sisters have come from the estates to stay

with her, and she has been confined to bed by the clerics of Quenesti Pah."

Quimant nodded. "Please give her my wishes when next you see her. May she give

birth speedily, to a healthy child."

"Indeed."

Sithas watched the elegant noble walk from the hall. He was impressed by Quimant's

bearing. The lord knew his worth to the throne, proven in the half-year since he had come

to Silvanost. He showed sensitivity to the desires of the Speaker and seemed to work well

toward those ends.

He heard one of the side doors open and looked across the great hall as a

silk-gowned female elf entered. Her eyes fell softly on the figure seated upon the brilliant

throne with its multitude of green, gleaming facets.

"Mother," said Sithas with delight. He didn't see much of Nirakina around the palace

during these difficult days, and this visit was a pleasant surprise. He was struck, as she

approached him, by how much older she looked.

"I see you do not have attendants now," she said quietly to Sithas, who rose and

approached her. "So often you are busy with the affairs of state ... and war."

He sighed. "War has become the way of my life–the way all Silvanost lives now."

He felt a twinge of sadness for his mother. So often Sithas looked upon the death of his

father as an event that had placed the burden of rule on his own shoulders. He tended to

forget that it had, at the same time, made his mother a widow.

"Take a moment to walk with me, won't you?" asked Nirakina, taking her son by the

arm.

He nodded, and they walked in silence across the great hall of the tower to the crystal

doors reserved for the royal family alone. These opened soundlessly, and then they were

in the Gardens of Astarin. To their right were the dark wooden buildings of the royal

stables, while before them beckoned the wondrous beauty of the royal gardens. Immediately

Sithas felt a sense of lightness and ease.

"You need to do this more often," said his mother, gently chiding. "You grow old

before your time." She held his arm loosely, letting him select the path they followed.

The gardens loomed around them–great hedges and thick bushes heavy with dewy

blossoms; ponds and pools and fountains; small clumps of aspen and oak and fir. It was a

world of nature, shaped and formed by elven clerics–devotees of the Bard King,

Astarin–into a transcendent work of art.

"I thank you for bringing me through those doors," Sithas said with a chuckle.

"Sometimes I need to be reminded."

"Your father, too, needed a subtle reminder now and then. I tried to give him that

when it became necessary."

For a moment, Sithas felt a wave of melancholy. "I miss him now more than ever. I

feel so ... unready to sit on his throne."

"You are ready," said Nirakina firmly. "Your wisdom is seeing us through the most

difficult time since the Dragon Wars. But since you are about to become a father, you

must realize that your life cannot be totally given over to your nation. You have a family

to think about, as well."

Sithas smiled. "The clerics of Quenesti Pah are with Hermathya at all times. They

say it will be any day now."

"The clerics, and her sisters," Nirakina murmured.

"Yes," Sithas agreed. Hermathya's sisters, Gelynna and Lyath, had moved into the

palace as soon as his wife's pregnancy had become known. They were pleasant enough,

but Sithas had come to feel that his apartments were somehow less than his own now. It

was a feeling he didn't like but that he had tried to overlook for Hermathya's sake.

"She has changed, Mother, that much you must see. Hermathya had become a new

woman even before she knew about the child. She has been a support and a comfort to

me, as if for the first time."

"It is the war," said Nirakina. "I have noticed this change you speak of, and it began

with the war. She, her clan of Oakleaf, they all thrive upon this intensity and activity."

The elven woman paused, then added, "I noticed Lord Quimant leaving before I entered.

You speak with him often. Is he proving himself useful?"

"Indeed, very. Does this cause you concern?"

Nirakina sighed, then shook her head. "I–no–no, it doesn't. You are doing the right

thing for Silvanesti, and if he can aid you, that is a good thing."

Sithas stopped at a stone bench. His mother sat while he paced idly below

overhanging branches of silvery quaking aspen that shimmered in the light breeze.

"Have you had word from Tamanier Ambrodel?" Nirakina asked.

Sithas smiled confidentially. "He has arrived at Thorbardin safely and hopes to get in

touch with the Hylar. With any luck, he will see the king himself. Then we shall find out

if this Than-Kar is doing us true justice as ambassador."

"And you have told no one of Lord Ambrodel's mission?" his mother inquired

carefully.

"No " Sithas informed her. "Indeed, Quimant and I discussed the dwarves today, but

I said nothing even to him about our quiet diplomat. Still, I wish you would tell me why

we must maintain such secrecy."

"Please, not yet," Nirakina demurred.

A thin haze had gradually spread across the sky, and now the wind carried a bit of

early winter in its caress. Sithas saw his mother shiver in her light silken garment.

"Come, we'll return to the hall," he said, offering his arm as she rose.

"And your brother?" Nirakina asked tentatively as they turned back toward the

crystal doors. "Can you send him more troops?"

"I don't know yet," Sithas replied, the agony of the decision audible in his voice.

"Can I risk arousing the city?"

"Perhaps you need more information."

"Who could inform me of that which I don't already know?" Sithas asked skeptically.

"Kith-Kanan himself." His mother stopped to face him as the doors opened and the

warmth of the tower beckoned. "Bring him home, Sithas," she said urgently, taking both

of his arms in her hands. "Bring him home and talk to him!"

Sithas was surprised at his own instinctive reaction. The suggestion made

surprisingly good sense. It offered him hope–and an idea for action that would unite, not

divide, his people. Yet how could he call his brother home now, out of the midst of a

monstrous encircling army?

* * * * *

The next day Quimant again was Sithas's first and primary visitor.

"My lord," began the adviser, "have you made a decision about conscription of

additional forces? I am reluctant to remind you, but time may be running short."

Sithas frowned. Unbidden, his mind recalled the scene at the riverbank when the first

column departed for war. Now more than half those elves were dead. What would be the

city's reaction should another, larger force march west?

"Not yet. I wish to wait until . . . " His voice trailed off. He had been about to

mention Ambrodel's mission. "I will not make that decision yet," he concluded.

He was spared the necessity of further discussion when Stankathan, his palace

majordomo, entered the great hall. That dignified elf, clad in a black waistcoat of wool,

preceded a travel-stained messenger who wore the leather jerkin of a Wildrunner scout.

The latter bore a scroll of parchment sealed with a familiar stamp of red wax.

"A message from my brother?" Sithas rose to his feet, recognizing the form of the

sheet.

"By courier, who came from across the river just this morning," replied Stankathan.

"I brought him over to the tower directly."

Sithas felt a surge of delight, as he did every fortnight or so when a courier arrived

with the latest reports from Kith-Kanan. Yet that delight had lately been tempered by the

grim news from his brother and the besieged garrison.

He looked at the courier as the elf approached and bowed deeply. Besides the dirt

and mud of the trail, Sithas saw that the fellow had a sling supporting his right arm and a

dark, stained bandage around the leggings of his left knee.

"My gratitude for your efforts," said Sithas, appraising the rider. The elf stood taller

after his words, as if the praise of the speaker was a balm to his wounds. "What was the

nature of your obstacles?"

"The usual rings of guards, Your Highness," replied the elf. "But the humans lack

sorcerers and so cannot screen the paths with magic. The first day of my journey I was

concealed by invisibility, a spell that camouflaged myself and my horse. Afterward, the

fleetness of my steed carried me, and I encountered only one minor fray."

The Speaker of the Stars took the scroll and broke the wax seal. Carefully he

unrolled the sheet, ignoring Quimant for the time being. The lord stood quietly; if he was

annoyed, he made no visible sign of the fact.

Sithas read the missive solemnly.

I look out, my brother, upon an endless sea of humanity. Indeed, they

surround us like the ocean surrounds an island, completely blocking our

passage. It is only with great risk that my couriers can penetrate the

lines–that, and the aid of spells cast by my enchanters, which allow them

some brief time to escape the notice of the foe.

What is to be the fate now of our cause? Will the army of Ergoth

attack and carry the fort? Their horses sweep in great circles about us, but

the steeds cannot reach us here. The other two wings have joined General

Giarna before Sithelbec, and their numbers truly stun the mind.

General Giarna, I have learned, is the name of the foe we faced in the

spring, the one who drove us from the field. We have taken prisoners

from his force, and to a man they speak of their devotion to him and their

confidence that he will one day destroy us! I met him in the brief hours I

was prisoner, and he is a terrifying man. There is something deep and

cruel about him that transcended any foe I have ever encountered.

Will the dwarves of Thorbardin march from their stronghold and

break the siege from the south? That, my brother, would be a truly

magnificent feat of diplomacy on your part. Should you bring such an

alliance into being, I could scarce convey my gratitude across the miles!

Or will the hosts of Silvanost march forth, the elves united in their

campaign against the threat to our race? That, I am afraid, is the least

likely of my musings–at least, from the words you give me as to our

peoples' apathy and lack of concern. How fares the diplomatic battle,

Brother?

I hope to amuse you with one tale, an experience that gave us all

many moments of distraction, not to mention fear. I have written to you

of the gnomish lava cannon, the mountain vehicle pulled by a hundred

oxen, its stony maw pointed skyward as it belches smoke and fire. Finally,

shortly after my last letter, this device was hauled into place before

Sithelbec. It stood some three miles away but loomed so high and spumed

so furiously that we were indeed distraught!

For three days, the monstrous structure became the center of a

whirlwind of gnomish activity. They scaled its sides, fed coal into its

bowels, poured great quantities of muck and dust and streams of a red

powder into its maw. All this time, the thing puffed and chugged. By the

third day, the entire plain lay shrouded beneath a cloud from its wheezing

exhalations.

Finally the gnomes clambered up the sides and stood atop the device,

as if they had scaled a small mountain. We watched, admittedly with

great trepidation, as one of the little creatures mixed a caldron at the very

lip of the cannon's interior. Eventually he cast the contents of the vessel

into the weapon itself. All of the gnomes fled, and for the first time, we

noticed that the humans had pulled back from the cannon, giving it a

good half-mile berth to either side.

For a full day, the army of Ergoth huddled in fright, staring at their

monstrous weapon. Finally it appeared that it had failed to discharge, but

it was not until the following day that we watched the gnomes creep forward

to investigate.

Suddenly the thing began to chug and wheeze and belch. The gnomes

scurried for cover, and for another full day, we all watched and waited.

But it was not until the morning of the third day that we saw the weapon

in action.

It exploded shortly after dawn and cast its formidable ordnance for

many miles. Fortunately we, as the targets of the attack, were safe. It was

the gathered human army that suffered the brunt of flaming rock and

devastating force that ripped across the plains.

We saw thousands of the humans' horses (unfortunately a small

fraction of their total number) stampede in panic across the plain. Whole

regiments vanished beneath the deluge of death as a sludgelike wave

spread through the army.

For a brief moment, I saw the opportunity to make a sharp attack,

further disrupting the encircling host. Even as I ordered the attack,

however, the ranks of General Giarna's wing shouldered aside the other

humans. His deadly riders ensured that our trap remained effectively

closed.

Nevertheless, the accident wreaked havoc among the Army of

Ergoth. We gave thanks to the gods that the device misfired; had its

attack struck Sithelbec, you would have already received your last

missive from me. The cannon has been reduced to a heap of rubble, and

we pray daily that it cannot be rebuilt.

My best wishes and hopes for my new niece or nephew. Which is it

to be? Perhaps you will have the answer by the time you read this. I can

only hope that somehow I will know. I hope Hermathya is comfortable

and well.

I miss your counsel and presence as always, Brother. I treat myself to

the thought that, could we but bring our minds together, we could work a

way to break out of this stalemate. But, alas, the jaws of the trap close

about me, and I know that you, in the capital, are ensnared in every bit as

tight a position as I.

Until then, have a prayer for us! Give my love to Mother!

Kith

Sithas paused, realizing that the guards and Quimant had been studying him intently

as he read. A full range of emotions had played across his face, he knew, and suddenly

the knowledge made him feel exceedingly vulnerable.

"Leave me, all of you!" Sithas barked the command, more harshly perhaps than he

intended, but he was nevertheless gratified to see them all quickly depart from the hall.

He paced back and forth before the emerald throne. His brother's letter had agitated

him more than usual, for he knew that he had to do something. No longer could he force

the standoff at Sithelbec into the back of his mind. His mother and his brother were right.

He needed to see Kith-Kanan, to talk with him. They would be able to work out a plan–a

plan with some hope of success!

Remembering his walk with Nirakina, he turned toward the royal doors of crystal.

The gardens and the stables lay beyond.

Resolutely Sithas stalked to those doors, which opened silently before him. He

emerged from the tower into the cool sunlight of the garden but took no note of his surroundings.

Instead, he crossed directly to the royal stable.

The stable was in fact a sprawling collection of buildings and corrals. These included

barns for the horses and small houses for the grooms and trainers, as well as stocks of

feed. Behind the main structure, a field of short grass stretched away from the Tower of

the Stars, covering the palace grounds to the edges of the guildhouses that bordered them.

Here were kept the several dozen horses of the royal family, as well as several

coaches and carriages. But it was to none of these that the speaker now made his way.

Instead, he crossed through the main barn, nodding with easy familiarity to the

grooms who brushed the sleek stallions. He passed through the far door and crossed a

small corral, approaching a sturdy building that stood by itself, unattached to any other.

The door was divided into top and bottom halves; the top half stood open.

A form moved within the structure, and then a great head emerged from the door.

Bright golden eyes regarded Sithas with distrust and suspicion.

The front of that head was a long, wickedly hawklike beak. The beak opened

slightly. Sithas saw the great wings flex within the confining stable and knew that

Arcuballis longed to fly.

"You must go to Kith-Kanan," Sithas told the powerful steed. "Bring him out of his

fort and back to me. Do this, Arcuballis, when I let you fly!"

The griffon's large eyes glittered as the creature studied the Speaker of the Stars.

Arcuballis had been Kith-Kanan's lifelong mount until the duties of generalship had

forced his brother to take a more conventional steed. Sithas knew that the griffon would

go and bring his brother back.

Slowly Sithas reached forward and unlatched the bottom half of the door, allowing

the portal to swing freely open. Arcuballis hesitantly stepped forward over the half-eaten

carcass of a deer that lay just inside the stable.

With a spreading of his great wings, Arcuballis gave a mighty spring. He bounded

across the corral, and by his third leap, the griffon was airborne. His powerful wings

drove downward and the creature gained height, soaring over the roof of the stable, then

veering to pass near the Tower of the Stars.

"Go!" cried Sithas. "Go to Kith-Kanan!"

As if he heard, the griffon swept through a turn. Powerful wings still driving him

upward, Arcuballis swerved toward the west.

It seemed to Sithas as if a heavy burden had flown away from him, borne upon the

wings of the griffon. His brother would understand, he knew. When Arcuballis arrived at

Sithelbec, as Sithas felt certain he would, Kith-Kanan would waste no time in mounting

his faithful steed and hastening back to Silvanost. Between them, he knew, they would

find a way to advance the elven cause.

"Excellency?"

Sithas whirled, startled from his reverie by a voice from behind him. He saw

Stankathan, the majordomo, looking out of place among the mud and dung of the corral.

The elf's face, however, was knit by a deeper concern.

"What is it?" Sithas inquired quickly.

"It's your wife, the Lady Hermathya," replied Stankathan. "She cries with pain now.

The clerics tell me it is time for your child to be born."

7

Three Days Later

The oil lamp sputtered in the center of the wooden table. The flame was set low to

conserve precious fuel for the long, dark months of winter that lay ahead. Kith-Kanan

thought the shadowy darkness appropriate for this bleak meeting.

With him at the table sat Kencathedrus and Parnigar. Both of them–as well as Kith,

himself–showed the gauntness of six months at half rations. Their eyes carried the dull

awareness that many more months of the same lay before them.

Every night during that time, Kith had met with these two officers, both of them

trusted friends and seasoned veterans. They gathered in this small room, with its plain

table and chairs. Sometimes they shared a bottle of wine, but that commodity, too, had to

be rationed carefully.

"We have a report from the Wildrunners," Parnigar began. "White-lock managed to

slip through the lines. He told me that the small companies we have roaming the woods

can hit hard and often. But they have to keep moving, and they don't dare venture onto

the plains."

"Of course not!" Kencathedrus snapped.

The two officers argued, as they did so often, from their different tactical

perspectives. "We'll never make any progress if we keep dispersing our forces through

the woods. We have to gather them together! We must mass our strength!"

Kith sighed and held up his hands. "We all know that our 'mass of strength' would be

little more than a nuisance to the human army–at least right now. The fortress is the only

thing keeping the Wildrunners from annihilation, and the hit-and-run tactics are all we

can do until … until something happens."

He trailed off weakly, knowing he had touched upon the heart of their despair. True,

for the time being they were safe enough in Sithelbec from direct attack. And they had

food that could be stretched, with the help of their clerics, to last for a year, perhaps a

little longer.

In sudden anger, Kencathedrus smashed his fist on the table. "They hold us here like

caged beasts," he growled. "What kind of fate do we consign ourselves to?"

"Calm yourself, my friend." Kith touched his old teacher on the shoulder, seeing the

tears in the elven warrior's eyes. His eyes were framed by sunken skin, dark brown in

color, that accentuated further the hollowness of the elf's cheeks. By the gods, do we all

look like that? Kith had to wonder.

The captain of Silvanost pushed himself to his feet and turned away from them.

Parnigar cleared his throat awkwardly. "There is nothing we can accomplish by

morning," he said. Quietly he got to his feet.

Parnigar, alone of the three of them, had a wife here. He worried more about her

health than his own. She was human, one of several hundred in the fort, but this was a

fact that they carefully avoided in conversation. Though Kith-Kanan knew and liked the

woman, Kencathedrus still found the interracial marriage deeply disturbing.

"May you rest well tonight, noble elves," Parnigar offered before stepping through

the door into the dark night beyond.

"I know your need to avenge the battle on the plains," Kith-Kanan said to

Kencathedrus as the latter turned and gathered his cloak. "I believe this, my friend–your

chance will come!"

The elven captain looked at the general, so much younger than himself, and Kith

could see that Kencathedrus wanted to believe him. His eyes were dry again, and finally

the captain nodded gruffly. "I'll see you in the morning," he promised before following

Parnigar into the night.

Kith sat for a while, staring at the dying flame of the lantern, reluctant to extinguish

the light even though he knew precious fuel burned away with each second. Not enough

fuel … not enough food … insufficient troops. What did he have enough of, besides

problems?

He tried not to think about the extent of his frustration–how much he hated being

trapped inside the fortress, cooped up with his entire army, at the mercy of the enemy

beyond the walls. How he longed for the freedom of the forests, where he had lived so

happily during his years away from Silvanost.

Yet with these thoughts, he couldn't help thinking of Anaya–beautiful, lost Anaya.

Perhaps his true entrapment had begun with her death, before the war started, before he

had been made general of his father's–and then his brother's–army.

Finally he sighed, knowing that his thoughts could bring him no comfort. Reluctantly

he doused the lantern's flame. His own bunk occupied the room adjacent to this office,

and soon he lay there.

But sleep would not come. That night they had had no wine to share, and now the

tension of his mood kept Kith-Kanan awake for seeming hours after his two officers left.

Eventually, with the entire fortress silent and still around him, his eyes fell shut–but

not to the darkness of restful sleep. Instead, it was as though he fell directly from wakefulness

into a very vivid dream.

He dreamed that he soared through the clouds, not upon the back of Arcuballis as he

had flown so many times before, but supported by the strength of his own arms, his own

feet. He swooped and dove like an eagle, master of the sky.

Abruptly the clouds parted before him, and he saw three conical mountain peaks

jutting upward from the haze of earth so far below. These monstrous peaks belched

smoke, and streaks of fire splashed and flowed down their sides. The valleys extending

from their feet were hellish wastelands of crimson lava and brown sludge.

Away from the peaks he soared, and now below him were lifeless valleys of a

different sort. Surrounded by craggy ridges and needlelike peaks, these mountain retreats

lay beneath great sheets of snow and ice. All around him stretched a pristine brilliance.

Gray and black shapes, the forms of towering summits, rose from the vast glaciers of

pure white. In places, streaks of blue showed through the snow, and here Kith-Kanan saw

ice as clean, as clear as any on Krynn.

Movement suddenly caught his eye in one of these valleys. He saw a great mountain

looming, higher than all the others around. Upon its face, dripping ice formed the crude

outlines of a face like that of an old, white-bearded dwarf.

Kith continued his flight and saw movement again. At first Kith thought that he was

witnessing a great flock of eagles–savage, prideful birds that crowded the sky. Then he

wondered, could they be some kind of mountain horses or unusual, tawny-colored goats?

In another moment, he knew, as the memory of Arcuballis came flooding back.

These were griffons, a whole flock of them! Hundreds of the savage half-eagle, half-lion

creatures were surging through the air toward Kith-Kanan.

He felt no fear. Instead, he turned away from the dwarfbeard mountain and flew

southward. The griffons followed, and slowly the heights of the range fell behind him. He

saw lakes of blue water below him and fields of brush and mossy rock. Then came the

first trees, and he dove to follow a mountain rivulet toward the green flatlands that now

opened up before him.

And then he saw her in the forest–Anaya! She was painted like a wild savage, her

naked body flashing among the trees as she ran from him. By the gods, she was fast! She

outdistanced him even as he flew, and soon the only trace of her passage was the wild

laughter that lingered on the breeze before him.

Then he found her, but already she had changed. She was old, and rooted in the

ground. Before his eyes, she had become a tree, growing toward the heavens and losing

all of the form and the senses of the elfin woman he had grown to love.

His tears flowed, unnoticed, down his face. They soaked the ground and nourished

the tree, causing it to shoot farther into the sky. Sadly the elf left her, and he and his griffons

flew on farther to the south.

Another face wafted before him. He recognized with shock the human woman who

had given him his escape from the enemy camp. Why, now, did she enter his dream?

The rivulet below him became a stream, and then more streams joined it, and the

stream became a river, flowing into the forested realm of his homeland.

Ahead he finally saw a ring of water where the River Thon-Thalas parted around the

island of Silvanost. Behind him, five hundred griffons followed him homeward. A radiant

glow reached out to welcome him.

He saw another elf woman in the garden. She looked upward, her arms spread,

welcoming him to his home, to her. At first, from a distance, he wondered if this was his

mother, but then as he dove closer, he recognized his brother's wife, Hermathya.

Sunlight streamed into his window. He awoke suddenly, refreshed and revitalized.

The memory of his dream shone in his mind like a beacon, and he sprang from his bed.

The fortress still slumbered around him. His window, on the east wall of a tower, was the

first place in Sithelbec to receive the morning sun. Throwing a cloak over his tunic and

sticking his feet into soft, high leather boots, he laced the latter around his knees while he

hobbled toward the door.

A cry of alarm suddenly sounded from the courtyard. In the next moment, a horn

blared, followed by a chorus of trumpets blasting a warning. Kith dashed from his room,

down the hall of the captain's quarters and to the outside. The sun was barely cresting the

fortress wall, and yet he saw a shadow pass across that small area of brightness.

He noted several archers on the wall, turning and aiming their weapons skyward.

"Don't shoot!" he cried as the shadow swooped closer and he recognized it.

"Arcuballis!"

He waved his hand and ran into the courtyard as the proud griffon circled him once,

then came to rest before him. The lion's hindquarter's squatted while the creature raised

one foreclaw–the massive, taloned limb of an eagle. The keen yellow eyes blinked, and

Kith-Kanan felt a surge of affection for his faithful steed.

In the next moment, he wondered about Arcuballis's presence here. He had left him

in charge of his brother back in Silvanost. Of course! Sithas had sent the creature here to

Kith to bring him home! The prospect elated him like nothing else had in years.

* * * * *

It took Kith-Kanan less than an hour to leave orders with his two subordinates.

Parnigar he placed in overall command, while Kencathedrus was to drill and train a

small, mobile sortie force of cavalry, pikes, and archers. They would be called the Flying

Brigade, but they were not to be employed until Kith-Kanan's return. He cautioned both

officers on the need to remain alert to any human strategem. Sithelbec was the keystone

to any defense on the plains, and it must remain impregnable, inviolate.

"I'm sure my brother has plans. We'll meet and work out a way to break this

stalemate!" The autumn wind swirled through the compound, bringing the first bite of

winter.

He climbed onto the back of his steed, settling into the new saddle that one of the

Wildrunner horsemen had cobbled for him.

"Good luck, and may the gods watch over your flight," Kencathedrus said, clasping

Kith's gloved hand in both of his own.

"And bring a speedy return," added Parnigar.

Arcuballis thrust powerful wings, muscular and stout enough to break a man's neck,

toward the ground. At the same time, the leonine hindquarters thrust the body into the air.

Several strokes of his wings carried Arcuballis to the top of a building, still inside the

fortress wall. He grasped the peaked roof with his eagle foreclaws, then used his feline

rear legs to spring himself still higher into the air. With a squawk that rang like a

challenge across the plain, he soared over the wall, climbing steadily.

Kith-Kanan was momentarily awestruck at the spectacle of the enemy arrayed below

him. His tower, the highest vantage point in Sithelbec, didn't convey the immense sprawl

of the army of Ergoth–not in the way that Arcuballis's ascending flight did. Below, ranks

of human archers took up their weapons, but the griffon already soared far out of range.

They flew onward, passing above a great herd of horses in a pasture. The shadow of

the griffon passed along the ground, and several of the steeds snorted and reared in sudden

panic. These bolted immediately, and in seconds, the herd had erupted into a

stampede. The elf watched in wry amusement as the human herdsmen raced out of the

path of the beasts. It would be hours, he suspected, before order was restored to the camp.

Kith looked down at the smoldering remains of the lava cannon, now a black,

misshapen thing, like a burned and gnarled tree trunk leaning at a steep angle over the

ground. He saw seemingly endless rows of tents, some of them grand but most simple

shelters of oilskin or wool. Everywhere the flat ground had been churned to mud.

Finally he left the circular fortress and the larger circle of the human army behind.

Forests of lush green opened before him, dotted by ponds and lakes, streaked by rivers

and long meandering meadows. As the wild land surrounded him, he felt the agony of the

war fall away.

* * * * *

Suzine des Quivalen studied the image in the mirror until it faded into the distance,

beyond the reach of her arcane crystal. Yet even after it vanished, the memory of those

powerful wings carrying Kith-Kanan away–away from her–lingered in her mind.

She saw his blond hair, flying from beneath his helmet. She recalled her gasp of

terror when the archers had fired, and her slow relaxation as he gained height and safety.

Yet a part of her had cursed and railed at him for leaving, and that part had wanted to see

a human arrow bring him down. She didn't want him dead, of course, but the idea of this

handsome elf as a prisoner in her camp was strangely appealing.

For a moment, she paused, wondering at the fascination she found for this elven

commander, mortal enemy of her people and chief opponent of the man who was her . . .

lover.

Once General Giarna had been that and more. Smooth, dashing, and handsome, he

had swept her off her feet in the early days of their relationship. With the aid of her

powers with the mirror, she had given him information sufficient to discredit several of

the emperor's highest generals. The grateful ruler had rewarded the Boy General with an

ever increasing array of field commands.

But something had changed since those times. The man who she thought had loved

her now treated her with cruelty and arrogance, inspiring in her fears that she could not

overcome. Those fears were great enough to hold her at his side, for she had come to

believe that flight from General Giarna would mean her sentence of death.

Here on the plains, in command of many thousands of men, Giarna had little time for

her, which was a relief. But when she saw him, he seemed so coldly controlled, so monstrously

purposeful, that she feared him all the more.

With an angry shake of her head, she turned from the mirror, which slowly faded

into a reflection of the Lady Suzine and the interior of her tent. She rose in a swirl of silk

and stalked across the rich carpets that blanketed the ground. Her red hair swirled in a

long coil around her scalp, rising higher than her head and peaking in a glittering tiara of

diamonds, emeralds, and rubies.

Her gown, of blood-red silk, clung to the full curves of her body as she stalked

toward the tent flap that served as her door. She stopped long enough to throw a woolen

shawl over her bare shoulders, remembering the chill that had settled over the plains in

the last few days.

As soon as she emerged, the six men-at-arms standing at her door snapped to

attention, bringing their halberds straight before their faces. She paid no attention as they

fell in behind her, marching with crisp precision as she headed toward another elegant

tent some distance away. The black stallion of General Giarna stood restlessly outside, so

she knew that the man she sought was within.

The Army of Ergoth spread to the horizons around her. The massive encampment

encircled the fortress of Sithelbec in a great ring. Here, at the eastern arc of that ring, the

headquarters of the three generals and their retinues had collected. Amid the mud and

smoke of the army camp, the gilded coaches of the noble lancers and the tall, silken folds

of the high officers' tents, stood out in contrast.

Before Suzine arose the tallest tent of all, that of General Barnet, the overall general

of the army.

The two guards before that tent stepped quickly out of the way to let her pass, one of

them pulling aside the tent flap to give her entrance. She passed into the semidarkness of

the tent and her eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light. She saw General Giarna lounging

easily at a table loaded with food and drink. Before him, sitting stiffly, was General

Barnet. Suzine couldn't help but notice the fear and anger in the older general's eyes as he

looked at her.

Beyond the two seated men stood a third, General Xalthan. That veteran's face was

deathly, shockingly pale. He surprised Suzine by looking at her with an expression of

pleading, as if he hoped that she could offer him succor for some terrible predicament.

"Come in, my dear," said Giarna, his voice smooth, his manner light. "We are having

a farewell toast to our friend, General Xalthan."

"Farewell?" she asked, having heard nothing of that worthy soldier's departure.

"By word of the emperor–by special courier, with an escort. Quite an honor, really,"

added Giarna, his tone mocking and cruel.

Instantly Suzine understood. The disaster with the lava cannon had been the last

straw, as far as the emperor was concerned, for General Xalthan. He had been recalled to

Daltigoth under guard.

To his credit, the wing commander nodded stiffly, retaining his composure even in

the face of Giarna's taunts. General Barnet remained immobile, but the hatred in his eyes

now flashed toward Giarna. Suzine, too, felt an unexpected sense of loathing toward the

Boy General.

"I'm sorry," she said to the doomed wing commander quietly. "I really am." Indeed,

the depths of her sorrow surprised her. She had never thought very much about Xalthan,

except sometimes to feel uncomfortable when his eyes ran over the outlines of her body

if she wore a clinging gown.

But the old man was guilty of no failing, she suspected, except an inability to move

as quickly as the Boy General. Xalthan stood in the path of Giarna's desire to command

the entire army. General Giarna's reports to the emperor, she felt certain, had been full of

the information she had provided him–news of Xalthan's sluggish advance, the ineptness

of the gnomish artillerymen, all details that could make a vengeful and impatient ruler

lose his patience.

And cause an old warrior who deserved only a peaceful retirement to face instead a

prospect of torture, disgrace, and execution.

The knowledge made Suzine feel somehow dirty.

Xalthan looked at her with that puppylike sense of hope, a hope she could do nothing

to gratify. His fate was laid in stone before them: There would be a long ride to Daltigoth,

perhaps with the formerly esteemed officer bound in chains. Once there, the emperor's

inquisitors would begin, often with Quivalen himself in attendance.

It was rumored that the emperor received great pleasure from watching the torture of

those he felt had failed him. No tool was too devious, no tactic too inhumane, for these

monstrous sculptors of pain. Fire and steel, venoms and acids, all were the instruments of

their ungodly work. Finally, after days or weeks of indescribable agony, the inquisitors

would be finished, and Xalthan would be healed–just enough to allow him to be alert for

the occasion of his public execution.

The fact that her cousin was the one who would do this to the man didn't enter into

her considerations. She accepted, fatalistically, that this was the way things would

happen. Her role in the court family was to be one who remained docile and sensitive to

her duties, useful with her skills as seer. She had to play that role and leave the rest to

fate.

Just for a moment, a nearly overwhelming urge possessed her, a desire to flee this

army camp, to flee the gracious life of the capital, to fly from all the darkness that seemed

to surround her empire's endeavors. She wanted to go to a place where troubles such as

this one remained concealed from delicate eyes.

It was only when she remembered the blond-haired elf who so fascinated her that she

paused. Even though he had gone, flown from Sithelbec on the back of his winged steed,

she felt certain he would return. She didn't know why, but she wanted to be here when he

did.

"Farewell, General," she said quietly, crossing to embrace the once-proud warrior.

Without another glance at Giarna, she turned and left the tent.

Suzine retreated to her own shelter, anger rising within her. She stalked back and

forth within the silken walls, resisting the urge to throw things, to rant loudly at the air.

For all her efforts at self-control, her vaunted discipline seemed to have deserted her. She

could not calm herself.

Suddenly she gasped as the tent flap flew open and her general's huge form blocked

out the light. Instinctively she backed away as he marched into her shelter, allowing the

flap to fall closed behind him.

"That was quite a display," he growled, his voice like a blast of winter's wind. His

dark eyes glowered, showing none of the amusement they had displayed at Xalthan's predicament.

"What–what do you mean?" she stammered, still backing away. She held her hand to

her mouth and stared at him, her green eyes wide. A trace of her red hair spilled across

her brow, and she angrily pushed it away from her face.

Giarna crossed to her in three quick strides, taking her wrists in both his hands. He

pulled her arms to her sides and stared into her face, his mouth twisted into a menacing

sneer.

"Stop–you're hurting me!" she objected, twisting powerlessly in his grip.

"Hear me well, wench." He growled, his voice barely audible. "Do not attempt to

mock me again–ever! If you do, that shall be the end your power … the end of everything!"

She gasped, frightened beyond words.

"I have chosen you for my woman. That fact pleased you once; perhaps it may please

you again. Whether it does or not is irrelevant to me. Your skills, however, are of use to

me. The others wonder at the great intelligence I gain concerning the elven army, and so

you will continue to serve me thus.

"But you will not affront me again!" General Giarna paused, and his dark eyes

seemed to mock Suzine's terrified stare.

"Do I make myself perfectly clear?" Giarna demanded, and she nodded quickly,

helplessly. She feared his power and his strength, and she could only tremble in the grip

of his powerful hands.

"Remember well," added the general. He fixed her with a penetrating gaze, and she

felt the blood drain from her face. Without another word, he spun on his heel and stalked

imperiously from the tent.

* * * * *

The flight to Silvanost took four days, for Kith allowed Arcuballis to hunt in the

forest, while he himself took the time to rest at night on a lush bed of pine boughs amid

the noisy, friendly chatter of the woods.

On the second day of his flight, Kith-Kanan stopped early, for he had reached a place

that he intended to visit. Arcuballis dove to earth in the center of a blossom-bright

clearing, and Kith dismounted. He walked over to a tree that grew strong and proud,

shading a wide area, far wider than when he had last been here a year before.

"Anaya, I miss you," he said quietly.

He rested at the foot of the tree and spent several hours in bittersweet reflection of

the elf woman he'd loved and lost. But he didn't find total despair in the memory, for this

was indeed Anaya beside him now. She grew tall and flourished in a part of the woods

she had always loved.

She had been a creature of the woods, and together with her "brother" Mackeli, the

forest's guardian as well. For a moment, the pain threatened to block out the happier

memories. Why did they die? For what purpose? Anaya killed by marauders. Mackeli

slain by assassins–sent, Kith suspected, by someone in Silvanost itself.

Anaya hadn't really died, he reminded himself. Instead, she had undergone a bizarre

transformation and become a tree, rooted firmly in the forest soil she loved and had

strived to protect.

Then a disturbing vision intruded itself into Kith's reminiscences, and the picture of

Anaya, laughing and bright before him, changed slightly. A beautiful elven woman still

teased him, but now the face was different, no longer Anaya's.

Hermathya! The image of his first love, now his brother's wife, struck him like a

physical blow. Angrily he shook his head, trying to dispel her features, to call back those

of Anaya. Yet Hermathya remained before him, her eyes bold and challenging, her smile

alluring.

Kith-Kanan exhaled sharply, surprised by the attraction he still felt for the Silvanesti

woman. He had thought that impulse long dead, an immature passion that had run its

course and been banished to the past. Now he imagined her supple body, her clinging,

low-cut gown tailored to show enough to excite while concealing enough to mystify. He

found himself vaguely ashamed to realize that he still desired her.

As he shook his head in an effort to banish the disturbing emotion, a picture of still a

third woman insinuated itself. He recalled again the red-haired human woman who had

given him his chance to escape from the enemy camp. There had been something vibrant

and compelling about her, and this wasn't the first time he had remembered her face.

The conflicting memories warred within him as he built a small fire and ate a simple

meal. He camped in the clearing, as usual making himself a soft bed. The night passed in

peace.

He took to the air at first light, feeling as if he had somehow sullied Anaya's

memory, but soon the clean air swept through his hair, and his mind focused on the day's

journey. Arcuballis carried him swiftly and uneventfully eastward.

After his third night of sleeping in the woods, he felt as if his strength had been

doubled, his wit and alertness greatly enhanced.

His spirits soared as high as the Tower of the Stars, which now appeared on the

distant horizon. Arcuballis carried him steadily, but so far was the tower that more than

an hour passed before they reached the Thon-Thalas River, border to the island of

Silvanost.

His arrival was anticipated; boatmen on the river waved and cheered as he flew

overhead, while a crowd of elves hurried toward the Palace of Quinari. The doors at the

foot of the tower burst open, and Kith saw a blond-haired elf, clad in the silk robe of the

Speaker of the Stars, emerge. Sithas hurried across the garden, but the griffon met him

halfway.

Grinning foolishly, Kith leapt from the back of his steed to embrace his brother. It

felt very good to be home.

P ART II: S CIONS OF S ILVANOS

8

Midautumn, 2214 (PC)

"By Quenesti Pah, he's beautiful!" Kith-Kanan cautiously took the infant in his arms.

Proudly Sithas stood beside them. Kith had been on the ground for all of five minutes

before the Speaker of the Stars had hurried him to the nursery to see the newest heir to

the throne of Silvanesti.

"It takes a while before you feel certain that you won't break him," he told his

brother, based on his own extensive paternal experience, a good two months' worth now.

"Vanesti–it's a good name. Proud, full of our heritage," Kith said. "A name worthy of

the heir of the House of Silvanos."

Sithas looked at his brother and his son, and he felt better than he had in months.

Indeed, he knew a gladness that hadn't been his since the start of the war.

The door to the nursery opened and Hermathya entered. She approached Kith-Kanan

nervously, her eyes upon her child. At first, the elven general thought that his sister-in--

law's tension resulted from the memory of them together. Kith and Hermathya's affair,

before her engagement to Sithas, had been brief but passionate.

But then he realized that her anxiety came from a simpler, more direct source. She

was concerned that someone other than herself held her child.

"Here," said Kith, offering the silk-swathed infant to Hermathya. "You have a very

handsome son."

"Thank you." She took the child, then smiled hesitantly. Kith tried to see her in a

different light than he did in his memories. He told himself that she looked nothing like

the woman he had known, had thought he loved, those few years earlier.

Then the memories came back in a physical rush that almost brought him to his

knees. Hermathya smiled again, and Kith-Kanan ached with desire. He lowered his eyes,

certain that his bold feelings showed plainly on his face. By the gods, she was his

brother's wife! What kind of distorted loyalty tortured him that he could think these

thoughts, feel these needs.

He cast a quick, apprehensive glance at Sithas and saw that his brother looked only

at the baby. Hermathya, however, caught his eye, her own gaze sparking like fire. What

was happening? Suddenly Kith-Kanan felt very frightened and very lonely.

"You should both be very happy," he said awkwardly.

They said nothing, but each looked at Vanesti in a way that communicated their love

and pride.

"Now let's take care of business," said Sithas to his brother. "The war."

Kith sighed. "I knew we'd have to get around to the war sooner or later, but can we

make it a little bit later? I'd like to see Mother first."

"Of course. How stupid of me," Sithas agreed. If he had noticed any of the feelings

that Kith had thought showed so plainly on his face, the Speaker gave no sign. His voice

dropped slightly. "She's in her quarters. Shell be delighted to see you. I think it's just what

she needs."

Kith-Kanan looked at his brother curiously, but Sithas did not elaborate. Instead, the

Speaker continued in a different vein.

"I've had some Thalian blond wine chilled in my apartment. I want to hear

everything that's happened since the start of the war. Come and find me after you've

spoken to Nirakina."

"I will. I've got a lot to tell, but I want to know how things have fared in the city as

well." Kith-Kanan followed Sithas from the nursery, quietly closing the door. Before it

shut, he looked back and saw Hermathya cuddling the baby to her breast. The elf

woman's eyes looked up suddenly and locked upon Kith's, making an electric connection

that he had to force himself to break.

The two elves, leaders of the nation, walked in silence through the long halls of the

Palace of Quinari. They reached the apartments of their mother, and Kith stopped as

Sithas walked silently on.

"Enter" came her familiar voice in response to his soft knock.

He pushed open the door and saw Nirakina seated in a chair by the open window.

She rose and swept him into her arms, hugging him as if she would never let him go.

He was shocked by the aging apparent in his mother's face, an aging that was all the

more distressing because of the long elven life span. By rights, she was just reaching

middle age and could look forward to several productive centuries before she approached

old age.

Yet her face, drawn by cares, and the gray streaks that had begun to silver her hair

reminded Kith of his grandmother, in the years shortly before her death. It was a revelation

that disturbed him deeply.

"Sit down, Mother," Kith said quietly, leading her back to her chair. "Are you all

right?"

Nirakina looked at him, and the son had trouble facing his mother's eyes. So much

despair!

"Seeing you does much to bring my strength back," she replied, offering a wan

smile. "It seems I'm surrounded by strangers so much now."

"Surely Sithas is here with you."

"Oh, when he can be, but there is much to occupy him. The affairs of war, and now

his child. Vanesti is a beautiful baby, don't you agree?"

Kith nodded, wondering why he didn't hear more pleasure in his mother's voice. This

was her first grandchild.

"But Hermathya thinks that I get in the way, and her sisters are here to help. I have

seen too little of Vanesti." Nirakina's eyes drifted to the window. "I miss your father. I

miss him so much sometimes that I can hardly stand it."

Kith struggled for words. Failing, he took his mother's hands in his own.

"The palace, the city–it's all changing," she continued. "It's the war. In your absence,

Lord Quimant advises your brother. It seems the palace is becoming home to all of Clan

Oakleaf."

Kith had heard of Quimant in Sithas's letters and knew his brother considered him to

be a great assistance in affairs of state.

"What of Tamanier Ambrodel?" The loyal elf had been his mother's able aide and

had saved her life during the riots that rocked the city before the outbreak of war. Sithel

had promoted him to lord chamberlain to reward his loyalty. His mother and Tamanier

had been good friends for many years.

"He's gone. Sithas tells me not to worry, and I know he has embarked upon a mission

in the service of the throne. But he has been absent a long time, and I cannot help but

miss him."

She looked at him, and he saw tears in her eyes. "Sometimes I feel like so much

excess baggage, locked away in my room here, waiting for my life to pass!"

Kith sat back, shocked and dismayed by his mother's despair. This was so unlike the

Nirakina he had always known, an elf woman full of vigor, serene and patient against the

background of his father's rigid ideas. He tried to hide his churning emotions beneath a

lighthearted tone.

"Tomorrow we'll go riding," he said, realizing that sunset approached quickly. "I

have to meet Sithas tonight to make my reports. But meet me for breakfast in the dining

hall, won't you?"

Nirakina smiled, for the first time with her eyes as well as well as with her lips. "I'd

like that," she said. But the memory of her lined, unhappy face stuck with him as he left

her chambers and made his way to his brother's library.

"Come in," announced Sithas, as two liveried halberdiers of the House Protectorate

snapped to attention before the silver-plated doors to the royal apartment. One of them

pulled the door open, and the general entered.

"We wish to be alone," announced the Speaker of the Stars, and the guards nodded

silently.

The pair settled into comfortable chairs, near the balcony that gave them an excellent

view of the Tower of the Stars, which rose into the night sky across the gardens. The red

moon, Lunitari, and the pale orb of Solinari illuminated the vista, casting shadows

through the winding passages of the garden paths.

Sithas filled two mugs and placed the bottle of fine wine back into its bucket of

melting ice. Handing one mug to his brother, he raised his own and met Kith's with a

slight clink.

"To victory," he offered.

"Victory!" Kith-Kanan repeated.

They sat and, sensing that his brother wanted to speak first, the army commander

waited expectantly. His intuition was correct.

"By all the gods, I wish I could be there with you!" Sithas began, his tone full of

conviction.

Kith didn't doubt him. "War's not what I thought it would be," he admitted. "Mostly

it's waiting, discomfort, and tedium. We are always hungry and cold, but mostly bored. It

seems that days and weeks go by when nothing happens of consequence."

He sighed and paused for a moment to take a deep draft of his wine. The sweet liquid

soothed his throat and loosened his tongue. "Then, when things do start to happen, you're

more frightened than you ever thought was possible. You fight for your life; you run

when you have to. You try to stay in touch with what's going on, but it's impossible. Just

as quickly, the fight's over and you go back to being bored. Except now you have the

grief, too, knowing that brave companions have died this day, some of them because you

made the wrong decision. Even the right decision sometimes sends too many good elves

to their deaths."

Sithas shook his head sadly. "At least you have some control over events. I sit here,

hundreds of miles away. I sent those good elves to live or die without the slightest knowledge

of what will befall them."

"That knowledge is slim comfort," replied his brother.

Kith-Kanan told his brother, in elaborate detail, about the battles in which the

Wildrunners had fought the Army of Ergoth. He talked of their initial small victories, of

the plodding advance of the central and southern wings. He described the fast-moving

horsemen of the north wing and their keen and brutal commander, General Giarna. His

voice broke as he related the tale of the trap that had ensnared Kencathedrus and his

proud regiment, and for a moment, he lapsed into a miserable silence.

Sithas reached out and touched his brother on the shoulder. The gesture seemed to

renew Kith-Kanan's strength, and after drawing a deep breath, he began to speak again.

He told of their forced retreat into the fortress, of the numberless horde of humans

surrounding them, barring the Wildrunners against any real penetration. The wine bottle

emptied–it may as well have been by evaporation, for all the notice the brothers took–and

the moons crept toward the western horizon. Sithas rang for another bottle of Thalian

blond as Kith described the state of supplies and morale within Sithelbec and talked about

their prospects for the future.

"We can hold out through the winter, perhaps well into next year. But we cannot

shake the grip around us, not unless something happens to break this stalemate!"

"Something such as what? More reinforcements–another five thousand elves from

Silvanost?" Sithas leaned close to his brother, disturbed by the account of the war. The

setbacks suffered by the Wildrunners were temporary–this the speaker truly believed–and

together they had to figure out some way to turn the tide.

Kith shook his head. "That would help–any reinforcements you can send would

help–but even twice that many elves would not turn the tide. Perhaps the Army of Thorbardin,

if the dwarves can be coaxed from their mountain retreat …." His voice showed

that he placed little hope in this possibility.

"It might happen," Sithas replied. "You didn't get to know Lord Dunbarth as did I,

when he spent a year among us in the city. He is a trustworthy fellow, and he bears no

love for the humans. I think he realizes that his own kingdom will be next in line for

conquest unless he can do something now."

Sithas described the present ambassador, the intransigent Than-Kar, in considerably

less glowing terms. "He's a major stumbling block to any firm agreement, but there still

might be some way around him."

"I'd like to talk to him myself," Kith said. "Can we bring him to the palace?"

"I can try," Sithas agreed, realizing how weak the phrase sounded. Father would have

ordered it, he reminded himself. For a moment, he felt terribly ineffective, wishing he had

Sithel's steady nerves. Angrily he pushed the sensation of doubt away and listened to his

brother speak.

"I'll believe in dwarven help when I see their banners on the field and their weapons

pointed away from us!"

"But what else?" pressed Sithas. "What other tactics do we have?"

"I wish I knew," his brother replied. "I hoped that you might have some

suggestions."

"Weapons?" Sithas explained the key role Lord Quimant was playing to increase the

munitions production at the Oakleaf Clan's forges. "We'll get you the best blades that

elven craftsmen can make."

"That's something–but still, we need more. We need something that cannot just stand

against the human cavalry but break it–drive it away!"

The second bottle of wine began to vanish as the elven lords wrestled with their

problem. The first traces of dawn colored the sky, a thin line of pale blue on the horizon,

but no ready solution came to mind.

"You know, I wasn't certain that Arcuballis could find you," Sithas said after a pause

of several minutes. The frustration of their search for a solution weighed upon them, and

Kith welcomed the change of conversation.

"He never looked so good to me," Kith-Kanan replied, "as when he came soaring

into the fortress compound. I didn't realize how much I missed this place–how much I

missed you and mother–until I saw him."

"He's been there in the stable since you left," Sithas said, shaking his head with a wry

grin. "I don't know why I didn't think of sending him to you shortly after you first became

besieged."

"I had a curious dream about him–about an entire flock of griffons, actually–on the

very night before he arrived. It was most uncanny." Kith described his strange dream, and

the two brothers pondered its meaning.

"A flock of griffons?" Sithas asked intently.

"Well, yes. Do you think it significant?"

"If we had a flock of griffons ... if they all carried riders into combat ... could that be

the hammer needed to crack the shell around Sithelbec?" Sithas spoke with growing

enthusiasm.

"Wait a minute," said Kith, holding up his hand. "I suppose you're right, in a

hypothetical sense. In fact, the horses of the humans were spooked as I flew over, even

though I was high, out of bowshot range. But who ever heard of an army of griffons?"

Sithas settled back, suddenly realizing the futility of his idea. For a moment, neither

of them said anything–which was how they heard the soft rustling in the room behind

them.

Kith-Kanan sprang to his feet, instinctively reaching for a sword at his hip, forgetting

that his weapon hung back on the wall of his own apartment. Sithas whirled in his seat,

staring in astonishment, and then he rose to his feet.

"You!" the Speaker barked, his voice taut with rage. "What are you doing here?"

Kith-Kanan crouched, preparing to spring at the intruder. He saw the figure, a mature

elf cloaked in a silky gray robe, move forward from the shadows.

"Wait." said Sithas, much to his brother's surprise. The speaker held up his hand and

Kith straightened, still tense and suspicious.

"One day your impudence will cost you," Sithas said levelly as the elf approached

them. "You are not to enter my chambers unannounced again. Is that clear?"

"Pardon my intrusion. As you know, my presence must remain discreet."

"Who is this?" Kith-Kanan demanded.

"Forgive me," said the gray-cloaked elf before Sithas cut him off.

"This is Vedvedsica," said Sithas. Kith-Kanan noted that his brother's tone had

become carefully guarded. "He has ... been helpful to the House of Silvanos in the past."

"The pleasure is mine, and it is indeed great, honored prince," offered Vedvedsica,

with a deep bow to Kith-Kanan.

"Who are you? Why do you come here?" Kith demanded.

"In good time, lord–in good time. As to who I am, I am a cleric, a devoted follower

of Gilean."

Kith-Kanan wasn't surprised. The god was the most purely neutral in the elven

pantheon, most often used to justify self-aggrandizement and profit. Something about

Vedvedsica struck him as very self-serving indeed.

"More to the point, I know of your dream."

The last was directed to Kith-Kanan and struck him like a lightning bolt between the

eyes. For a moment, he hesitated, fighting an almost undeniable urge to hurl himself at

the insolent cleric and kill him with his bare hands. Never before had he felt so violated.

"Explain yourself!"

"I have knowledge that the two of you may desire–knowledge of griffons, hundreds

of them. And even more important, I may have knowledge as to how they can be found

and tamed."

For the moment, the elven lords remained silent, listening suspiciously as

Vedvedsica moved forward. "May 1?" inquired the cleric, gesturing to a seat beside their

own.

Sithas nodded silently, and all three sat.

"The griffons dwell in the Khalkist Mountains, south of the Lords of Doom." The

brothers knew of these peaks–three violent volcanoes in the heart of the forbidding range,

high among vast glaciers and sheer summits. It was a region beyond the ken of elven

explorers.

"How do you know this?" asked Sithas.

"Did your father ever tell you how he came to possess Arcuballis?" Again the cleric

fixed Kith-Kanan with his gaze, then continued as if he already knew the answer. "He got

him from me!"

Kith nodded, reluctant to believe the cleric but finding himself unable to doubt the

veracity of his words.

"I purchased him from a Kagonesti, a wild elf who told me of the whereabouts of the

pack. He encountered them, together with a dozen companions. He alone escaped the

wrath of the griffons, with one young cub–the one given by me to Sithel as a gift, and the

one that he passed along to his son. To you, Kith-Kanan."

"But how could the flock be tamed? From what you say, a dozen elves perished to

bring one tiny cub away!" Kith-Kanan challenged Vedvedsica. Despite his suspicions, he

felt his own excitement begin to build.

"I tamed him, with the aid and protection of Gilean. I developed the spell that broke

him to halter. It's a simple enchantment, really. Any elf with a working knowledge of the

Old Script could have cast it. But only I could bring it into being!"

"Continue," said Sithas urgently.

"I believe that spell can be enhanced, developed so that many more of the creatures

could be brought to heel. I can inscribe it onto a scroll. Then one of you can take it in

search of the griffons."

"Are you certain that it will work?" demanded Sithas.

"No," replied the cleric frankly. "It will need to be presented under precise

circumstances and with a great force of command. That is why the person who casts the

spell must be a leader among elves–one of you two. No others of our race would have the

necessary traits."

"How long would it take to prepare such a scroll?" pressed Kith. A cavalry company

mounted on griffons, flying over the battlefield! The thought made his heart pound with

excitement. They would be unstoppable!

Vedvedsica shrugged. "A week, perhaps two. It will be an arduous process."

"I'll go," Kith volunteered.

"Wait!" said Sithas sharply. "I should go! And I will!"

Kith-Kanan looked at the Speaker in astonishment. "That's crazy!" he argued.

"You're the Speaker of the Stars. You have a wife, a child! More to the point, you're the

leader of all Silvanesti! And you haven't ever lived in the wilderness before like I have! I

can't allow you to take the risk."

For a moment, the twins stared at each other, equally stubborn. The cleric was

forgotten for the moment, and he melted into the shadows, discreet in his withdrawal.

It was Sithas who spoke.

"Do you read the Old Script?" he asked his brother bluntly. "Well enough to be

certain of your words, when you know that the whole future of the realm could depend

upon what you say?"

The younger twin sighed. "No. My studies always emphasized the outdoor skills. I'm

afraid the ancient writing wouldn't make much sense to me."

Sithas smiled wryly. "I used to resent that. You were always out riding horses or

hunting or learning swordsmanship, while I studied the musty tomes and forgotten

histories. Well, now I'm going to put that learning to use.

"We'll both go," Sithas concluded.

Kith-Kanan stared at him, realizing the outcry such a plan would raise. Perhaps, he

had to admit, this was the reason the scheme appealed to him. Slowly, Kith relaxed,

settling back into his chair.

"The trip won't be easy," Kith warned sternly. "We're going to have to explore the

largest mountain range on Ansalon, and winter isn't far away. In those heights, you can

be sure there's already plenty of snow."

"You can't scare me off," answered Sithas purposefully. "I know that Arcuballis can

carry the two of us, and I don't care if it takes all winter. We'll find them, Kith. I know we

will."

"You know," Kith-Kanan said ironically, "I must still be dreaming. In any event,

you're right. The sons of Sithel ought to make this quest together."

With a final mug of wine, as the sky grew pale above them, they began to make their

plans.

9

Next Morning

Kith-Kanan and his mother rode through the tree-lined streets of Silvanost for

several hours, talking only of fond memories and pleasant topics from many years before.

They stopped to enjoy the fountains, to watch the hawks dive for fish in the river, and to

listen to the songbirds that clustered in the many flowered bushes of the city's lush

gardens.

During the ride, it seemed to the elven warrior that his mother slowly came to life

again, even to the point of laughing as they watched the pompous dance of a brilliant

cardinal trying to impress his mate.

In the back of Kith's mind lurked the realization that his mother would soon learn of

her sons' plans to embark on a dangerous expedition into the Khalkist Mountains. That

news could wait, he decided.

"Are you going to join your brother at court?" asked Nirakina as the sun slid past the

midafternoon point.

Kith sighed. "There'll be enough time for that tomorrow," he decided.

"Good ." His mother looked at him, and he was delighted to see that the familiar

sparkle had returned to her eyes. She spurred her horse with a sharp kick, and the mare

raced ahead, leaving Kith with the challenge of her laugh as he tried to urge his older

gelding into catching up.

They cantered beneath the shade of towering elms and dashed among the crystal

columns of the elven homes in a friendly race toward the Gardens of Astarin and the

royal stables. Nirakina was a good rider, with the faster horse; though Kith tried to spur

the last energy from his own steed, his mother beat him through the palace gates by a

good three lengths.

Laughing, they pulled up before the stables and dismounted. Nirakina turned toward

him, impulsively pulling him into a hug, "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for

coming home!"

Kith held her in silence for some moments, relieved that he hadn't discussed the

twins' plans with her.

Leaving his mother at her chambers, he made his way to his own apartments,

intending to bathe and dress for the banquet his brother had scheduled for that evening.

Before he reached his door, however, a figure moved out of a nearby alcove.

Reflexively the elven warrior reached for a sword, a weapon that he did not usually

carry in the secure confines of the palace. At the same time, he relaxed, recognizing the

figure and realizing that there was no threat–at least, no threat of harm.

"Hermathya," he said, his voice oddly husky.

"Your nerves are stretched tight," she observed, with an awkward little laugh. She

wore a turquoise gown cut low over her breasts. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders,

and as she looked up at him, Kith-Kanan thought that she seemed as young and

vulnerable as ever.

He forced himself to shake his head, remembering that she was neither young nor

vulnerable. Still, the spell of her innocent allure held him, and he wanted to reach out and

sweep her into his arms.

With difficulty, he held his hands at his sides, waiting for Hermathya to speak again.

His stillness seemed to unsettle her, as if she had expected him to make the next move.

The look in her eyes left him little doubt as to what response she was hoping for. He

didn't open the door, he didn't move toward his room. He remained all too conscious of

the private chambers and the large bed nearby. The aching in his body surprised him, and

he realized with a great deal of dismay that he wanted her. He wanted her very badly

indeed.

"I–I wanted to talk to you," she said. He understood implicitly that she was lying.

Her words seemed to break the spell, and he reached past her to push open his door.

"Come in," he said as flatly as possible.

He walked to the tall crystal doors, pulling the draperies aside to reveal the lush

brilliance of the Gardens of Astarin. Keeping his back to her, he waited for her to speak.

"I've been worried about you," she began. "They told me you had been captured, and

I feared I would go out of my mind! Were they cruel to you? Did they hurt you?"

Not half so cruel as you were once, he thought silently. Half of him wanted to shout

at her, to remind her that he had once begged her to run away with him, to choose him

over his brother. The other half wanted to sweep her into his arms, into his bed, into his

life. Yet he dared not look at her, for he feared the latter emotion and knew it was the

worst treachery.

"I was only held prisoner for a day," he said, his voice hardening. "They butchered

the other elves that they held, but I was fortunate enough to escape."

He thought of the human woman who had–unwittingly, so far as he knew–aided his

flight. She had been very beautiful, for a human. Her body possessed a fullness that was

voluptuous, that he had to admit he found strangely attractive. Yet she was nothing to

him. He didn't even know her name. She was far away from him, probably forever. While

Hermathya ...

Kith-Kanan sensed her moving closer. Her hand touched his shoulder and he stood

very still.

"You'd better go. I've got to get ready for the banquet." Still he did not look at her.

For a second, she was silent, and he felt very conscious of her delicate touch. Then

her hand fell away. "I …" She didn't complete the thought.

As he heard her move toward the door, he turned from the windows to watch her.

She smiled awkwardly before she left, pulling the door closed behind her.

For a long time afterward, he remained motionless. The image of her body remained

burning in his mind. It frightened him terribly that he found himself wishing she had

chosen to remain.

* * * * *

Kith-Kanan's reentry into the royal court of Silvanost felt to him like a sudden

immersion into icy water. Nothing in his recent experience bore any resemblance to the

gleaming marble-floored hall, and the elegant nobles and ladies dressed in their silken

robes, which were trimmed in fur and silver thread and embellished with diamonds,

emeralds, and rubies.

The discussions with his family, even the banquet of the previous night, had not

prepared him for the full formality of the Hall of Audience. Now he found himself

speaking to a faceless congregation of stiff coats and noble gowns, describing the course

of the war to date. Finally his report was done, and the elves dissolved smoothly into

private discussions.

"Who's that?" Kith-Kanan asked Sithas, indicating a tall elf who had just arrived and

now made his way to the throne.

"I'll introduce you." Sithas rose and gestured the elf forward. "This is Lord Quimant

of Oakleaf, of whom I have spoken. This is my brother, Kith-Kanan, general of the elven

army."

"I am indeed honored, My lord," said Quimant, with a deep bow.

"Thank you," Kith replied, studying his face. "My brother tells me that your aid has

been invaluable in supporting the war effort."

"The Speaker is generous," the lord said to Kith-Kanan modestly. "My contribution

pales in comparison to the sacrifices made by you and all of your warriors. If we can but

provide you with reliable blades, that is my only wish."

For a moment, Kith was struck by the jarring impression that Lord Quimant, in fact,

wished for a great deal more out of the war. That moment passed, and Kith noticed that

his brother seemed to place tremendous confidence and warmth in Hermathya's cousin.

"What word from our esteemed ambassador?" asked Sithas.

"Than-Kar will attend our court, but not until after the noon hour," reported the lord.

"He seems to feel that he has no pressing business here."

"That's the problem!" snapped the Speaker harshly.

Quimant changed the topic. To Sithas and Kith-Kanan, he described some additional

expansions of the Clan Oakleaf mines, though the general paid little attention. Restlessly

his eyes roamed the crowd, seeking Hermathya. He felt a vague relief that she was not

present. He had felt likewise when she didn't attend the previous night's banquet, pleading

a mild illness.

The evening passed with excruciating slowness. Kith-Kanan stood tersely as he was

plied with invitations to banquets and hunting trips. Some of the ladies gave him other

types of invitations, judging from the suggestive tilts of their smiles or the coy lowerings

of demure eyelashes. He felt like a prize stag whose antlers were coveted for everybody's

mantel.

Kith found himself, much to his astonishment, actually looking back with fondness

on the grim, battle-weary conversations he had most nights with his fellow warriors.

They might have squatted around a smoky fire for illumination, caked with mud and

smelling of weeks of accumulated grime, yet somehow that all seemed so much more real

than did this pompous display.

Finally the fanfare of trumpets announced the arrival of the dwarven ambassador and

his retinue. Kith-Kanan stared in surprise as Than-Kar led a column of more than thirty

armed and armored dwarves into the hall. They marched in a muddy file toward the

throne, finally halting to allow their leader to swagger forward on his own.

The Theiwar dwarf bore little resemblance to the jovial Dunbarth Ironthumb, of the

Hylar Clan, whom Kith-Kanan had met years before. He found Than-Kar's wide eyes,

with their surrounding whites and tiny, beadlike pupils, disturbing–like the eyes of a

madman, he thought. The dwarf was filthy and unkempt, with a soiled tunic and muddy

boots, almost as if he had made a point of his messy appearance for the benefit of the

elven general.

"The Speaker has demanded my presence, and I have come," announced the dwarf in

a tone ripe with insolence.

Kith-Kanan felt an urge to leap from the Speaker's platform and throttle the obscene

creature. With an effort, he held his temper in check.

"My brother has returned from the front," began Sithas, dispensing with the formality

of an introduction. "I desire for you to report to him on the status of your nation's

involvement."

Than-Kar's weird eyes appraised Kith-Kanan, while a smirk played on the dwarf's

lips. "No change." He said bluntly. "My king needs to see some concrete evidence of

elven trustworthiness before he will commit dwarven lives to this . . . cause."

Kith felt his face flush, and he took a step forward. "Surely you understand that all

the elder races are threatened by this human aggression?" he demanded.

The Theiwar shrugged. "The humans would say that they are threatened by elven

aggression."

"They are the ones who have marched into elven lands! Lands, I might add, that

border firmly against the northern flank of your own kingdom!"

"I don't see it that way," snorted the dwarf. "And besides, you have humans among

your own ranks! It almost seems to me that it is a family feud. If they see fit to join, why

should dwarves get involved?"

Sithas turned in astonishment to Kith-Kanan, though the speaker remained outwardly

composed.

"We have no humans fighting on the side of our forces. There are some–women and

children, mostly–who have taken shelter in the fortress for the siege. They are merely

innocent victims of the war. They do not change its character!"

"More to the point, then," spoke the ambassador, his voice an accusing hiss, "explain

the presence of elves in the Army of Ergoth!"

"Lies!" shouted Sithas, forgetting himself and springing to his feet. The hall erupted

in shouts of anger and denial from courtiers and nobles pressing forward. Than-Kar's

bodyguards bristled and raised their weapons.

"Entire ranks of elves," continued the dwarf as the crowd murmured. "They resist

your imperial hegemony."

"They are traitors to the homeland!" snapped Sithas.

"A question of semantics," argued Than-Kar. "I merely mean to illustrate that the

confused state of the conflict makes a dwarven intervention seem rash to the point of

foolishness."

Kith-Kanan could hold himself in check no longer. He stepped down from the

platform and stared at the dwarf, who was a foot or more shorter than himself. "You

distort the truth in a way that can only discredit your nation!"

He continued, his voice a growl. "Any elves among the ranks of Ergoth are lone

rogues, lured by human coin or promises of power. Even the likes of you cannot blur the

clear lines of this conflict. You spout your lies and your distortions from the safety of this

far city; hiding like a coward behind the robes of diplomacy. You make me sick!"

Than-Kar appeared unruffled as he stepped aside to address Sithas. "This example of

your general's impetuous behavior will be duly reported to my king. It cannot further

your cause."

"You set a new standard for diplomatic excess, and you try my patience to its limits.

Leave, now!" Sithas hissed the words with thick anger, and the hall fell deathly silent.

If the dwarf was affected by the speaker's rage, however, he concealed his emotions

well. With calculated insolence, he marched his column about and then led them from the

Hall of Audience.

"Throw open the windows!" barked the Speaker of the Stars. "Clear the stench from

the air!"

Kith-Kanan slumped to sit on the steps of the royal dais, ignoring the surprised looks

from some of the stiff-backed elven nobles. "I could have strangled him with pleasure,"

he snarled as his brother came to sit beside him.

"The audience is over," Sithas announced to the rest of the elves, and Kith-Kanan

sighed with concern as the last of the anonymous nobles left. The only ones remaining in

the great hall were Quimant, the twins, and Nirakina.

"I know I shouldn't have let him get under my skin like that. I'm sorry," the general

said to the Speaker.

"Nonsense. You said things I've wanted to voice for months. It's better to have a

warrior say them than a head of state." Sithas paused awkwardly. "What he did say–how

much truth was there to it?"

"Very little," sighed Kith-Kanan. "We are sheltering humans in the fortress, most of

them the wives and families of Wildrunners. They would be slain on sight if they fell into

the hands of the enemy."

"And are elves fighting for Ergoth?" Sithas couldn't keep the dismay from his voice.

"A few rogues, as I said," Kith admitted. "At least, we've had reports of them. I saw

one myself in the human camp. But these turncoats are not numerous enough that we

have taken notice of them on the field."

He groaned and leaned backward, remembering the offensive and arrogant Theiwar

dwarf. "That lout! I suppose it's a good thing I didn't have my sword at my side."

"You're tired," said Sithas. "Why don't you relax for a while. This round of banquets

and courts and all-night meetings, I'm sure, takes an adjustment. We can talk tomorrow."

"Your brother is right. You do need rest," Nirakina added in a maternal tone. "I'll

have dinner sent to your apartments."

* * * * *

The dinner arrived, as Nirakina had promised. Kith-Kanan guessed that his mother

had sent orders to the kitchen, and someone in the kitchen had communicated the

situation to another interested party. For it was Hermathya who knocked on his door and

entered.

"Hello, Hermathya," he said, sitting up in the bed. He wasn't particularly surprised to

see her, and if he was honest with himself, neither was he very much dismayed.

"I took this from the serving girl," she said, bringing forward a large silver tray with

domed, steaming dishes and crystal platters. Once again he was struck by her air of youth

and innocence.

Memories of the two of them together.... Kith-Kanan felt a sudden resurgence of

desire, a feeling that he thought had been gone for years. He wanted to take her in his

arms. Looking into her eyes, he knew that she desired the same thing.

"I'll get up. We can dine near the windows." He didn't want to suggest they go to the

balcony. He felt there was something furtive and private about her visit.

"Just stay there," she said softly. "I'll serve you in bed."

He wondered what she meant, at first. Soon he learned, as the dinner grew cold upon

a nearby table.

10

The Morning After

Hermathya slipped away sometime during the middle of the night, and Kith-Kanan

felt profoundly grateful in the morning that she was gone. Now, in the cold light of day,

the passion that had seized them seemed like nothing so much as a malicious and hurtful

interlude. The flame that had once drawn them together ought not to be rekindled.

Kith-Kanan spent most of the day with his brother, touring the stables and farriers of

the city. He forced himself to maintain focus on the task at hand: gathering additional

horses to mount his cavalry forces for the time when the Wildrunnners took to the

offensive. They both knew that they would, they must, eventually attack the human army.

They couldn't simply wait out the siege.

During these hours together, Kith found that he couldn't meet his brother's eyes.

Sithas remained cheerful and enthusiastic, friendly in a way that twisted Kith-Kanan's

gut. By midafternoon, he made an excuse to leave his twin's company, pleading the need

to give Arcuballis some exercise. In reality, he needed an escape, a chance to suffer his

guilt in solitude.

The following days in Silvanost passed slowly, making even the bleak confinement

in beseiged Sithelbec seem eventful by comparison. He avoided Hermathya, and he found

to his relief that she seemed to be avoiding him as well. The few times he saw her she

was with Sithas, playing the doting wife holding tightly to her husband's arm and hanging

upon his every word.

In truth, the time dragged for Sithas as well. He knew that Vedvedsica was laboring

to create a spell that might allow them to magically ensnare the griffons, but he was

impatient to begin the quest. He ascribed Kith-Kanan's unease to similar impatience.

When they were together, they spoke only of the war and waited for a message from the

mysterious cleric.

That word did not come for eight days, and then, oddly, it arrived in the middle of

the night. The twins were wide awake, engaged in deep discussion in Sithas's chambers,

when they heard a rustling on the balcony beyond the open window. Sithas drew the

draperies aside, and the sorcerous cleric stepped into the room.

Kith-Kanan's eyes immediately fell upon Vedvedsica's hand, for he carried a long

ivory tube, the ends capped by cork. Several arcane sigils, in black, marked its alabaster

surface.

The cleric raised the object, and the twins instinctively understood, even before

Vedvedsica uncorked the end and withdrew a rolled sheet of oiled vellum. Unrolling the

scroll, he showed them a series of symbols scribed in the Old Script.

"The spell of command," the priest explained softly. "With this magic, I believe the

griffons can be tamed."

The twins planned to depart after one more day of final preparations. With the scroll

at last a reality, a new urgency marked their activity. They met with Nirakina and Lord

Quimant shortly after breakfast, a few hours after Vedvedsica had departed.

The four of them gathered in the royal library, where a fire crackled in the hearth to

disperse the autumnal chill. Sithas brought the scroll, though he placed his cloak over it

as he set it on the floor. They all sat in the great leatherbacked chairs that faced the fire.

"We have word of a discovery that may change the course of the war–for the better,"

announced Kith.

"Splendid!" Quimant was enthusiastic. Nirakina merely looked at her sons, her

concern showing in the furrowing of her brow.

"You know of Arcuballis, of course," continued the warrior. "He was given to

Sithel–to father–by a 'merchant' from the north." According to the strategy he and Sithas

had developed, they would say nothing about the involvement of the gray cleric. "We

have since learned that the Khalkist Mountains are home to a great herd of the

creatures–hundreds of them, at least."

"Do you have proof of this, or is it merely rumor?" asked Nirakina. Her face had

grown pale.

"They have been seen," explained Kith-Kanan, glossing over the question. He told

Quimant and Nirakina of his dream on the night before he departed Sithelbec. "Right

down to the three volcanoes, it bears out everything we've been able to learn."

"Think of the potential!" Sithas added. "A whole wing of flying cavalry! Why, the

passage of Arcuballis alone sent hundreds of horses into a stampede. A sky full of

griffons could very well rout the whole Army of Ergoth!"

"It seems a great leap," Nirakina said slowly and quietly, "from the knowledge of

griffons in a remote mountain range to a trained legion of flyers, obeying the commands

of their riders." She was still pale, but her voice was strong and steady.

"We believe we can find them," Sithas replied levelly. "We leave at tomorrow's

sunrise to embark upon this quest."

"How many warriors will you take?" asked Nirakina, knowing as they all did the

legends of the distant Khalkists. Tales of ogres, dark and evil dwarves, even tribes of

brutish hill giants–these comprised the folklore whispered by the average elf regarding

the mountain range that was the central feature of the continent of Ansalon.

"Only the two of us will go." Sithas faced his mother, who appeared terribly frail in

her overly-large chair.

"We'll ride Arcuballis," Kith-Kanan explained quickly. "And he'll cover the distance

in a fraction of the time it would take an army–even if we had one to send."

Nirakina looked at Kith-Kanan, her eyes pleading. Her warrior son understood the

appeal. She wanted him to volunteer to go alone, leaving the Speaker of the Stars behind.

Yet even as this thought flashed in her eyes, she lowered her head.

When she looked up, her voice was firm again. "How will you capture these

creatures, assuming that you find them?"

Sithas removed his cloak and picked up the tube from the floor beside his chair. "We

have acquired a spell of command from a friend of the House of Silvanos. If we can find

the griffons, the spell will bind them to our will."

"It is a more powerful version of the same enchantment that was used to domesticate

Arcuballis," added Kith. "It is written in the Old Script. That is one reason why Sithas

must go with me–to help me cast the spell by reading the Old Script."

His mother looked at him, nodding calmly, more out of shock than from any true

sense of understanding.

Nirakina had stood beside her husband through three centuries of rule. She had borne

these two proud sons. She had suffered the news of her husband's murder at the hands of

a human and lived through the resulting war that now engulfed her nation, her family,

and her people. Now she faced the prospect of her two sons embarking on what seemed

to her a mad quest, in search of a miracle, with little more than a prayer of success.

Yet, above all, she was the matriarch of the House of Silver Moon. She, too, was a

leader of the Silvanesti, and she understood some things about strength, about ruling, and

about risk-taking. She had made known her objections, and she realized that the minds of

her sons were set. Now she would give no further vent to her personal feelings.

She rose from her chair and nodded stiffly at each of her sons. Kith-Kanan went to

her side, while Sithas remained in his chair, moved by her loyalty. The warrior escorted

her to the door.

Quimant looked at Sithas, then turned to Kith-Kanan as he returned to his chair.

"May your quest be speedy and successful. I only wish I could accompany you."

Sithas spoke. "I shall entrust you to act as regent in my absence. You know the

details of the nation's daily affairs. I shall also need you to begin the conscription of new

troops. By the end of winter, we will have to raise and train a new force to send to the

plains."

"I will do everything in my power," pledged Quimant.

"Another thing," added Sithas casually. "If Tamanier Ambrodel returns to the city, he

is to be given quarters in the palace. I will need to see him immediately upon my return."

Quimant nodded, rose, and bowed to the twins. "May the gods watch over you," he

said, then left.

* * * * *

"I have to go. Don't you understand that?" Sithas challenged Hermathya. She

stomped about their royal bedchambers before whirling upon him.

"You can't! I forbid it!" Hermathya's voice rose, becoming shrill. Her face, moments

before blank with astonishment, now contorted in fury.

"Damn it! Listen to me!" Sithas scowled, his own anger rising. Stubborn and

intractable, they stared into each other's eyes for a moment.

"I've told you about the spell of binding. It's in the Old Script. Kith doesn't have the

knowledge to use it, even if he found the griffons. I'm the only one who can read it

properly." He held her shoulders and continued to meet her eyes.

"I have to do this, not just for the good it will do our nation, but for me! That's what

you have to understand!"

"I don't have to, and I won't!" she cried, whirling away from him.

"Kith-Kanan has always been the one to face the dangers and the challenges of the

unknown. Now there's something that I must do. I, too, must put my life at risk. For once,

I'm not just sending my brother into danger. I'm going myself!"

"But you don't have to!"

Hermathya almost spat her anger, but Sithas wouldn't budge. If she could see any

sense in his desire to test himself, she wouldn't admit it. Finally, in exhaustion and

frustration, the Speaker of the Stars stormed out of the chambers.

He found Kith-Kanan in the stables, instructing the saddlemaker on modifications to

Arcuballis's harness. The griffon would be able to carry the two of them, but his flight

would be slowed, and they would be able to take precious little in the way of provisions

and equipment.

"Dried meat–enough for only a few weeks," recited Kith-Kanan, examining the

bulging saddlebags. "A pair of waterskins, several extra cloaks. Tinder and flint, a couple

of daggers. Extra bowstrings. We'll carry our bows where we can get at them in a hurry,

of course. And twoscore arrows. Do you have a practical sword?"

For a moment, Sithas flushed. He knew that the ceremonial blade he had carried for

years would be inadequate for the task at hand. Cast in a soft silver alloy, its shining

blade was inscribed with all manner of symbols in the Old Script, reciting the glorious

history of the House of Silvanos. It was beautiful and valuable, but impractical in a fight.

Still, it rankled him to hear his brother speak ill of it. "Lord Quimant has procured a

splendid longsword for me," he said stiffly. "It will do quite nicely."

"Good." Kith took no notice of his brother's annoyance. "We'll have to leave our

metal armor behind. With this load, Arcuballis can't handle the extra weight. Have you a

good set of leathers?"

Again Sithas replied in the affirmative.

"Well, we'll be ready to go at first light, then. Ah–"

Kith hesistated, then asked, "How did Hermathya react?" Kith knew that Sithas had

put off telling Hermathya that he would be gone for weeks on this journey.

"Poorly," Sithas, said, with a grimace. He offered no elaboration, and Kith-Kanan

did not probe further.

They attended a small banquet that night, joined by Quimant and Nirakina and

several other nobles. Hermathya was conspicuously absent, a fact for which Kith was

profoundly grateful, and the mood was subdued.

He had found himself anxious throughout these last days that Hermathya would tell

her husband about her dalliance with his brother. Kith-Kanan had tried to put aside the

memory of that night, treating the incident as some sort of waking dream. This made his

guilt somewhat easier to bear.

After dinner, Nirakina handed Sithas a small vial. The stoneware jar was tightly

plugged by a cork.

"It is a salve, made by the clerics of Quenesti Pah," she explained. "Miritelisina gave

it to me. If you are injured, spread a small amount around the area of the wound. It will

help the healing."

"I hope we won't need it, but thank you," said Sithas. For a moment, he wondered if

his mother was about to cry, but again her proud heritage sustained her. She embraced

each of her sons warmly, kissed them, and wished them the luck of the gods. Then she

retired to her chambers.

Both of the twins spent much of the night awake, taut with the prospect of the

upcoming adventure. Sithas tried to see his wife in the evening and again before sunrise,

but she wouldn't open her door even to speak to him. He settled for a few moments with

Vanesti, holding his son in his arms and rocking him gently while night gave way to early

dawn.

11

Day of Departure, Autumn

They met at the stables before dawn. As they had requested, no one came to see them

off. Kith threw the heavy saddle over the restless griffon's back, making sure that the

straps that passed around Arcuballis's wings were taut. Sithas stood by, watching as his

brother hoisted the heavy saddlebags over the creature's loins. The elf took several

minutes to make sure that everything was secure.

They mounted the powerful beast, with Kith-Kanan in the fore, and settled into the

specially modified saddle. Arcuballis trotted from the stable doors into the wide corral.

Here he sprang upward, the thick muscles of his legs propelling them from the ground.

His powerful wings beat the still air and thrust downward. In a single fluid motion, he

leaped again and they were airborne.

The griffon labored over the garden and then along the city's main avenue, slowly

gaining altitude. The twins saw the towers of the city pass alongside, then slowly fall behind.

Rosy hues of dawn quickly brightened to pink, then pale blue, as the sun seemed to

explode over the eastern horizon into a crisp and cloudless day.

"By the gods, this is fantastic!" cried Sithas, overcome with the beauty of their flight,

with the sight of Silvanost, and perhaps with the exhilaration of at last escaping the

confining rituals of his daily life.

Kith-Kanan smiled to himself, pleased with his brother's enthusiasm. They flew

above the Thon-Thalas River, following the silvery ribbon of its path. Though autumn

had come to the elven lands, the day was brilliant with sunshine, the air was clear, and a

brilliant collage of colors spread across the forested lands below.

The steady pulse of the griffon's wings carried them for many hours. The city quickly

fell away, though the Tower of the Stars remained visible for some time. By midmorning,

however, they soared over pristine forestland. No building broke the leafy canopy to

indicate that anyone–elf, human, or whatever–lived here.

"Are these lands truly uninhabited?" inquired Sithas, studying the verdant terrain.

"The Kagonesti dwell throughout these forests," explained Kith. The wild elves,

considered uncouth and barbaric by the civilized Silvanesti, did not build structures to

dominate the land or monuments to their own greatness. Instead, they took the land as

they found it and left it that way when they passed on.

Arcuballis swept northward, as if the great griffon felt the same joy at leaving

civilization behind. Despite the heavy packs and his extra passenger, he showed no signs

of tiring during a flight that lasted nearly twelve hours and carried them several hundred

miles. When they ultimately landed to make camp, they touched earth beside a clear pool

in a sheltered forest grotto. The two elves and their mighty beast spent a peaceful night,

sleeping almost from the moment of sunset straight through until dawn.

Their flight took them six days. After the first day, they took a two-hour interval at

midday so that Arcuballis could rest. They passed beyond the forests on the third day,

then into the barren plains of Northern Silvanesti, a virtual desert, uninhabited and

undesired by the elves.

Finally they flew beside the jagged teeth of the Khalkist Range, the mountainous

backbone of Ansalon. For two full days, these craggy peaks rose to their left, but

Kith-Kanan kept them over the dry plains, explaining that the winds here were more

easily negotiable than they would be among the jutting summits.

Eventually they reached the point where they had to turn toward the high valleys and

snow-filled swales if they expected to find any trace of their quarry. Arcuballis strained

to gain altitude, carrying them safely over the sheer crests of the foothills and flying

above the floor of a deep valley, following the contours of its winding course as steep

ridgelines rose to the right and left, high above them.

They camped that night, the seventh night of their journey, near a partially frozen

lake in the base of a steep-sided, circular valley. Three waterfalls, now frozen into

massive icicles, plunged toward them from the surrounding heights. They chose the spot

for its small grove of hardy cedars, reasoning correctly that firewood would be a useful,

and rare, commodity among these lofty realms.

Sithas helped his brother build the fire. He discovered that he relished the feel of the

small axeblade cutting the wood into kindling. The campfire soon crackled merrily, and

the warmth on his hands was especially gratifying because his work had provided the

welcome heat.

Thus far, their journey seemed to the Speaker of the Stars to be the grandest

adventure he had ever embarked upon.

"Where do you think the Lords of Doom lie from here?" he asked his brother as they

settled back to gnaw on some dried venison. The three volcanoes were rumored to lie at

the heart of the range.

"I don't know exactly," Kith admitted. "Somewhere to the north and west of here, I

should say. The city of Sanction lies on the far side of the range, and if we reach it, we'll

know we've gone too far."

"I never knew that the mountains could be so beautiful, so majestic," Sithas added,

gazing at the awesome heights around them. The sun had long since left their deep valley,

yet its fading rays still illumined some of the highest summits in brilliant reflections of

white snow and blue ice.

"Forbidding, too."

They looked toward Arcuballis as the griffon curled up near the fire. His massive

bulk loomed like a wall.

"Now we'll have to start searching," Kith commented. "And that might take us a long

time."

"How big can this range be?" asked Sithas skeptically. "After all, we can fly."

* * * * *

Fly they did, for day after grueling, bone-chilling day. The pleasant autumn of the

lowlands swiftly became brutal winter in these heights. They pressed to the highest elevations,

and Sithas felt a fierce exultation as they passed among the lofty ridges, a sense of

accomplishment that dwarfed anything he had done in the city. When the snow blew into

their faces, he relished the heavy cloak pulled tight against his face; when they spent a

night in the barren heights, he enjoyed the search for a good campsite.

Kith-Kanan remained quiet, almost brooding, for hours during their aerial search.

The guilt of his night with Hermathya gnawed at him, and he cursed his foolish

weakness. He longed to confess to Sithas, to ask for his forgiveness, but in his heart, he

sensed that this would be a mistake, that his brother would never forgive him. Instead, he

bore his pain privately.

Some days the sun shone brightly, and then the white bowls of the valleys became

great reflectors. They both learned, the first such day, to leave no skin exposed under

these conditions. Their cheeks and foreheads were brutally seared, yet ironically the cold

air prevented them from feeling the sunburn until it had reached a painful state.

On other days, gray clouds pressed like a leaden blanket overhead, cloaking the

highest summits and casting the vistas in a bleak and forbidding light. Then the snow

would fly, and Arcuballis had to seek firm ground until the storm passed. A driving

blizzard could toss the griffon about like a leaf in the wind.

Always they pushed through the highest summits of the range, searching each valley

for sign of the winged creatures. They swung southward until they reached the borders of

the ogrelands of Bloten. The valleys were lower here, but they saw signs of the brutish

inhabitants everywhere–forestlands blackened by swath burning, great piles of tailings.

Knowing that the griffons would seek a more remote habitat, they turned back to the

north, following a snakelike glacier higher and higher into the heart of the range.

Here the weather hit them with the hardest blow yet. A mass of dark clouds appeared

with explosive suddenness to the west. The expanse covered the sky and swiftly spread

toward them. Arcuballis dove, but the snow swirled so thickly they couldn't see the valley

floor.

'There–a ledge!" shouted Sithas, pointing over his brother's shoulder.

"I see it." Kith-Kanan directed Arcuballis onto a narrow shelf of rock protected by a

blunt overhang. Sheer cliffs dropped away below them and climbed over their heads.

Winds buffeted them even as the griffon landed, and further flight seemed suicidal. A

narrow trail seemed to lead along the cliff face, winding gradually downward from their

perch, but they elected to wait out the storm.

"Look–it's flat and wide here," announced Sithas, clearing away some loose rubble.

"Plenty of space to rest, even for Arcuballis."

Kith nodded.

They unsaddled the creature and settled in to wait as the winds rose to a howling

crescendo and the snow flew past them.

"How long will this last?" asked Sithas.

Kith-Kanan shrugged, and Sithas suddenly felt foolish for the question. They

unpacked their bedrolls and huddled together beside the warm flank of the griffon and the

cold protection of the cliff wall. Their bows, arrows, and swords they placed within easy

reach. Just beyond their feet, the slope of the mountainside plummeted away, a sheer

precipice vanishing into the snow-swept distance.

They coped, on their remote ledge, for two solid days as the blizzard raged around

them and the temperature dropped. They had no fuel for a fire, so they could only huddle

together, taking turns sleeping so that they didn't both drift into eternal rest, blanketed by

a deep winter cold.

Sithas was awake at the end of the second day, shaking his head and pinching

himself to try to remain alert. His hands and feet felt like blocks of ice, and he alternated

his position frequently, trying to warm some part of his body against the bulk of

Arcuballis.

He noticed the pace of the griffon's breathing change slightly. Suddenly the creature

raised his head, and Sithas stared with him into the snow-obscured murk.

Was there something there, down the path that they had seen when they landed, the

one that seemed to lead away from this ledge? Sithas blinked, certain his eyes deceived

him, but it had seemed as if something moved!

In the next instant, he gaped in shock as a huge shape lunged out of the blowing

snow. It towered twice as high as an elf, though its shape was vaguely human. It had arms

and hands–indeed, one of those clutched a club the size of a small tree trunk. This

weapon loomed high above Sithas as the creature charged forward.

"Kith! A giant!" He shouted, kicking his brother to awaken him. At the same time,

purely by instinct, he picked up the sword he had laid by his side.

Arcuballis reacted faster than the elf, springing toward the giant with a powerful

shriek. Sithas watched in horror as the monster's club crashed into the griffon's skull.

Soundlessly Arcuballis went limp, disappearing over the side of the ledge like so much

discarded garbage.

"No!" Kith-Kanan was awake now and saw the fate of his beloved steed. At the same

time, the twins saw additional shapes, two or three more, materializing from the blizzard

behind the first giant. Snarling with hatred, the elven warrior grabbed his blade.

The monster's face, this close, was more grotesque than Sithas had first thought. Its

eyes were small, bloodshot, and very close-set while its nose bulged like an outcrop of

rock. Its mouth was garishly wide. The giant's maw gaped open as the beast fought,

revealing blood-red gums and stubs of ivory that looked more like tusks than teeth.

A deep and pervasive terror seized Sithas, freezing him in place. He could only stare

in horror at the approaching menace. Some distant part of his mind told him that he

should react, should fight, but his muscles refused to budge. His fear paralyzed him.

Kith-Kanan rose into a fighting crouch, menacing the giant with his sword. Tears

streaked Kith's face, but grief only heightened his rage and his deadly competence. His

hand remained steady. Seeing him, Sithas shook his head, finally freeing himself from his

immobility.

Sithas leaped to his feet and lunged at the monster, but his foot slipped on the icy

rocks, and he fell to the rocks at the very lip of the precipice, slamming the wind from his

lungs. The giant loomed over him.

But then he saw his brother, darting forward with incredible agility, raising his blade

and thrusting at the giant's belly. The keen steel struck home, and the creature howled,

lurching backward. One of its huge boots slipped from the ice-encrusted ledge, and with a

scream, the monster vanished into the gray storm below.

Now they saw that the three other giants approached them, one at a time along the

narrow ledge. Each of the massive creatures carried a huge club. The first of these

lumbered forward, and Kith-Kanan darted at him. Sithas, recovering his breath, climbed

to his feet.

The giant stepped back, then swung a heavy blow at the dodging, weaving elf. Kith

danced away, and then struck so quickly that Sithas didn't see the movement. The tip of

the sword cut a shallow opening in the giant's knee before the elf skipped backward.

But that cut was telling. Sithas watched in astonishment as the giant's leg collapsed

beneath it. Thrashing in futility with its hamlike hands, the giant slid slowly over the

edge, vanishing with a shriek that was quickly lost in the howling of the storm.

While the other two giants gaped in astonishment, Kith-Kanan remained a dervish of

motion. He charged the massive creatures, sending them slipping and sliding backward

along the ledge to avoid his keen blade, a blade that now glistened with blood.

"Kith, watch out!" Sithas found his voice and urged his brother on. Kith-Kanan

appeared to stumble, and one of the giants crashed his heavy club downward. But again

the elf moved too quickly, and the club splintered against bare stone. Kith rolled toward

this one, rising into a crouch between its stumplike legs. He stabbed upward with all the

strenth in his powerful arms and shoulders, and then dove out of the way as the mortally

wounded giant bellowed its pain.

Sithas raced toward his brother, recognizing Kith's danger. He saw his twin slip as he

tried to hug the cliff wall between the dying giant and its sole remaining comrade.

The latter swung his club with strength born of desperate terror. The loglike beam,

nearly a foot thick at its head, crashed into Kith-Kanan's chest and crushed his body

against the rough stone wall behind him. Sithas saw his brother's head snap back and

blood explode from his skull. Slowly the elf sank to the ledge.

The wounded giant collapsed, and Sithas sent it toppling from the brink. The last of

the brutes looked at the charging elf, the twin of the warrior he had just felled, and turned

away. He bounded along the narrow ledge, descending across the face of the mountain,

away from the niche that had sheltered the twins. In seconds, he disappeared into the

distance.

Sithas paid no further attention to the monster. He knelt at Kith's side, appalled at the

blood that gushed from his brother's mouth and nose, staining and matting his long blond

hair.

"Kith, don't die! Please!" He didn't realize that he was sobbing.

Gingerly he lifted his brother, surprised at Kith's frailty–or perhaps at his own

desperate strength. He carried him to their niche. Every cloak, every blanket and tunic

that they carried, he used to cushion and wrap Kith-Kanan. His brother's eyes were

closed. A very faint motion, a rising and falling of his chest, gave the only sign that Kith

lived.

Now night fell with abruptness, and the wind seemed to pick up. The snow stung

Sithas's face as sharply as did his own tears. He took Kith's cold hand in his and sat

beside his brother, not expecting either of them to be alive to greet the dawn.

12

Dawn

Somehow Sithas must have dozed off, for he suddenly noticed that the wind, the

snow–indeed, the entire storm–had vanished. The air, now still, had become icy cold,

with an absolute clarity that only comes in the highest mountains during the deepest

winter frosts.

The sun hadn't risen yet, but the Speaker could see that all around him towered

summits of unimaginable heights, plumed with great collars of snow. Gray and

impassive, like stone-face giants with thick beards of frost, they regarded him from their

aloof vantages.

The brothers' ledge perched along one of the two steep sides of the valley. To the

south, on Sithas's left as he looked outward, the valley stretched and twisted toward the

low, forested country from which they had come. To the right, it appeared to end in a

cirque of steep-walled peaks. At one place, he saw a saddle that, while still high above

him, seemed to offer a lone, treacherous path into the next section of the mountain range.

Kith-Kanan lay motionless beside him. His skin had the paleness of death, and Sithas

had to struggle against a resurgence of despair. He couldn't allow himself to abandon

hope; he was their only chance for survival. The quest for the griffons, the excitement

and adventure of the journey he had known before, were all forgotten now, overwhelmed

by the simple and basic wish to continue living.

The valley below him, he saw, was not as deep as they had guessed when the storm

struck. Their shelf was a bare hundred feet above level ground. He leaned out to look

over the edge, but all he saw was a vast drift of snow piled against the cliff. If the bodies

of the giants or of gallant, fallen Arcuballis remained down there somewhere, he had no

way to know it. No trees grew in this high valley, nor did he see any signs of animal life.

In fact, the only objects that met his eyes, in any direction, were the bedrock of the

mountain range and the snowy blanket that covered it.

With a groan, he slumped back against the cliff. They were doomed! He could see no

possibility of any fate other than death in this remote valley. His throat ached, and tears

welled in his eyes. What good was his court training in a situation like this?

"Kith!" he moaned. "Wake up! Please!"

When his brother made no response, Sithas collapsed facedown on his cloak. A part

of him wished that he was as unconscious of their fate as Kith-Kanan.

For the whole long day, he lay as if in a trance. He pulled their cloaks about them as

night fell, certain that they would freeze to death. Kith-Kanan hadn't moved–indeed, he

barely breathed. Broken by his own anguish, the speaker finally tumbled into restless

sleep.

It was not until the next morning that he regained some sense of purpose. What did

they need? Warmth, but there was no firewood in sight. Water, but their skins of the

liquid had frozen solid, and without fire, they couldn't melt snow. Food, of which they

had several strips of dried venison and some bread. But how could he feed Kith-Kanan

while his brother remained unconscious?

Again the feeling of hopelessness seized him. If only Arcuballis were here! If only

Kith could walk! If only the giants ... He snarled at himself in anger, realizing the idiocy

of his ramblings.

Instead, he pushed himself to his feet, suddenly aware of a terrible stiffness in his

own body. He studied the route along the narrow ledge that twisted its way from their

niche to the valley floor. It looked negotiable–barely. But what could he do if he was

lucky enough to reach the ground?

He noted, for the first time, a dark patch on the snow at the edge of the flat expanse.

The sun had crested the eastern peaks by now, and Sithas squinted into the brightness.

What caused the change of coloration in the otherwise immaculate surface of snow?

Then it dawned on him–water! Somewhere beneath that snow, water still flowed! It

soaked into the powder above, turning it to slush and causing it to settle.

With a clear goal now, Sithas began to act. He took his own nearly empty waterskin,

since Kith's contained a block of ice that would be impossible to remove. As he turned

away from the sun, however, he had another idea. He set Kith's waterskin in the sunlight,

on a flat stone. He found several other dark boulders and placed them beside the skin,

taking care that they didn't block the sunlight.

Then he started down the treacherous ledge. In many places, the narrow path was

piled with snow, and he used his sword to sweep these drifts away, carefully probing so

that he did not step off the cliff.

Finally he reached a spot where he was able to drop into the soft snow below. He

pushed his way through the deep fluff, leaving a trench behind him as he worked his way

toward the dark patch of slush. The going was difficult, and he had to rest many times,

but finally he reached his goal.

Pausing again, he heard a faint trill of sound from beneath the snow, the gurgling of

water as it babbled along a buried stream. He poked and pressed with his sword, and the

surface of snow dropped away, revealing a flowage about six inches deep.

But that was enough. Sithas suspended his skin from the tip of his sword and let it

soak in the stream. Though it only filled halfway, it was more water than they had tasted

in two days, and he greedily drained the waterskin. Then he refilled it, as much as

possible with his awkward rig, and turned back to the cliff. It took him more than an hour

to carry it back up to Kith-Kanan, but the hour of toil seemed to warm and vitalize him.

His brother showed no change. Sithas dribbled some water into Kith's mouth, just

enough to wet his tongue and throat. He also washed away the blood that had caked on

the elf's frostbitten face. There was even some water left over, since Kith's frozen

waterskin had begun to melt from the heat of the sun.

"What now, Kith?" Sithas asked softly.

He heard a sound from somewhere and looked anxiously around. Again came the

noise, which sounded like rocks falling down a rough slope.

Then he saw a distinct movement across the valley. White shapes leaped and sprang

along the sheer face, and for a moment, he thought they flew, so effectively did they defy

gravity. More rocks broke free, crashing and sliding downward. He saw that these nimble

creatures moved upon hooves.

He had heard about the great mountain sheep that dwelled in the high places, but

never had he observed them before. One, obviously the ram, paused and looked around,

raising his proud head high. Sithas glimpsed his immense horns, swirling from the

creature's forehead.

For a moment, he wondered at the presence of these great beasts as he watched them

press downward. They reached the foot of the cliff, and then the ram bounded through the

powder, plowing a trail for the others.

"The water!" Sithas spoke aloud to himself. The sheep needed the water, too!

Indeed, the ram was nearing the shallow stream. Alert, he looked carefully around

the valley, and Sithas, though he was out of sight, remained very still. Finally the proud

creature lowered his head to drink. He stopped frequently to look around, but he drank

for a long time before he finally stepped away from the small hole in the snow.

Then, one by one, the females came to the water. The ram stood protectively beside

them, his proud head and keen eyes shifting back and forth.

The group of mountain sheep spent perhaps an hour beside the water hole, each of

the creatures slaking its thirst. Finally, with the ram still in the lead, they turned back

along the tracks and reclimbed the mountain wall.

Sithas watched them until they disappeared from view. The magnificent creatures

moved with grace and skill up the steep face of rock. They looked right at home here–so

very different from himself!

A soft groan beside him pulled his attention instantly back to Kith-Kanan.

"Kith! Say something!" He leaned over his twin's face, rejoicing to see a flicker of

vitality. Kith-Kanan's eyes remained shut, but his mouth twisted into a grimace and he

was gasping for breath.

"Here, take a drink. Don't try to move."

He poured a few drops of water onto Kith's lips, and the wounded elf licked them

away. Slowly, with obvious pain, Kith-Kanan opened his eyes, squinting at the bright

daylight before him.

"What ... happened?" he asked weakly. Abruptly his eyes widened and his body

tensed. "The giants! Where ... ?"

"It's all right," Sithas told him, giving him more water. "They're dead–or gone, I'm

not sure which."

"Arcuballis?" Kith's eyes widened and he struggled to sit up, before collapsing with a

dull groan.

"He's . . . gone, Kith. He attacked the first giant, got clubbed over the head, and fell."

"He must be down below!"

Sithas shook his head. "I looked. There's no sign of his body–or of any of the giants,

either."

Kith moaned, a sound of deep despair. Sithas had no words of comfort.

"The giants ... what kind of beasts do you think they were?" asked Sithas.

"Hill giants, I'm sure," Kith-Kanan said after a moment's pause. "Relatives of ogres, I

guess, but bigger. I wouldn't have expected to see them this far south."

"Gods! If only I'd been faster!" Sithas said, ashamed.

"Don't!" snapped the injured elf. "You warned me–gave me time to get my sword

out, to get into the fight." Kith-Kanan thought for a moment. "When–how long ago was

it, anyway? How much time has passed since–"

"We've been up here for two nights," said Sithas quietly. "The sun has nearly set for

the third time." He hestitated, then blurted his question. "How badly are you hurt?"

"Bad enough," Kith said bluntly. "My skull feels like it's been crushed, and my right

leg seems as if it is on fire."

"Your leg?" Sithas had been so worried about the blow to his brother's head that he

had paid little attention to the rest of his body.

"It's broken, I think," the elf grunted, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Sithas's mind went blank. A broken leg! It might as well be a sentence of death! How

would they ever get out of here with his twin thus crippled? And winter had only begun!

If they didn't get out of the mountains quickly, they could be trapped here for months.

Another snowfall would make travel by foot all but impossible.

"You'll have to do something about it," Kith said, though it took several moments

before the remark registered in Sithas's mind.

"About what?"

"My leg!" The injured elf looked at his twin sharply, then toughened his voice.

Almost without thinking, he used the tones of command he had become accustomed to

when he led the Wildrunners.

"Tell me if the skin is broken, if there's any discoloration–any infection."

"Where? Which leg?" Sithas struggled to focus his thoughts. He had never been so

disoriented before in his life.

"The right one, below the knee."

Gingerly, almost trembling, Sithas pulled the blankets and cloaks away from his

brother's feet and legs. What he saw was terrifying.

The ugly red swelling had almost doubled the size of the limb from the knee to the

ankle, and Kith's leg was bent outward at an awkward angle. For a moment, he cursed

himself, as if the injury was his own fault. Why hadn't he thought to examine his brother

two days earlier, when Kith had first been injured? Had he twisted the wound more when

he moved the fallen elf into the shelter of the rocky niche?

"The–the skin isn't broken," he explained, trying to keep his voice calm. "But it's red.

By the gods, Kith, it's blood red!"

Kith-Kanan grimaced at the news. "You'll have to straighten it. If you don't, I'll be

crippled for life."

The Speaker of the Stars looked at his twin brother, the sense of helplessness

growing inside him. But he saw the pain in Kith-Kanan's eyes, and he knew he had no

choice but to try.

"It's going to hurt," he warned, and Kith nodded silently, gritting his teeth.

Cautiously he touched the swollen limb, and then instantly recoiled at Kith's sharp

gasp of pain. "Don't stop," hissed the wounded elf. "Do it–now!"

Gritting his teeth, Sithas grasped the swollen flesh. His fingers probed the wound,

and he felt the break in the bone. Kith-Kanan cried aloud, gasping and choking in his pain

as Sithas pulled on the limb.

Kith shrieked again and then, mercifully, collapsed into unconsciousness.

Desperately Sithas tugged, forcing his hands and arms to do these things that he knew

must be causing Kith-Kanan unspeakable pain.

Finally he felt the bones slip into place.

"By Quenesti Pah, I'm sorry, Kith," Sithas whispered, looking at his brother's terribly

pale face.

Quenesti Pah ... goddess of healing. The invocation of that benign goddess brought

his mind around to the small vial his mother had given them before they departed. From

Miritelesina, she had said, high priestess of Quenesti Pah. Frantically Sithas dug through

the saddlebag, finally discovering the little ceramic jar, plugged with a stout cork.

He popped the cork from the bottle's mouth and immediately recoiled at the pungent

scent. Smearing some of the salve on his fingers, he drew off the cloak and spread the

stuff on Kith's leg, above and below the wound. That done, he covered his brother with

the blankets and leaned back against the stone wall to wait.

Kith-Kanan remained unconscious throughout the impossibly long afternoon as the

sun sank through the pale blue sky and finally disappeared behind the western ridge. Still,

no sign of movement came from the wounded elf. If anything, he seemed even weaker.

Gently Sithas fed his brother drops of water. He wrapped him in all of their blankets

and lay down beside him.

He fell asleep that way, and though he awoke many times throughout the brutally

cold night, he stayed at Kith-Kanan's side until dawn began to brighten their valley.

Kith-Kanan showed no sign of reviving consciousness. Sithas looked at his brother's

leg and was appalled to see a streak of red running upward, past his knee and into his

thigh. What should he do? He had never seen an injury like this before. Unlike

Kith-Kanan, he hadn't been confronted by the horrors of battle or by the necessity of selfsufficiency

in the wilds.

Quickly the elf took the rest of the cleric's salve and smeared it onto the wound. He

knew enough about blood poisoning to realize that if the venomous infection could not be

arrested, his brother was doomed. With no way left to treat Kith-Kanan, however, all

Sithas could do was pray.

Once again the water in their skins was frozen, and so he made the arduous trek

down the narrow pathway from the ledge to the valley floor. The trough in the snow

made by his passage on the previous day remained, for the wind had remained blessedly

light. Thus he made his way to his snow rimmed water hole with less difficulty than the

day before.

But here he encountered a challenge: The bitter cold of the night had frozen even the

rapidly flowing water beneath the snow. He chopped and chipped with his sword, finally

exposing a small trickle, less than two inches deep. Only by stretching himself full-length

in the snow, and immersing his hand into the frigid water could he collect enough to

carry back to their high campsite.

As he rose from the water hole, he saw the trail of the sheep across from him and

remembered the magnificent creatures. Suddenly he was seized by an inspiration. He

thought of his bow and arrows, still up on the ledge with Kith-Kanan. How could he

conceal himself in order to get close enough to shoot? Unlike Kith-Kanan, he was not an

expert archer. A close target would be essential.

He gave up his ponderings in the effort of making his way back to the ledge. Here he

found no change in Kith-Kanan, and all he could do was force his brother once again to

take a few drops of water between his lips.

Afterward, he strung his bow, checking the smooth surface of the weapon for flaws,

the string for knots or frays. As he did so, he heard a clattering of hooves even as he

stewed in his frustration. Once again led by the proud ram, the mountain sheep descended

from their slope across the valley and made their way to the faint trickle of water. They

took turns drinking and watching, with the ram remaining alert.

Once, when the creature's eyes passed across the cliff where Sithas and Kith lay

motionless, the animal stiffened. Sithas wondered if he had been discovered and wrestled

with a compulsion to quickly nock an arrow and let it fly in the desperate hope of hitting

something.

But he forced himself to remain still, and finally the ram relaxed its guard. Sithas

sighed and clenched his teeth in frustration as he watched the creatures turn and plow

through the snow back toward their mountain fastness. The powdery drifts came to the

shoulders of the large ram, and the sheep floundered and struggled until they reached the

secure footing of the rocky slope.

The rest of the day passed in frigid monotony. That night was the coldest yet, and

Sithas's own shivering kept him awake. He would have been grateful for even such an

uncomfortable sign of life from his brother, but Kith-Kanan remained still and lifeless.

The fourth morning on the ridge, Sithas could barely bring himself to emerge from

beneath the cloaks and blankets. The sun rose over the eastern ridge, and still he lay

motionless.

Then urgency returned, and he sat up in panic. He sensed instinctively that today was

his last chance. If he could not feed himself and his brother, they would not experience

another dawn.

He grabbed his bow and arrows, strapped his sword to his back, and allowed himself

the luxury of one woolen cloak from the pile that sheltered Kith-Kanan. He made his way

down the cliff with almost reckless haste. Only after he nearly slipped fifty feet above the

valley floor did he calm himself, forcing his feet to move with more precision.

He pushed toward the water hole, feeling sensation return to his limbs and

anticipation and tension fill his heart. Finally he reached the place opposite where the

sheep came to drink. He didn't allow himself to ponder a distinct possibility: What if the

sheep didn't return here today? If they didn't, he and his brother would die. It was a

simple as that.

Urgently he swept a shallow excavation in the snow, fearful that the sheep might

already be on their way. He swung his eyes to the southern ridge, to the slope the sheep

had descended on each of the two previous days, but he saw no sign of movement.

In minutes, Sithas cleared the space he desired. A quick check showed no sign of the

sheep. Trembling with tension, he freed his bow and arrows and laid them before him in

the snow. Next he knelt, forcing his feet into the powdery fluff behind him. He took the

cloak he had brought and lay it before him, before stretching, belly down, on top.

The last thing was the hardest to do. He pulled snow from each side into the

excavation, burying his thighs, buttocks, and torso. Only his shoulders, arms, and head

remained exposed.

Feeling the chill settle into his bones as he pressed deeper into the snowy cushion, he

twisted to the side and pulled still more of the winter powder onto him. His bow, with

several arrows ready, he covered with a faint dusting of snow directly in front of him.

Finally he buried his head, leaving an opening no more than two inches in diameter

before his face. From this tiny slot, he could see the water hole and he could get enough

air to breathe. At last his trap was ready. Now he had only to wait.

And wait. And wait some more. The sun passed the zenith, the hour when the sheep

had come to water on each of the previous days, with no sign of the creatures. Cold

numbness crept into Sithas's bones. His fingers and toes burned from frostbite, which was

bad enough, but gradually he became aware that he was losing feeling in them altogether.

Frantically he wiggled and stretched as much as he could within the limitations of his

confinement.

Where were the accursed sheep?

An hour of the afternoon passed, and another began. He could no longer keep any

sensation in his fingers. Another few hours, he knew, and he would freeze to death.

But then he became aware of strange sensations deep within his snowy cocoon.

Slowly, inexplicably, he began to grow warm. The burning returned to his fingertips. The

snow around his body formed a cavity, slightly larger than Sithas himself, and he noticed

that this snow was wet. It packed tightly, giving him room to move. He noticed wetness

in his hair, on his back.

He was actually warm! The cavity had trapped his body heat, melting the snow and

warming him with the trapped energy. The narrow slot had solidified before him, and it

was with a sense of exhilaration that he realized he could wait here safely for some time.

But the arrival of twilight confirmed his worst fears–the sheep had not come to drink

that day. Bitter with the sense of his failure, he tried to ignore the gnawing in his belly as

he gathered more water and made the return to the ledge, arriving just as full darkness

settled around them.

Had the sheep seen his trap? Had the flock moved on to some distant valley,

following the course of some winter migration? He could not know. All he could do was

try the same plan tomorrow and hope he lived long enough for the effort.

Sithas had to lean close to Kith-Kanan just to hear his brother's breathing. "Please,

Kith, don't die!" he whispered. Those words were the only ones he spoke before he fell

asleep.

His hunger was painful when he awoke. Once again the day was clear and still, but

how long could this last? Grimly he repeated his process of the previous day, making his

way to the stream bank, settling himself in with his bow and arrows, and trying to conceal

any sign of his presence. If the sheep didn't come today, he knew that he would be too

weak to try on the morrow.

Exhausted, despairing, and starving, he passed from consciousness into an exhausted

sleep.

Perhaps the snow insulated him from sound, or maybe his sleep was deeper than he

thought. In any event, he heard nothing as his quarry approached. It wasn't until the sheep

had reached the water hole that he woke suddenly. They had come! They weren't twenty

feet away!

Not daring to breathe, Sithas studied the ram. The creature was even more

magnificent up close. The swirled horns were more than a foot in diameter. The ram's

eyes swept around them, but Sithas realized with relief that the animal did not notice his

enemy up close.

The ram, as usual, drank his fill and then stepped aside. One by one the ewes

approached the small water hole, dipping their muzzles to slurp up the icy liquid. Sithas

waited until most of the sheep had drank. As he had observed earlier, the smallest were

the last to drink, and it was one of these that would prove his target.

Finally a plump ewe moved tentatively among her larger sisters. Sithas tensed

himself, keeping his hands under the snow as he slowly reached forward for his bow.

Suddenly the ewe raised her head, staring straight at him. Others of the flock

skittered to the sides. The elf felt two dozen eyes fixed upon his hiding place. Another

second, he suspected, and the sheep would turn in flight. He couldn't give them that

opportunity.

With all of the speed, all of the agility at his command, he grasped his bow and

arrows and lurched forward from his hiding place, his eyes fixed on the terrified ewe.

Vaguely he sensed the sheep spinning, leaping, turning to flee. They struggled through

the deep snow, away from this maniacal apparition who rose apparently from the very

earth itself.

He saw the ram plunge forward, nudging the ewe that stood stock-still beside the

water hole. With a panicked squeal, she turned and tried to spring away.

As she turned, for one split second, she presented her soft flank to the elven archer.

Even as he struggled to his feet, Sithas had nocked his arrow. He pulled back the string as

his target became a blur before him. Reflexively he let the missile fly. He prayed to all

the gods, desperate for a hit.

But the gods were not impressed.

The arrow darted past the ewe's rump, barely grazing her skin, just enough to spur

the frightened creature into a maddened flight that took her bounding out of range even as

Sithas fumbled with another arrow. He raised the weapon in time to see the ram kick his

heels as that great beast, too, sprinted away.

The herd of mountain sheep bounded through the deep snow, springing and leaping

in many different directions. Sithas launched another arrow and almost sobbed aloud in

frustration as the missile flew over the head of a ewe. Mechanically he nocked another

arrow, but even as he did so, he knew that the sheep had escaped.

For a moment, a sensation of catastrophe swept over him. He staggered, weak on his

feet, and would have slumped to the ground if something hadn't caught his attention.

A small sheep, a yearling, struggled to break free from a huge drift. The animal was

scarcely thirty feet away, bleating pathetically. He knew then he had one more chance–-

perhaps the last chance–for survival. He held his aim steady, sighting down the arrow at

the sheep's heaving flank. The animal gasped for breath, and Sithas released the missile.

The steel-tipped shaft shot true, its barbed head striking the sheep behind its foreleg,

driving through the heart and lungs in a powerful, fatal strike.

Bleating one final time, a hopeless call to the disappearing herd, the young sheep

collapsed. Pink blood spurted from its mouth and nostrils, foaming into the snow. Sithas

reached the animal's side. Some instinct caused him to draw his sword, and he slashed the

razor-sharp edge across the sheep's throat. With a gurgle of air, the animal perished.

For a moment, Sithas raised his eyes to the ledge across the valley. The ewes

scampered upward, while the ram lingered behind, staring back at the elf who had

claimed one of his flock. Sithas felt a momentary sense of gratitude to the creature. His

heart filled with admiration as he saw it bound higher and higher up the sheer slope.

Finally he reached down and gutted the carcass of his kill. The climb back to

Kith-Kanan would be a tough one, he knew, but suddenly his body thrummed with

excitement and energy.

Behind him, atop the ridge, the ram cast one last glance downward and then

disappeared.

13

Fresh Blood

Sithas cut a slice of meat from his kill on the valley floor, tearing bites from the raw

meat, uncaring of the blood that dribbled across his chin. Smacking greedily, he wolfed

down the morsel before he carried the rest of the carcass up the steep trail to their ledge.

He found Kith-Kanan as still as when he had left him, but now, at least, they had food–-

they had hope!

The lack of fire created a drawback, but it didn't prevent Sithas from devouring a

large chunk of meat as soon as he got it back to the ledge. The blood, while it was still

warm, he dribbled into his unconscious brother's mouth, hoping that the warmth and

nourishment might have a beneficial effect, however minimal.

Finally sated, Sithas settled back to rest. For the first time in days, he felt something

other than bleak despair. He had stalked his game and slain it–something he had never

done before, not without beaters and weapon-bearers and guides. Only his brother's

condition cast a pall over the situation.

For two more days, Kith's condition showed no signs of change. Gray clouds rolled

in, and a dusting of snow fell around them. Sithas trickled more of the ewe's blood into

Kith's mouth, hiked down for water several times a day, and offered prayers to Quenesti

Pah.

Then, toward sunset of their seventh day on the ledge, Kith groaned and moved. His

eyes fluttered open and he looked around in confusion.

"Kith! Wake up!" Sithas leaned over his twin, and slowly Kith-Kanan's eyes met his

own. At first they looked dull and lifeless, but even as Sithas watched they grew brighter,

more alert.

"What–how did you–?"

Sithas felt weak with relief and helped his brother to sit up. "It's OK, Kith. You'll be

all right!" He forced more confidence into his tone than he actually felt.

Kith's eyes fell upon the carcass, which Sithas had perched near the precipice.

"What's that?"

"Mountain sheep!" Sithas grinned proudly. "I killed it a few days ago. Here, have

some!"

"Raw?" Kith-Kanan raised his eyebrows but quickly saw that there was no

alternative. He took a tender loin portion and tore off a piece of meat. It was no delicacy,

but it was sustenance. As he chewed, he saw Sithas watching him like a master chef

savoring the reaction to a new recipe.

"It's good," Kith-Kanan said, swallowing and tearing off another mouthful.

Excitedly Sithas told him of stalking his prey–about his two wasted arrows and the

lucky break that helped him make his kill.

Kith chuckled with a heartiness that belied his wounds and their predicament.

"Your leg," Sithas said concernedly. "How does it feel today?"

Kith groaned and shook his head. "Need a cleric to work on it. I doubt it'll heal

enough to carry me."

Sithas sat back, suddenly too tired to go on. Alone, he might be able to walk out of

these mountains, but he didn't see any way that Kith-Kanan could even get down from

this exposed, perilous ledge.

For a while, the brothers sat in silence, watching the sun set. The sky domed over

them, pale blue to the east and overhead but fading to a rose hue that blended into a rich

lavender along the western ridge. One by one stars winked into sight. Finally darkness

crept across the sky, expanding from the east to overhead, then pursuing the last lingering

strips of brightness into the west.

"Any sign of Arcuballis?" asked Kith hopefully. His brother shook his head sadly.

"What do we do now?" Sithas asked.

To his dismay, his brother shook his head in puzzlement. "I don't know. I don't think

I can get down from here, and we can't finish our quest on this ledge."

"Quest?" Sithas had almost forgotten about the mission that had brought them to

these mountains. "You're not suggesting we still seek out the griffons, are you?"

Kith smiled, albeit wanly. "No, I don't think we can do much searching. You,

however, might have a chance."

Now Sithas gaped at his twin. "And leave you here alone? Don't even think about it!"

The wounded elf gestured to stem Sithas's outburst. "We have to think about it."

"You won't have a chance up here! I won't abandon you!"

Kith-Kanan sighed. "Our chances aren't that great any way you look at it. Getting out

of these mountains on foot is out of the question until spring. And the months of deep

winter are still before us. We can't just sit here, waiting for my leg to heal."

"But what kind of progress can I make on foot?" Sithas gestured to the valley walls

surrounding them.

Kith-Kanan pointed to the northwest, toward the pass that had been their goal before

the storm had driven them to this ledge. The gap between the two towering summits was

protected by a steep slope, strewn with large boulders and patches of scree. Strangely,

snow had not collected there.

"You could investigate the next valley," the elf suggested. "Remember, we've

explored much of the range already."

"That's precious little comfort," Sithas replied. "We flew over the mountains before.

I'm not even sure I could climb that pass, let alone explore beyond it."

Kith-Kanan studied the steep slope with a practiced eye. "Sure you could. Go up on

the big rocks off to the side there. Stay away from those smooth patches. They look like

easy going, but it's sure to be loose scree. You'd probably slip back farther than you

climbed with each step. But if you stay on the good footing, you could make it."

The wounded elf turned his eyes upon his skeptical brother and continued. "Even if

you don't find the griffons, perhaps you'll locate a cave, or better yet some herdsman's

hut. Whatever lies over that ridge, it can't be any more barren than this place."

The Speaker of the Stars squatted back on his haunches, shaking his head in

frustration. He had looked at the pass himself over the last few days and privately had

decided that he would probably be able to climb it. But he had never considered the

prospect of going without his brother.

Finally he made a decision. "I'll go–but just to have a look. If I don't see anything,

I'm coming straight back here."

"Agreed." Kith-Kanan nodded. "Now maybe you can hand me another strip of

lamb–only this time, I'd like it cooked a little more on the rare side. That last piece was

too well done for my taste."

Laughing, Sithas used his dagger to carve another strip of raw mutton. He had found

that by slicing it very thin he could make the meat more palatable–at least, more easily

chewed. And though it was still cold, it tasted very, very good.

* * * * *

Kith-Kanan sat up, leaning against the back wall of the ledge, and watched Sithas

gather his equipment. It was nearly dawn.

"Take some of my arrows," he offered, but Sithas shook his head.

"I'll leave them with you, just in case."

"In case of what? In case that ram comes looking for revenge?"

Suddenly uncomfortable, Sithas looked away. They both knew that if the hill giants

returned, Kith-Kanan would be helpless to do more than shoot a few arrows before he

was overcome.

"Kith . . ." He wanted to tell his brother that he wouldn't leave him, that he would

stay at his side until his wounds had healed.

"No!" The injured elf raised a hand, anticipating his brother's objections. "We both

understand–we know that this is the only thing to do."

"I–I suppose you're right."

"You know I'm right!" Kith's voice was almost harsh.

"I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Sithas–be careful."

The Speaker of the Stars nodded dumbly. It made him feel like a traitor to leave his

brother like this.

"Good luck, Brother." Kith's voice came to Sithas softly, and he turned back.

They clasped hands, and then Sithas leaned forward to embrace his brother. "Don't

run off on me," he told Kith, with a wry smile.

An hour later, he was past the water hole, where he had stopped to refill his skin.

Now the pass loomed before him like an icy palisade–the castle wall of some

unimaginably monstrous giant. Carefully, still some distance away from the ascent, he

selected a route up the slope. He stopped to rest several times before reaching the base,

but before noon, he began the rugged climb.

All the time he remained conscious of Kith-Kanan's eyes on his back. He looked

behind him occasionally, until his brother became a faint speck on the dark mountain

wall. Before he started up the pass, he waved and saw a tiny flicker of motion from the

ledge as Kith waved back.

The pass, up close, soared upward and away from him like a steep castle wall,

steeper than it had looked from the safe distance of their campsite. The base was a

massive, sloping pile of talus–great boulders that, over many centuries, had been pried

loose by frost or water to tumble and crash down the mountainside. Now they teetered

precariously on top of each other, and powdery snow filled the gaps between them.

Sithas strung his bow across his back, next to his sword. His cloak he removed and

tied around his waist, hoping to maintain full freedom of movement.

He picked his way up the talus slope, stepping from rock to rock only after testing

each foothold for security. Once several rocks tumbled away beneath him, and he sprang

aside just in time. Always he gained altitude, pulling himself up the sheer face with his

leather-gloved hands. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and for a moment, he wondered how,

in the midst of this snow-swept landscape, could he get so Abyss-cursed hot? Then a

swirl of icy wind struck him, penetrating his damp tunic and leggings and bringing an instant

shiver to his bones.

Soon he reached the top. Here he encountered long stretches of loose scree, small

stones that seemed to slip and slide beneath each footfall, carrying him backward four

feet for every five of progress.

Kith-Kanan, of course, had been right. He was always right! His brother knew his

way around in country like this, knew how to survive and even how to move and explore,

to hunt and find shelter.

Why couldn't it have been Sithas to suffer the crippling injury? A healthy

Kith-Kanan would have been able to care for both of them, Sithas knew. Meanwhile, he

wrestled with overwhelming despair and hopelessness, and he was not yet out of sight of

their base camp!

Shaking off his self-pity, Sithas worked his way sideways, toward steeper, but more

solid, shoulders of bedrock. Once his feet slipped away, and he tumbled twenty or thirty

feet down the slope, only stopping himself by digging his hands and feet into the loose

surface. Cursing, he checked his weapons, relieved to find them intact. Finally he reached

a solid rock, with a small shelf shaped much like a chair, where he collapsed in

exhaustion.

A quick look upward showed that he had made it perhaps a quarter of the way up the

slope. At this rate, he would be stranded here at nightfall, a prospect that terrified him

more than he wanted to contemplate.

Resolutely he started upward again, this time climbing along rough outcrops of rock.

After only a few moments, he realized that this was by far the easiest climbing yet, and

his spirits rose rapidly.

Stepping upward in long strides, he relished a new sense of accomplishment. The

valley floor fell away below him; the heavens–and more mountains–beckoned from

above. He no longer felt the need for rest. Instead, the climb seemed to energize him.

By midafternoon, he had neared the top of the pass, and here the route narrowed

challengingly. Two huge boulders teetered on the slope, with but a narrow crack of

daylight between them. One, or both, could very easily roll free, carrying him back down

the mountainside if they didn't crush him between them first.

No other route presented itself. To either side of the massive rocks, sheer cliffs

soared upward to the pinnacles of the two mountains. The only way through the pass lay

between those two precarious boulders.

He didn't hesitate. He approached the rocks and saw that the gap was wide enough to

allow him to pass–just barely. He entered the aperture, climbing upward across loose

rock.

Suddenly the ground beneath his feet slipped away, and his heart lurched. He felt one

of the huge boulders shift with a menacing rumble. The rock walls to either side of him

pressed closer, narrowing by an inch or so. Then the rock seemed to settle into place, and

he felt no more movement.

With a quick burst of speed, he darted upward, scrambling out of the narrow passage

before the rocks could budge again. His momentum carried him farther up the last

hundred yards of so of the ascent until finally he stood upon the summit of the pass.

Trees! He saw patches of green among the snowfields, far, far below. Trees, which

meant wood, which meant fire! The slope before him, while steep and long, was nowhere

near as grueling as the one he had just climbed. He glanced over his left shoulder at the

sun, estimating two remaining hours of daylight.

It would have to be enough. He would have a fire tonight, he vowed to himself.

He plunged recklessly downward, sometimes riding a small, tumbling pillow of

snow, at other times leaping through great drifts to soft landings ten or fifteen feet below.

Exhausted, sweat-soaked, and bone-weary, he finally reached a clump of gnarled cedars

far down in the basin. Now, at last, his spirits soared. He used the last illumination of

daylight to gather all of the dead limbs he could find. He piled the firewood before an

unusually thick trio of evergreens, where he had decided to make his camp.

A mere touch of his steel dagger to the flint he carried in his belt-pouch brought a

satisfactory spark. The dry wood kindled instantly, and within minutes, he relished the

comfort of a crackling blaze.

* * * * *

Was this the curse of the gods, thought Kith-Kanan, the punishment for his betrayal

of his brother's marriage? He leaned against the cliff wall and shut his eyes, wincing not

in pain but in guilt.

Why couldn't he have simply died? That would have made things so much easier.

Sithas would have been free to perform the quest instead of worrying about him like a

nervous nursemaid worries about a feverish babe.

In truth, Kith-Kanan felt more helpless than a crawling infant, for he didn't have even

that much mobility.

He had watched Sithas make his way up the slope until his twin had disappeared

from sight. His brother had moved with grace and power, surprising Kith with the speed

of his ascent.

But as long as Kith-Kanan lay here upon this ledge, he knew Sithas would be tied to

this location by their bond of brotherhood. He would explore their immediate surroundings,

perhaps, but would never bring himself to travel far beyond.

All because I'm so damned stupid! Kith railed at himself. They had made inadequate

preparations for attack! They had both dozed off. Only the sacrifice of brave Arcuballis

had given the first warning of the hill giants.

Now his griffon was gone, no doubt dead, and he himself was impossibly crippled.

Sithas searched alone and on foot. It seemed inevitable to Kith-Kanan that their quest

would be a failure.

* * * * *

Sithas dried his clothes and boots, every stitch of which had been soaked by sweat or

melting snow, by the crackling fire. It brightened his night, driving back the high

mountain darkness that had previously stretched to infinity on all sides, and it warmed his

spirits in a way that he wouldn't have thought possible a few hours earlier.

The fire spoke to him with a soothing voice, and it danced for him in sultry allure. It

was like a companion, one who could listen to his thoughts and give him pleasure. And

finally the fire allowed him to cook a strip of his frozen meat.

That morsel, seared for a few minutes on a forked stick that Sithas plunged into the

flames, emerged from the fire covered with ash, blackened and charred on the outside and

virtually raw in the center. It was unseasoned, tough, imperfectly preserved ... and it was

unquestionably the most splendid meal that the elf had ever eaten in his life.

The three pines served as a backdrop to his campsite. Sithas scraped away the small

amount of snow here and cleared for himself a soft bed of pine needles. He stoked the fire

until he had to back away from the blazing heat.

That night he slept for a few hours, and then awoke to fuel his fire. A mountainous

pile of coals radiated heat, and the ground provided a soft and comfortable cushion until

the coming of dawn.

Sithas arose slowly, reluctant to break the reverie of warmth and comfort. He cooked

another piece of meat, more patiently this time, for breakfast. By the time he finished,

sunlight was bathing the bowl-shaped depression around him in its brilliant light. He had

made a decision.

He would bring Kith-Kanan to this valley. He didn't know how yet, but he was

convinced that this was the best way to insure his brother's recovery.

His course plotted, he gathered up his few possessions and lashed them to his body.

Next he took several minutes to gather a stack of firewood–light, sun-dried logs that

would burn steadily. He trimmed the twigs off of these so that he could bundle them

tightly together. This bundle he then lashed to his back.

Finally he turned his face toward the pass. The slope before him still lay in shadow,

as it would for most of the day. Retracing his tracks of the previous afternoon, he forced

his way through the deep snow, back toward the summit of the pass.

It took him all morning, but finally he reached the summit. He paused to rest–the

climb had been extremely wearying–and sought out the speck of color that he knew

would mark Kith-Kanan's presence on the ledge in the distance. He had to squint, for the

sunlight reflecting from the snow-filled bowl brutally assaulted his eyes.

He couldn't see the ledge, though he recognized the water hole where he had

collected their drinking water. What was that? He saw movement near the stream, and for

a moment, he wondered if the sheep had returned. His eyes adjusted to the brightness,

and he understood that these could not be sheep. Large humanoid shapes lumbered

through the snow. Shaggy fur seemed to cover them in patches, but the "fur" proved to be

cloaks cast over broad shoulders.

They moved in single file, some ten or twelve of them, as they crossed the valley

floor, taking no notice of the depth of the snow.

With a sickening realization, Sithas understood what was happening: The hill giants

had returned, and they were making their way toward Kith-Kanan.

14

Immediately Following

Sithas studied the hill giant that led the column of the brutes, perhaps two miles

away and a thousand feet below him. The monster gestured to its fellows, pointing

upward. Not toward Sithas, the elf realized, but toward . . . the ledge! His brother's camp!

The dozen giants trudged through the snow of the valley floor, making their way in that

direction.

Sithas tried to spot his twin, but the distance was too great. Wait ... there!

Kith-Kanan, he realized, must also have seen the giants, for the wounded elf had pulled a

dark cloak over himself and was now pressed against the far wall of the ledge. His

camouflage seemed effective and would make him virtually invisible from below as the

giants headed toward the cliff.

The column of giants waded the stream. The one in the lead gestured again, this time

indicating the path in the snow that Sithas had made in his travels back and forth for

water. Another giant indicated a different track, the one made by Sithas on the previous

day.

That slight gesture gave him a desperate idea. He acted quickly, casting around until

his eyes fell upon a medium-sized boulder resting in the summit of the pass and cracked

loose from the bedrock below. Seizing it in both of his hands, grunting from the exertion,

he lifted the stone over his head. The last of the giants had crossed the stream, and now

the file of huge, grotesque creatures was nearing the cliff wall.

Sithas pitched the boulder as hard and as far as he could. The rock plummeted down

the steep, rock-strewn pass. Then it hit, crashing into another boulder with a sharp report

before bouncing and smashing again and again down the mountain pass, Breathlessly

Sithas watched the giants. They had to hear the commotion!

Indeed they did. Suddenly the twelve monsters whirled around in surprise. Sithas

kicked another rock, and that one too clattered down the pass, rolling between the two

huge boulders that he had slipped between on the previous day's climb.

Now the beasts halted, staring upward. Breathlessly Sithas waited.

It worked! He saw the first giant gesturing wildly, pointing toward the summit of the

pass, toward Sithas! Kith-Kanan was left behind as the entire band of the great brutes

turned and broke into a lumbering trot, pursuing the elf they probably thought they had

"discovered" trying to sneak through the pass.

Sithas watched them advance toward him. They plunged through the deep snow in

giant strides, each stride taking them farther from Kith-Kanan. Sithas wondered if his

brother was watching, if he had seen the clever diversion created by his twin. He lay still,

peering around a boulder as the monsters approached the bottom of the pass.

Now what could he do? The giants had almost reached the base of the pass. He

looked behind him. Everywhere the valley was blanketed by deep snow. Wherever he

went, he would leave a trail so obvious that even the thick-witted hill giants would have

no difficulty in following him.

His attention returned to the immediate problem. He saw, with sharp panic, that the

giants had disappeared from view. Moments later he understood. They were so close to

the pass now that the steepness of the slope blocked his vision.

His head seemed fogged by fear, his body tensed with the anticipation of combat.

The thought almost brought a smile to his lips. The prospect of facing a dozen giants with

his puny sword struck him as ludicrous indeed! Yet by the same token, that prospect

seemed inevitable, so that his amusement quickly gave way to stark terror.

Carefully he crept forward and looked down the pass. All he saw were the two

monstrous boulders that had bracketed his ascent of the pass on the day before. As yet

there was no sign of the giants.

Should he confront them at those rocks? No more than one at a time could pass

through the narrow aperture. Still, with a brutally honest assessment of his own fighting

prowess, he knew that one of them was all it would take to squash his skull like an

eggshell. Also, he remembered the precarious balance of those boulders. Indeed, one of

them had shifted several inches merely from the weight of his touch.

That recollection gave him an idea. The elf checked his longsword, which was lashed

securely to his back. Quickly he unlashed the bundle of firewood and dropped the sticks

unceremoniously to the ground. He hefted the longest one, which was about as long as

his leg but no thicker than his arm–still, it would have to do.

Without pausing to consider, Sithas, in a running crouch, crossed through the saddle

and started down the slope toward the two rocks. He could see several of the giants

through the crack now, and realized with alarm that they were nearly halfway up the

steep-sided pass.

In a slide of tumbling scree, Sithas crashed into one of the boulders and felt it lurch

beneath his weight. But then it settled back into its place, and he couldn't force it to move

farther. Turning to the second rock, he pushed and heaved at it and was rewarded by a

fractional shifting of its massive bulk. However, it, too, seemed to be nestled in a

comfortable spot and would not move any farther.

Desperately Sithas slid downward through the crack between the boulders. The elf

reached beneath the base of the one he judged to be the loosest and began to dig and chop

with his piece of firewood.

He pried a large stone loose, and it skittered down the slope. Immediately he began

prying at a different rock. A bellow of surprise reached him from below, and he knew

that he didn't have much time. He didn't look behind him. Instead, he scrambled back

upward between the rocks. He pitched his body against the rock he had worked so hard to

loosen and was rewarded by a slight teetering. Then a shower of gravel sprayed from

beneath it to tumble into the faces of the approaching giants.

The leader of the monsters bellowed again. The creature was a bare fifty yards below

Sithas now and bounding upward with astonishing speed.

After one last, futile push at the rock, Sithas knew that he would have to abandon

that plan. His time had run out. Drawing his sword, he dropped through the narrow crack

again, prepared to meet the first giant at the mouth of the opening. Grimly he resolved to

draw as much blood as possible before he perished.

The beast came toward him, its face split by a garish caricature of a grin. Sithas saw

the tiny bloodshot eyes and the stubs of teeth jutting like tusks from its gums. Its huge

lips flapped with excitement as the brute prepared to squash the life from this impudent

elf.

The thing held one of those monstrous clubs such as the giants had employed in their

earlier attack. Now that weapon lashed outward, but Sithas ducked back into the niche,

feeling the rock tremble next to him from the force of the blow. He darted outward and

stabbed quickly with his steel blade. A sense of cruel delight flared within him as the

weapon scored a bloody gash on the giant's forehead.

With a cry of animal rage, the giant lunged upward, dropping its club and reaching

with massive paws toward Sithas's legs. The elf skipped backward, scrambling up and

away. As he did, he stabbed downward, driving his blade clear through the monster's

hand.

Howling in pain, the giant twisted away, shrinking back down the slope to clutch its

bleeding extremity. Sithas had no time to reconnoiter, however. The next monster had already

caught up. This one had apparently learned from his comrade's errors, for it thrust

its heavy club into the crack and stayed out of reach.

Sithas twisted away with a curse as the crude weapon nearly crushed his left wrist.

The giant reached in, and Sithas scrambled upward. But then a loose patch of scree

caused him to lose his footing, and he slipped downward toward that leering, hate-filled

face.

He saw the monstrous lips spread in a leering grin, darkened stubs of ivory teeth

ready to tear at his flesh. Sithas kicked out, and his boot cracked into the beast's huge,

wart-covered nose.

Desperately Sithas kicked again, pushing himself upward and catching one boot on

an outcrop of the rock wall beside him. The giant reached up to catch him, but the elf remained

just out of his reach, barely a foot or so above him.

With determination, the broad-shouldered brute pressed into the narrow crack

between the boulders. The force of his body pushed the stones outward slightly.

Yet that seemed to be enough. The monster's hand clutched Sithas's foot. Even as the

elf kicked and flailed frantically, one of the rocks teetered precariously on the brink of a

fall.

The Speaker of the Stars braced his back against one of the rocks and pressed both of

his boots against the other. Calling for the blessings of every god he could think of, he

pushed outward, straining and gasping to move the monstrous weight.

Slowly, almost gradually, the huge boulder toppled forward. The giant stared

upward, his beady eyes nearly bulging out of his skull as the huge load slid forward, then

began to roll downward. Tons of rock crushed the life from the brute as the boulder broke

free.

His foothold suddenly gone, Sithas slid downward in the wake of the crashing stone.

He felt a sickening crunch in the earth and looked up to see the other rock also break free

to crash toward the valley floor a thousand feet below. Desperately the elf sprang to one

side, feeling the ground shake as the huge stone tumbled past him.

The sounds of the rockslide grew and echoed, seeming to shake the bedrock of the

world. Sithas pressed his face into the ground, trying to cling with his hands as the entire

wall of the pass fell away. The thunderous volume overwhelmed him, and he expected to

be swept away at any second.

But now the gods looked kindly on the Speaker of the Stars, and though the cliff wall

a scant twelve inches from his hand plunged below, the rock to which Sithas clung remained

fixed, miraculously, to the ridge.

The world crashed and surged around Sithas for what seemed like hours, though in

reality it was no more than a few minutes. When he finally opened his eyes, blinking

away the dust and grime, he looked down at a scene of complete devastation.

A dust cloud had settled across the formerly pristine snowfields, casting the entire

valley in a dirty gray hue. The surface of the cliff gaped like a fresh scar where scree and

talus, even great chunks of bedrock, had torn away. He could see none of the twelve

giants, but it seemed inconceiveable that any of them could have lived through that

massive, crushing avalanche.

The pass was now even steeper than it had been when he climbed it, but the entire

surface was clear of snow, and the rock that remained was solid mountain. Thus he had

little difficulty in picking his way painstakingly down the thousand feet of descent to the

valley floor.

Near the bottom, he came upon the body of one of the giants. The creature was

half-buried in rubble and covered with dust.

Sithas stepped carefully along the slope, using handholds to maintain his balance,

until he reached the motionless body of the giant. The creature hung over a sharp outcrop

of rock, looking like a rag doll that someone had casually cast aside. When the elf

reached the monster, he examined it more closely.

He saw that it wore boots of heavy fur and a tunic of bearskin. The creature's beard

was long but sparsely grown, adding to the straggled and unkempt appearance of its face.

The great mouth hung slackly open, and its long, floppy tongue protruded. Several

broken teeth studded its gums alongside a single well-formed tusk of ivory in front.

Sithas found himself feeling a spontaneous reaction of compassion as he looked at the

pathetic visage.

His reaction changed instantly to alarm when the giant moved, reaching out with one

trunklike arm toward him. The elf stepped nervously backward, his longsword in his

hand.

Then the giant groaned, smacking his lips and snorting in discomfort before finally

forcing open the lid of one blank, bloodshot eye. The eye stared straight at the elf.

Sithas froze. His instincts, as soon as the beast had moved, had urged him to drive

his keen steel blade into the creature's throat or its heart.

However, some inner emotion, surprising the elf with its strong compulsion, had held

his hand. The blade remained poised before the giant's face, a foot from the end of its

blunt and swollen nose, but Sithas didn't drive it home.

Instead, he studied the creature as it opened its other eye. The two orbs crossed

ludicrously as it appeared to study the keen steel so close to its face. Slowly the bloodshot

orbs came into focus. Sithas sensed the giant tensing, and he knew that he should slay it,

if it wasn't already too late! Misgivings assailed him.

Still he held firm. The giant scowled, still trying to understand what had happened,

what was going on. Finally the realization came, with a reaction that took Sithas completely

by surprise. The monster yelped–a high-pitched gasp of fright–and tried to squirm

backward away from the elf and the weapon.

A large boulder blocked its retreat, and the beast cowered against the rock, raising its

massive fists as if to ward away a blow. Sithas took a step forward, and when the beast

cried out again, he lowered his blade, bemused by the strange behavior.

Sithas made a casual gesture with his sword. The giant raised its hands to protect its

face and grunted something in a crude tongue. Again Sithas was struck by the one perfect

tooth bobbing up and down amongst the otherwise ragged gums.

The problem remained of what to do with it. Letting the brute just wander away

seemed like an unacceptable risk.

Yet Sithas couldn't kill it out of hand, now that it cowered and gibbered at him. It

didn't seem like much of a threat anymore, despite its huge size.

"Hey, One-Tooth. Stand up!" The elf gestured with his blade, and after several

moments, the giant climbed hesitantly to its feet.

The creature loomed ten feet or more tall, with a barrel-sized chest and stout,

sinew-lined limbs. One-Tooth gaped pathetically at Sithas as the elf nodded, pleased. He

gestured again with his sword, this time down the pass, toward the valley.

"Come on, you lead the way," he instructed the giant. They started down the

mountain, with Sithas keeping his sword ready.

But One-tooth seemed perfectly content to shuffle along ahead of the elf. On the

ground, Sithas found it a great boon to follow in the footsteps of the giant, rather than

break his own trail through the snow. Following an elaborate pantomime, he showed

One-Tooth how to drag his feet when he walked, thus making a deeper and smoother path

for the elf.

He directed the giant toward the ledge where Kith-Kanan lay helpless. At the bottom,

before they picked their way up the steep, treacherous trail, Sithas turned back to the

giant.

"I want you to carry him," he explained. He cradled his arms as if he was carrying an

infant and pointed to the ledge above them. "Do you understand?"

The giant squinted at the elf, his eyes shrinking to tiny dots of bloodshot

concentration. He looked upward.

Then his eyes widened, as if someone had just opened the shutters to a dark,

little-used room. His mouth gaped happily, and the tooth bobbed up and down in

enthusiastic comprehension.

"I hope so," Sithas muttered, not entirely confident about what he was doing.

Now the elf led the way, working his way up the narrow trail until he reached the

ledge that had sequestered his brother.

"Well done, Brother!" Kith-Kanan was sitting upright, his back against the cliff wall

and his face creased by a grin of amazed delight. "I saw them coming, and I figured that

was the end!"

"That thought crossed my mind as well," admitted Sithas.

Kith looked at him with an admiring expression Sithas had never seen in his brother's

eyes before. "You could have been killed, you know!"

Sithas laughed self-consciously, feeling a warm sense of pride. "I can't let you have

all the fun."

Kith smiled, his eyes shining. "Thanks, Brother!" Clearing his throat, he nodded at

One-Tooth. "But what is this–a prisoner or friend? And what idea do you have now?"

"We're going to the next valley," Sithas replied. "I couldn't find a horse, so you'll

have to ride a giant!"

15

Winter, in the Army of Ergoth

The rains beat across a sea of canvas, a drumming, monotonous cadence that marked

time during winter on the plains. Gray skies stretched over the brown land, encloaked by

air that changed from fog to downpour to icy mist.

If only it would freeze! This was the wish of every soldier in the army who had to

stand guard, conduct drills, or make the arduous treks to distant woods for firewood or

lumber. A hard frost would soldify the viscous earth that now churned underfoot, miring

wagon wheels and making the simple act of walking an exhaustive struggle.

Sentries stood shivering on guard duty around the ring of the great human

encampment. The great bulk of Sithelbec was practically invisible in the gray anonymity

of the twilit gloom. The fortress walls loomed strong; they had been tested at the cost of

more than a thousand men during recent months.

Darkness came like a lowering curtain, and the camp became still and silent, broken

only by the fires that dotted the darkness. Even these blazes were few, for all sources of

firewood within ten miles of the camp had already been picked clean.

Amid this darkness, an even darker figure moved. General Giarna stalked toward the

command tent of High General Barnet. Trailing him, trying to control her terror, followed

Suzine.

She didn't want to be here. Never before had she seen General Giarna as menacing as

he seemed tonight. He had summoned her without explanation, his eyes distant ... and

hungry. It was as if he barely knew that she was present, so intent were his thoughts on

something else.

Now she understood that his victim was to be Barnet.

General Giarna reached the high general's tent and flung aside the canvas flap, boldly

entering. Suzine, more cautiously, came behind him.

Barnet had been expecting company, for he stood facing the door, his hand on the

hilt of his sheathed sword. The three of them were alone in the dim enclosure. One lamp

sputtered on a battered wooden table, and rain seeped through the waterlogged roof and

sides of the tent.

"The usurper dares to challenge his master?" sneered the white-haired Barnet, but his

voice was not as forceful as his words.

"Master?" The black-armored general's voice was heavy with scorn. His eyes

remained vacant, and focused on something very far away. "You are a failure–and your

time is up, old man!"

"Bastard!" Barnet reacted with surprising quickness, given his age. In one smooth

movement, his blade hissed from its scabbard and lashed toward the younger man's face.

General Giarna was quicker. He raised one hand, encased in its black steel gauntlet.

The blade met the gauntlet at the wrist, a powerful blow that ought to have chopped

through the armor and sliced off the general's hand.

Instead, the sword shattered into a shower of silver splinters. Barnet, still holding the

useless hilt, gaped at the taller Giarna and stepped involuntarily backward.

Suzine groaned in terror. Some unbelievably horrible power pulsed in the room, a

thing that she sensed on a deeper level than sight or smell or touch. Her knees grew weak

beneath her, but somehow she forced herself to stand.

She knew that Giarna wanted her to watch, for this was to be a lesson for her as

much as a punishment for Barnet.

The old man squealed–a pathetic, whimpering sound–as he stared at something in the

dark eyes of his nemesis. Giarna's hands, cloaked in the shiny black steel, grasped Barnet

around the neck, and the high general's sounds faded into strangled gasps and coughs.

Barnet's face expanded to a circle of horror. His tongue protruded, and his jaw flexed

soundlessly. His skin grew red–bright red, like a crimson rose, thought Suzine. Then the

man's face darkened to a bluish, then ashen, gray.

Finally, as if his corpse was being seared by a hot fire, Barnet turned black. His face

ceased to bulge, slowly shrinking until the skin pressed tight around the clear outlines of

his skull. His lips stretched backward, and then split and dried into mummified husks.

His hands, Suzine saw, had become veritable claws, each an outline of white bone,

with bare shreds of skin and fingernails clinging to the ghastly skeleton.

Giarna cast the corpse aside, and it settled slowly to the floor, like an empty gunny

sack that catches the undercurrents of air as it floats downward.

When the general finally turned back to Suzine, she gasped in mindless dread. He

stood taller now. His skin was bright, flushed.

But his eyes were his most frightening aspect, for now they fixed upon her with a

clear and deadly glow.

* * * * *

Later, Suzine stared into her mirror, despairing. Though it might show ten thousand

signs, to her it was still devoid of that which meant all to her. She no longer knew if Kith-

Kanan was even alive, so far distant had he flown.

In the ten days since General Giarna had slain Barnet, the army camp had been

driven into furious activity. An array of great stone-casting catapults took shape along the

lines. Building the huge wooden machines was slow work, but by the end of winter,

twoscore of the war machines would be ready to rain their destruction upon Sithelbec.

A hard ground freeze had occurred during the days immediately following the brutal

murder, and this had eliminated the mud that had impeded all activity. Now great parties

of human riders scoured the surrounding plains, and the few bands of Wildrunners

outside Sithelbec's walls had been eliminated or driven to the shelter of the deepest

forests.

Wearily Suzine turned her thoughts to her uncle, Emperor Quivalin Soth V. The

mirror combed the expanse of the frozen plain to the west, and soon she found what

Giarna had directed her to seek: the emperor's great carriage, escorted by four thousand

of his most loyal knights, was trundling closer to the camp.

She went to seek her commander and found him belaboring the unfortunate captains

of a team sent to bring lumber from a patch of forest some dozen miles away.

"Double the size of your force if you need to!" snarled General Giarna, while six

battle-scarred officers trembled before him. "But bring me the wood by tomorrow! Work

on the catapults must cease until we get those timbers!"

"Sir," ventured the boldest, "it's the horses! We drive them until near collapse. Then

they must rest! It takes two days to make the trip."

"Drive them until they collapse, then–or perhaps you consider horseflesh to be more

valuable than your own?"

"No, General!" Badly shaken, the captains left to organize another, larger, lumbering

expedition.

"What have you learned?" General Giarna whirled upon Suzine, fixing her with his

penetrating stare.

For a moment, Suzine looked at him, trying to banish her trembling. The Boy

General reminded her, for the first time in a long time, of the vibrant and energetic officer

she had first met, for whom she had once developed an infatuation. What did the death of

Barnet have to do with this? In some vile way, it seemed to Suzine that the man had

consumed the life force of the other, devoured his rival, and found the deed somehow

invigorating.

"The emperor will arrive tomorrow," she reported. "He makes good time, now that

the ground is frozen."

"Splendid." The general's mind, she could see, was already preoccupied with

something else, for he turned that sharp stare toward the bastion of Sithelbec.

* * * * *

If Emperor Quivalin noticed any dark change in General Giarna, he didn't say

anything to Suzine. His carriage had rolled into the camp to the cheers of more than a

hundred thousand of his soldiers. The great procession rumbled around the full

circumference of the circular deployments before arriving at the tent where the Boy

General kept his headquarters.

The two men conferred within the tent for several hours before the ruler and the

commander emerged, side by side, to address the troops.

"I have appointed General Giarna as High General of the Army," announced

Quivalin, to the cheers of his men, "following the unfortunate demise of former High

General Barnet.

"He has my full confidence, as do you all." More cheers. "I feel certain that, with the

coming of spring, your force will carry the walls of the elven fortress and reduce their

defenses to ashes! For the glory of Ergoth, you will prevail!"

Adulation rose from the troops, who surged forward to get a close look at the mighty

ruler. A sweeping stare from their general, however, held them in their tracks. A slow,

reluctant silence fell over the mass of warriors.

"The collapse of my predecessor, due to exhaustion, was symptomatic of the

sluggishness that previously pervaded this entire army–a laxness that allowed our enemy

to reach its fortress months ago," said General Giarna. His voice was level and low, yet it

seemed to carry more ominous power than the emperor's loud exhortations.

Murmurs of discontent rose in many thousands of throats. Barnet had been a popular

leader, and his death hadn't been satisfactorily explained to the men. Yet the stark fear

they felt for the Boy General prevented anyone from audibly muttering open displeasure.

"Our emperor informs me that additional troops will be joining us, a contingent of

dwarves from the Theiwar Clan of Thorbardin. They are skilled miners and will be put to

work digging excavations beneath the walls of the enemy defenses.

"Those of you who are not engaged in preparations for the attack will begin

tomorrow a vigorous program of training. When the time comes to attack, you will be

ready! And for the glory of our emperor, you will succeed!"

16

Two Weeks Later, Early Winter

The firelight reflected from the walls of the cave like dancing sprites, weaving

patterns of warmth and comfort. A haunch of venison sizzled on a spit over the coals,

while Sithas's cloak and leggings dried on a makeshift rack.

"No tenderloin of steer ever tasted so sweet or lay so sumptuously on the palate,"

announced Kith-Kanan, with an approving smack of his lips. He reached forward and

sliced another hot strip from the meat that slow-roasted above the coals.

Sithas looked at his brother, his eyes shining with pride. Unlike the sheep, which he

admitted had been slain by dumb luck as much as anything, he had stalked this deer

through the woods, lying in wait for long, chilly hours, until the timid creature had

worked its way into bow range. He had aimed carefully and brought the animal down

with one shot to the neck.

"I have to agree," Sithas allowed as he finished his own piece. He, too, carved

another strip for eating. Then he cut several other juicy morsels, piling them on a flat

stone that served as a platter, before lifting the spit from the fire.

He turned to the mouth of the shallow cave, where winter's darkness closed in. "Hey,

One-Tooth." he called. "Dinner time!"

The giant's round face, split by his characteristic massive grin, appeared. One-Tooth

squinted before reaching his massive paw into the cave. His eyes lit up expectantly as

Sithas handed him the spit.

"Careful–it's hot. Eat hearty, my friend " Sithas watched in amusement as the giant,

who had learned several words of the common tongue–"hot" being high on the

list–picked tentatively at the dripping meat.

"Amazing how friendly he got, once we started feeding him," remarked Kith-Kanan.

Indeed, once the hill giant had satisified himself that the elf wasn't going to slay him,

One-Tooth had become an enthusiastic helper. He had carried Kith down the narrow trail

from the ledge with all the care that a mother shows to her firstborn babe. The weight of

the injured elf hadn't seemed to slow the hill giant at all as Sithas led him back over the

steep pass and into this valley.

The trip had been hard on Kith-Kanan, with each step jarring his injured leg, but he

had borne the punishment in silence. Indeed, he had been amazed and delighted at the

degree of control with which Sithas had seized the reins of their expedition.

It had taken another day of searching, but finally the Speaker of the Stars had

discovered this shallow cave, its entrance partially screened by boulders and brush. Lying

in the overhang of a rock-walled riverbank, the cave itself was dry and spacious, albeit

not so spacious that the giant didn't have to remain outside. A small stream flowed within

a dozen feet of its mouth, assuring a plentiful supply of water.

Now that they had reached this forested valley, Sithas had been able to rig a splint

for Kith-Kanan's wound.

Nevertheless, it galled the leader of the Wildrunners, who had always handled his

own problems, to sit here in forced immobility while his brother, the Speaker of the Stars,

did the hunting, wood-gathering, and exploration, as well as the simpler jobs like

fire-tending and cooking.

"This is truly amazing, Sithas," Kith said, indicating their rude shelter. "All the

comforts of home."

The cave was shallow, perhaps twenty feet deep, with a ceiling that rose almost five

feet. Several dense clumps of pines and cedars grew within easy walking distance.

"Comforts," Sithas agreed. "And even a palace guard!

One-Tooth looked attentive, sensing that they were talking about him. He grinned

again, though the juice dribbling from his huge lips made the effect rather grotesque.

"I have to admit, when you first told me that I was going to ride a giant, I thought the

cold had penetrated a little too far between your ears. But it worked!"

They had set up a permanent camp here, agreeing tacitly between them that without

Arcuballis they were stuck in these mountains at least for the duration of the winter.

Of course, they were haunted by awareness of the distant war. They had discussed

the nature of Sithelbec's defenses and concluded that the humans probably wouldn't be

able to launch an effective assault before summer. The stout walls ought to stand against

a long barrage of catapult attacks, and the hard earth would make tunneling operations

difficult and time-consuming. All they could do now was wait and hope.

Sithas had gathered huge piles of pine boughs, which made fairly comfortable beds.

A fire built at the mouth of the cave sent its smoke billowing outward, but radiated its

impressive heat throughout their shelter. It made the cave into a very pleasant shelter,

and–with the presence of OneTooth–Sithas no longer feared for his brother's safety if he

had to be left alone. They both knew that soon enough, Sithas would have to set out on

foot to seek the griffons.

Now they sat in silence, sharing a sense of well-being that was quite extraordinary,

given the circumstances. They had shelter and warmth, and now they even had extra

food! Lazily Sithas rose and checked his boots, careful not to singe their fur-covered

surface. He turned them slightly to warm a different part of their soggy surface.

Immediately steam began to arise from the soaked leather. He returned to his spot and

flopped down on his own cloak. He looked at his brother, and Kith-Kanan sensed that he

wanted to say something.

"I think you've got enough food here to last you for a while," Sithas began. "I'm

going to search for the griffons."

Kith nodded. "Despite my frustration with this–" he indicated his leg–"I think that's

the only thing to do."

"We're near the heart of the range," Sithas continued, with a nod. "I figure that I can

head out in one direction, make a thorough search, and get back here within a week or ten

days. Even with the deep snow, I'll be able to make some progress. I'll stop back and

check on you and let you know what I've found. If it's nothing, I'll head out in a different

direction after that."

"Sounds like a reasonable plan," Kith-Kanan agreed. "You'll take the scroll from

Vedvedsica, of course."

Sithas had planned on this. "Yes. If I find the griffons, I'll try to get close enough to

use the spell."

His brother looked at him steadily. Kith-Kanan's face showed an expression Sithas

was not accustomed to. The injured elf spoke. "Let me do something before you go. It

might help on your journey."

"What?"

Kith wouldn't explain, instead requesting that his brother bring him numerous supple

pine branches–still green, unlike the dried sticks they used for firewood. "The best ones

will be about as big around as your thumb and as long as possible."

"Why? What do you want them for?"

His brother acted mysterious, but Sithas willingly gathered the wood as soon as

daylight illuminated the valley. He spent the rest of the day gathering provisions for the

first leg of his trek, checking his own equipment, and stealing sidelong glances at his

brother. Kith-Kanan pretended to ignore him, instead whittling away at the pine branches,

weaving them into a tight pattern, even pulling threads from his woolen cloak to lash the

sticks together firmly.

Toward sunset, he finally held the finished creations up for Sithas's inspection. He

had made two flat objects, oval in shape and nearly three feet long by a foot wide. The

sticks had been woven back and forth into a grid pattern.

"Wonderful, Kith–simply amazing. I've never seen anything like them! But ... what

are they?"

Kith-Kanan smiled smugly. "I learned about them during that winter I spent in the

Wildwood." For a moment, his smile tightened. He couldn't remember that time without

thinking of Anaya, of the bliss they had shared, and of the strange fate that had claimed

her. He blinked and went on. "They're called 'snowshoes'."

Instantly Sithas saw the application. "I lash these to my boots, right?" he guessed.

"And then walk around, leaving footprints in the snow like a giant?"

"You'll be surprised, I promise. They'll let you walk on top of the snow, even deep

powder."

Indeed, Sithas wasted no time pulling on his boots and affixing the snowshoes to

them with several straps Kith had created by tearing a strip from one of their cloaks. He

tripped and sprawled headlong as he left the cave but quickly dusted himself off and

started into the woods on a test walk.

Though the snowshoes felt somewhat awkward on his feet and forced him to walk

with an unusually wide-spread gait, he trotted and marched and plodded through the

woods for nearly an hour before returning to the cave.

"Big feet!" One-Tooth greeted him outside, where he had left the giant.

"Good feet!" Sithas replied, reaching up to give the giant a friendly clap on the arm.

Kith awaited him expectantly.

"They're fantastic! I can't believe the difference they make!"

Kith was forced to admit, as he looked at his exhilarated brother, that Sithas no

longer seemed to need the assistance of anyone to cope with the rigors of the high

mountain winter.

Determined to begin his quest well rested, Sithas tried to force himself to sleep. But

though he closed his eyes, his mind remained alert. It leaped from fear to hope to anticipation

in a chaotic whirling dance that kept him wide awake as the hours drifted past. He

heard One-Tooth snoring at the cave mouth and saw Kith slumbering peacefully on the

other side of the fire.

Finally, past midnight, Sithas slept. And when he did, his dreams were rich and

bright, full of blue skies swarming with griffons.

* * * * *

Yellow eyes gleamed in the woods, staring at the fading fire in the mouth of the

cave. The dire wolf crept closer, suppressing the urge to growl.

The creature saw and smelled the hill giant slumbering at the mouth of the cave.

Though the savage canine was huge–the size of a pony, weighing more than three hundred

pounds–it feared to attack the larger hill giant.

Too, the fire gave it pause. It had been burned once before, and remembered well the

terrifying touch of flame.

Silently the wolf slinked back into the woods. When it was safely out of hearing of

the cave, it broke into a patient lope, easily moving atop the snow.

But there was food in the cave. During the lean winter months, fresh meat was a rare

prize in this mountain fastness. The wolf would remember, and as it roamed the valleys,

it would meet others of its kind. Finally, when the pack had gathered, they would return.

* * * * *

Sithas's first expedition, to the west, lasted nearly four weeks. He pressed along

snow-swept ridges and through barren, rock-boundaried vales. He saw no life, save for

the occasional spoor of the hardy mountain sheep or the flying speck of an eagle soaring

in the distance.

He traveled alone, having persuaded One-Tooth–only after a most intricate series of

contortions, pantomimes, threats, and pleas–to remain behind and guard Kith-Kanan.

Each day his solitude seemed to weigh heavier on him and become an oppressive,

gnawing despair.

Winds tore at him every day, and as often as not, his world vanished behind a shroud

of blowing snow. The days of clear weather that had followed Kith's injury, he now

realized, had been a fortunate aberration in the typical weather patterns of the high

mountains. Winter closed in with a fury, shrouding him in snow and hail and ice.

He pressed westward until at last he stood upon a high ridge and saw ground falling

to foothills and plains beyond. He would find no mountainous refuge of griffons in this

direction. The route he followed back to Kith-Kanan and One-Tooth diverged somewhat

from the trail he had taken westward, but this, too, proved fruitless.

He found his brother and the hill giant in good spirits, with a plentiful supply of

meat. Though Kith could not yet bear his weight on his leg, the limb seemed to be

healing well. Given time, it would regain most of its prior strength.

After a night of warmth and freshly cooked meat, Sithas began his search to the

north. This time his quest took even longer, for the Khalkist Range extended far along

this axis. After twenty-five days of exploring, however, he saw that he had left the

highest summits of the range behind. Though the trail northward was mountainous and

the land uninhabited, he could see from his lofty vantage that it lacked the towering,

craggy summits that had been so vividly described in Kith-Kanan's dream. It seemed safe

to conclude that the valley of the griffons did not lie farther north.

His return to camp took another ten days and carried him through more lofty, but

equally barren, country. The only significant finds he made were several herds of deer.

He had stumbled across the creatures by accident and watched them race away, plunging

through the deep snow. It was with a sensation approaching abject hopelessness that he

plodded over the last ridge and found the camp nestled in its cave and remaining very

much as he had left it.

One-Tooth was eager to greet him, and Kith-Kanan looked stronger and healthier,

though his leg was still awkwardly splinted. His brother was working on an intricately

carved crutch, but as yet he hadn't tried walking with it.

By now the food supply had begun to run short, so Sithas remained for several days,

long enough to stalk and slay a plump doe. The deer's carcass yielded more meat than

either of his previous kills, and when he returned to camp with the doe, he was surprised

to find Kith waiting at the cave mouth–standing and waiting.

"Kith! Your leg!" he asked, dropping the deer and stepping quickly to his brother's

side.

"Hurts like all the fires of the Abyss," Kith grunted, but his teeth, though clenched,

forced his mouth into a tight smile. "Still, it can hold me up, with the help of my crutch."

"Call you Three-Legs now," observed One-Tooth dryly.

"Fair enough," Kith agreed, still gritting his teeth.

"I think this calls for a celebration. How about some melted snow and venison?"

proposed Sithas.

"Perfect," Kith-Kanan agreed.

One-Tooth drooled happily, sharing the brothers' elation. The trio enjoyed an

evening of feasting. The giant was the first to tire, and soon he was snoring noisily in his

accustomed position outside the mouth of the cave.

"Are you going back out?" Kith asked quietly after long moments of contented

silence.

"I have to," Sithas replied. They both knew that there was no other alternative.

"This is the last chance," Kith-Kanan observed. "We've come up from the south, and

now you've looked to the north and the west. If the valley doesn't lie somewhere to the

east, we'll have to face the fact that this whole adventure might have been a costly pipe

dream."

"I'm not prepared to give up yet!" Sithas said, more sharply than he intended.

Truthfully, the same suspicions had lurked in his own subconscious for many days. What

if he found no sign of the griffons? What if they had to march back to Silvanost on foot, a

journey that would take months and couldn't begin until snowmelt in late spring? And

what if they returned, after all this time, empty handed?

So it was that Sithas began his eastward search with a taut determination. He pushed

himself harder than ever before, going to reckless lengths to scale sheer passes and traverse

lofty, precipitous ridges. The mountains here were the most rugged of any in the

range, and any number of times they came very close to claiming the life of the intrepid

elf.

Every day Sithas witnessed thundering avalanches. He learned to recognize the

overhanging crests, the steep and snow-blanketed heights that gave birth to these

crushing snowslides. He identified places where water flowed beneath the snow, gaining

drinking water when he needed it but avoiding a potential plunge through the ice that, by

soaking him in these woodless heights, would amount to a sentence of death by freezing.

He slept on high ridges, with rocks for his pillow and bed. He excavated snow caves

when he could and found that the warmth of these greatly improved his chances of

surviving the long, dark nights. But once again he found nothing that would indicate the

presence of griffons–indeed, of any living creatures–among these towering crags.

He pressed for two full weeks through the barren vales, climbing rock-studded

slopes, dodging avalanches, and searching the skies and the ridges for some sign of his

quarry. He pressed forward each day before dawn and searched throughout the hours of

daylight until darkness all but blinded him to any spoor that wasn't directly in front of his

nose. Then he slept fitfully, anxious for the coming of daylight so that he could resume

his search.

However, he was finally forced to admit defeat and turned back toward the brothers'

camp. A bleak feeling of despair came over him as he made camp on a high ridge. It was

as he rearranged some rocks to form his sleeping place that Sithas saw the tracks: like a

cat's, only far bigger, larger than his own hand with the fingers fully outstretched. The

rear, feline feet he identified with certainty, and now the nature of the padded forefeet

became clear, too. They might have been made by an incredibly huge eagle, but Sithas

knew this was not the case. The prints had been made by the great taloned griffon.

* * * * *

Kith-Kanan squirmed restlessly on his pine-branch bed. The once-soft branches had

been matted into a hard and lumpy mat by more than two months of steady use, and no

longer did they provide a pleasant cushion for his body. As he had often done

before–indeed, as he did a hundred or a thousand times each day–he cursed the injury that

kept him hobbled to this shelter like an invalid.

He noticed another sound that disturbed his slumber–a rumble like a leaky bellows in

a steel-smelting plant. The noise reverberated throughout the cave.

"Hey, One-Tooth!" Kith snapped. "Wake up!"

Abruptly the sound ceased with a snuffling gurgle, and the giant peered sleepily into

the cave.

"Huh?" demanded the monstrous humanoid. "What Three-Legs want now?"

"Stop snoring! I can't sleep with all the racket!"

"Huh?" One-Tooth squinted at him. "Not snoring!"

"Never mind. Sorry I woke you." Smiling to himself, the wounded elf shifted his

position on the rude mattress and slowly boosted himself to his feet.

"Nice fire." The giant moved closer to the pile of coals. "Better than village

firehole."

"Where is your village?" asked Kith curiously. The giant had mentioned his small

community before.

"In mountains, close to tree lands."

This didn't tell Kith much, except that it was at a lower altitude than the valley they

now inhabited, a fact that was just as well, considering his brother's ongoing exploration

of the highlands.

"Sleep some more," grunted the giant, stretching and yawning. His mouth gaped, and

the solitary tusk protruded until One-Tooth smacked his lips and closed his eyes.

The giant had made remarkable progress in learning the elven tongue. He was no

scintillating conversationalist, of course, but he could communicate with Kith-Kanan on a

remarkable number of day-to-day topics.

"Sleep well, friend," remarked Kith softly. He looked at the slumbering giant with

genuine affection, grateful that the fellow had been here during these months of solitude.

Looking outward, he noticed the pale blue of the dawn sky looming behind

One-Tooth's recumbent form.

Damn this leg! Why did he have to suffer an injury now, just when his skills were

most needed, when the entire future of the war and of his nation were at stake?

He had regained some limited mobility. He could totter, albeit painfully, around the

mouth of the cave, getting water for himself and exercising his limbs. Today, he resolved,

he would press far enough to get a few more pine branches for his crude and increasingly

uncomfortable bed.

But that was nothing compared to the epic quest undertaken by his brother! Even as

Kith thought about making the cave a little more cozy, his brother was negotiating high

mountain ridges and steep, snow-filled valleys, making his camp wherever the sunset

found him, pressing forward each day to new vistas.

More than once, Kith had brooded on the fact that Sithas faced great danger in these

mountains. Indeed, he could be killed by a fall, or an avalanche, or a band of wolves or

giants–by any of countless threats–and Kith-Kanan wouldn't even know about it until

much time had passed and he failed to return.

Growling to himself, Kith limped to the cave mouth and looked over the serene

valley. Instead of inspiring mountain scenery, however, all he saw were steep, gray

prison walls, walls that seemed likely to hold him here forever.

What was his brother doing now? How fared the search for the griffons?

He limped out into the clear, still air. The sun touched the tips of the peaks around

him, yet it would be hours before it reached the camp on the valley floor.

Grimacing with pain, Kith pressed forward. One-Tooth's forays for wood and water

had packed down the snow for a large area around their cave, and the elf crossed the

smooth surface with little difficulty.

He reached the edge of the packed snow, stepping into the spring mush and sinking

to his knee. He took another step, and another, wincing at the effort it took to move his

leg.

Then he froze, motionless, his eyes riveted to the snow before him. His hand reached

for a sword that he was not wearing.

The tracks were clear in the soft snow. They must have been made the night before.

A pack of huge wolves, perhaps a dozen or more, had run past the cave in the darkness.

Luckily he could see no sign of them now as he carefully backed toward the cave.

He remembered the fire they had built the night before and imagined the wolves

sidling past, fearful of the flames. Yet he knew, as he studied the silent woods, that

sooner or later they would return.

17

The Next Day

Sithas reached upward, pulling himself another several inches closer to his goal.

Sweat beaded upon his forehead, fatigue numbed his arms and legs, and a dizzying

expanse of space yawned below him. All of these factors he ignored in his grim

determination to reach the crest of the ridge.

The rocky barrier before him loomed high, with sheer sides studded with cracked

and jagged outcrops of granite. A month ago, he reflected as he paused to gasp for breath,

he would have called the climb impossible. Now it represented merely another obstacle,

one that he would treat with respect yet was confident that he would successfully

overcome.

High hopes surged in his heart, convincing him to keep on climbing. This had to be

the place! The night before, those tracks on the ledge had seemed so clear, such irrefutable

proof that the griffons lived somewhere nearby. Now doubts assailed him. Perhaps his

mind played tricks on him, and this torturous climb was simply another exercise in

futility.

Beyond this steep-walled ridge, he knew, lay a stretch of the Khalkist Mountains that

he had not yet explored. The region sprawled, a chaos of ridges, glaciers, and valleys. Finally

he pulled himself up over the rocky summit of the divide. He looked into the deep

valley beyond, squinting against the bright sunlight. He no longer wore his scarf protectively

across his face. Four months of exposure to wind, snow, and sun had given his

skin the consistency and toughness of leather.

No movement greeted his eyes, no sign of life in the wide and deep vale. Yet before

him–and far, far below–he saw a wide expanse of dark green forest. Amidst these trees,

he glimpsed a sparkling reflection that he knew must be a pond or small lake, and unlike

any other body of water he had seen for the last two months, this one was unfrozen!

He scrambled over the top of the ridge, only to be confronted by a precipitous

descent beyond. Undismayed, he followed the knifelike crest, until at last he found a

narrow ravine that led downward at an angle. Quickly, almost recklessly, Sithas slid

down the narrow chute. Always he kept his eyes on the heavens, searching for any sign of

the magnificent half-lion, half-eagle beasts that he sought.

Would he be able to tame them? He thought of the scroll he had carried during these

weeks of searching. When he paused to rest, he removed it and examined its ivory tube.

Uncorking the top, he checked to see that the parchment was still curled, well protected,

within. From somewhere, a nagging doubt troubled him, and for the first time, he wondered

if the enchantment would work. How could mere words, read from such a scroll,

have an effect on creatures as proud and free as the griffons? He could only hope that

Vedvedsica had spoken the truth.

The ravine provided him good cover and a relatively easy descent that carried him

steadily downward for thousands of feet. He moved carefully, taking precautions that his

footsteps didn't trigger any slide of loose rock. And though he saw no sign of his quarry,

he wanted to make every effort to ensure that it was he who discovered them, rather than

the other way around.

It took Sithas several hours to make the long, tedious descent. Steep walls climbed to

his right and left, sometimes so close together that he could reach out his hands and touch

each side of the ravine simultaneously. Once he came to a sharp drop-off, some twelve

feet straight down. Turning to face the mountain, he lowered himself over the precipice,

groping with his feet until he found a secure hold. Very carefully, he braced himself and

sought lower grips for his hands. In this painstaking fashion, he negotiated the cliff.

The floor of the passage wound back and forth like a twisting corridor, and

sometimes Sithas could see no more than a dozen feet in front of him. At such times, he

moved with extra caution, peering around the bend before proceeding ahead. Thus it was

that he came upon the nest.

At first he thought it to be an eagle's eyrie. A huge circle of twigs, sticks, and

branches rested on a slight shoulder of the ravine. Steep cliffs dropped away below it. A

hollow in the middle of the nest had obviously been smoothed out, creating a deep and

sheltering lair that was nearly six feet across. Three small feathered creatures moved

there, immediately turning to him with gaping beaks and sharp, demanding squawks.

The animals rose, spreading their wings and bleating with increased urgency. Their

feathers, Sithas saw, were straggly and thin; they looked incapable of flight. Their actions

seemed like those of fledglings, yet already the young griffons were the size of large

hawks.

Sithas peeked carefully over the lip of a boulder. The tiny griffons, he saw, had

collected themselves into a bundle of feathers and fur, talons and beaks. They hissed and

spat, the feathers along the napes of their eagle necks bristling. At the same time, feline

tails lashed back and forth in excitement and tension.

For several moments, the elf dared not draw a breath or even open his mouth. So

powerful was the sense of triumph sweeping over him that he had to resist the temptation

to shout his delight aloud.

He forced himself to keep still, hiding in the shadow of the huge rock, trying to

restrain the pounding of his heart.

He had found the griffons! They lived!

Of course, these nestlings were not the proud creatures he sought, but the nearness of

the flock was no longer a matter of doubt. It remained only a matter of time before he

would discover the full-grown creatures. How many were there? When would they

return? He watched and waited.

For perhaps half an hour, he remained immobile. He searched the skies above, even

as he shrank against the wall of the ravine and tried to conceal himself from overhead

view.

With sudden urgency, he pulled the ivory scroll tube from his backpack. Unrolling

the parchment, he studied the symbols of enchantment. It would require concentration

and discipline, he saw, in order to pronounce the old elvish script, which was full of

archaic pronunciations and mystical terminology. He allowed his tongue to shape the

unusual sounds, practicing silently.

"Keerin-silvartl . . . Thanthal ellish, Quirnost . . . Hothist kranthas, Karin

Than-tanthas!"

Such a simple spell. Perhaps it was madness to expect success from it. It certainly

seemed rash, now that he stood here, to face a multitude of savage carnivores with

nothing more than these words to protect him.

Again his restlessness returned, and finally he had to move. With as much stealth as

he could muster, Sithas worked his way up the slope of the ravine. He sought a place with

a commanding view of the valley. His instincts told him that the events of the rest of this

day would prove the worth of the entire quest. Indeed, they might measure the worth of

his entire life.

He found a broad shoulder of the ridge, an open ledge that nevertheless lay in the

shadow of an overhanging shelf of rock. From here, he believed, he could see all of the

valley below him, but he could not be seen, or attacked, from above.

He settled down to wait. The sun seemed to hang motionless in the sky, mocking

him.

He dozed for a while, lulled by the warmth of the sun and perhaps drained by his

own tension. When he awoke, it was with abrupt alarm. He thought momentarily that he

had entered a bizarre dream.

Blinking and shaking his head, Sithas saw a tiny spot of movement, no more than a

speck of darkness against the clear sky. From the great distance, he knew that whatever

he saw must be very large indeed. He saw a pair of broad wings supporting a body that

seemed to grow with each passing moment. He stared, but could see nothing else beyond

this lone scout.

The streamlined bird shape swooped into a low dive, settling toward the ridge across

the valley. Even at this great distance, Sithas saw the leonine rear legs descend, supporting

the griffon's weight on the ground while it used its wings to slowly settle its forefeet.

He could plainly see the creature's size and sense its raw, contained power.

Another flying beast hove into view, and then several more, all of them settling

beside the first. From this far away, he might have been looking at a flock of blackbirds

settling toward a farmer's field lush with ripening corn. But he knew that each of the

griffons was larger than a horse.

The beasts returned to their valley, flying in a great flock and shrieking their delight

at the homecoming. They sounded like great eagles, though louder and fiercer than even

those proud birds. The flock spread across a mile or more, darkening the sky with their

impressive presence.

They settled along the jagged ridge and gathered upon nearby summits, still miles

away from Sithas. The many rocky knobs disappeared beneath slowly beating wings and

smooth, powerful bodies seeking comfortable perches. For the first time, Sithas became

aware of many nests, all along the ridges and slopes of his side of the valley, as dozens of

fledglings squawked and squirmed in their nests. So splendidly were they camouflaged

that he hadn't noticed the presence of several within a hundred feet of his vantage point.

Now several of the adults took to the air again, springing into the valley with long,

graceful dives, allowing their hind legs to trail out behind them in sleek, streamlined

efficiency. As they drew closer, Sithas could see long strips of red meat dangling from

their mouths. Birdlike, they would tend to the feeding of their young.

The rest of the flock followed, once again filling the sky with the steady pulse of

their wingbeats. They numbered in the hundreds, perhaps half a thousand, though Sithas

did not take the time to count. Instead, he knew that he had to act boldly and promptly.

With quick, certain gestures, he unfurled the scroll and took a look at the bizarre,

foreign-looking symbols. Gritting his teeth, he stepped boldly outward, to the lip of the

precipice, raising the scroll before him. Now he felt totally naked and exposed.

His movement provoked a stunning and instant reaction. The valley rang with a

chorus of shrill cries of alarm as the savage griffons spotted him and squalled their

challenges. The ones in the lead, those carrying food for the young, immediately dove to

the sides, away from the elven interloper. The rest tucked their wings and dove straight

toward the Speaker of the Stars.

Terror choked in Sithas's throat. Never had he faced such a terrible onslaught. The

griffons rocketed closer with astonishing speed. Huge talons reached toward him, eager

to tear the flesh from his limbs.

He forced himself to look down at the scroll, thinking that his voice would never

even be heard in this din!

But he read the words anyway. His voice came from somewhere deep within him,

powerful and commanding. The sounds of the old elvish words seemed suddenly like the

language he had known all his life. He spoke with great strength, his tone vibrant and

compelling, betraying no sign of the fear that threatened to overwhelm him.

"Keerin-silvan!"

At this first phrase, a silence descended so suddenly that the absence of sound struck

Sithas almost like a physical force, knocking him off his feet. He sensed that the griffons

were still diving, still swooping toward him, but their shrill cries had been silenced by his

first words. This enhanced his confidence.

"Thanthal ellish, Quimost."

The words seemed to flame on the scroll before him, each symbol erupting into life

as he read it. He did not dare to look up.

"Hothist kranthas, Karin Than-tanthas!"

The last of the symbols flared and waned, and now the elf looked up, boldly seeking

the griffons with his eyes. He would meet his death bravely or he would tame them.

The first thing he saw was the hate-filled visage of a diving griffon. The monstrous

creature's beak gaped, and both the eagle claws of its front legs and the lion talons of its

rear limbs reached toward Sithas, ready to tear him asunder.

But then suddenly it veered upward, spreading its broad wings and coming to rest

upon the shelf of rock directly before the tall form of Sithas, Speaker of the Stars, scion

of the House of Silvanos.

"Come to me, creatures of the sky!" Sithas cried. An awe inspiring sense of power

swept over him, and he raised his arms, his hands clenched into fists held skyward.

"Come, my griffons! Answer the call of your master!"

And come to him they did.

The flock, dramatically spellbound, swirled around him and settled toward places of

vantage on the towering ridges nearby. One of these approached the elf, creeping along

the crest of rock. Sithas saw a slash of white feathers across its brown breast, and his

spirits soared in sudden recognition.

"Arcuballis!" he cried as the griffon's head rose in acknowledgment. The great

creature lived and had somehow found a home with this flock of his kin!

The proud griffon sprang to Sithas, rearing before him and spreading his vast wings.

The elf saw a gouge along one side of Arcuballis's head where the giant's club had

cracked him. Sithas was surprised at the joy he felt at the discovery of his brother's

lifelong steed, and that joy, he knew, would pale compared to Kith-Kanan's own delight.

The others, too, moved toward him–with pride and power, but no longer did they

seem to be threatening. Indeed, curiosity seemed to be their dominant trait.

By the gods, he had done it! His quest had succeeded! Because of his elation, the

distant war seemed already all but won.

18

That Day, Late Winter

The dire wolves attacked suddenly, bursting from the concealment of trees that grew

within a hundred feet of the cave mouth. Kith-Kanan and One-Tooth had planned their

defense, but nevertheless, the onslaught came with surprising speed.

"There! Hounds come!" shouted the giant, first to see the huge, shaggy brutes.

Kith-Kanan seized his bow and pulled himself to his feet, cursing the stiffness that

still impaired the use of his leg.

The largest of the dire wolves led the charge. A nightmarish brute, with murderous

yellow eyes and a great, bristling mane of black fur, the beast sprinted toward the cave,

while others of its pack followed in its wake. It snarled, curling its black, drooling lips to

reveal teeth as long as Kith's fingers. The dire wolves had the same narrow muzzles, alert,

pointed ears, and fur-coated bodies and tails of normal wolves. However, they were much

larger than their more common cousins, and of far more fearsome disposition. A dozen

erupted from the trees in the first wave, and Kith saw more of the dim gray shapes

lurking in the woods beyond.

The elf propped himself up against a wall. With mechanical precision, he launched

an arrow, nocked another, and fired again. He released a dizzying barrage of missiles at

the loping canines. The razor-sharp steel of the arrowheads cut through fur and sinew,

gouging deep wounds into the bristling canines, but even the bloodiest cuts seemed only

to enrage the formidable creatures.

One-Tooth lumbered forward, his club raised. The hill giant grunted and swung, but

his target skipped to one side. Whirling, the dire wolf reached with hungry fangs for the

giant's unprotected calf, but One-Tooth leaped away with surprising quickness. Instead of

lunging after the giant, the monster darted toward Kith-Kanan as a snarling trio of its

fellow wolves took up the assault on the hill giant.

The elf smoothly raised his bow and let fly another arrow. Though the missile scored

a bloody gash on the beast's flank it didn't seem to appreciably affect its charge. One-

Tooth whirled in a circle, clearing the menacing forms away from himself, and then

swung desperately, knocking the rear legs of one large monster to the side. The wolf

crashed to the ground and then sprang away.

The wolves began to circle One-Tooth. Kith-Kanan shot at yet another wolf, and

another, dropping each with arrows to the throat. A wolf turned from the giant, loping

toward the elf, and Kith brought it down–but not before driving three arrows into its

chest, and even then the beast didn't stop until it had practically reached him.

Once again they came in a rush, a nightmarish image of snarling lips, glistening

fangs, and gleaming, hate-filled eyes. The elf shot his arrows one after the other, scarcely

noting the effect of one before the next was nocked. The giant bashed at the shaggy

beasts, while they in turn tore at his legs, ripping gory wounds with their fangs.

The packed snow around the cave mouth was covered with gray bodies, and great

patches of it were stained crimson by the spilled blood of the slain wolves. One-Tooth

stumbled, nearly going down amid the viciously snarling attackers. A wolf leaped for the

giant's neck, but the elven archer killed it in midair with a single arrow to the heart.

Then Kith-Kanan reached for another arrow and realized he had used them all.

Grimly drawing his sword, he pushed himself away from the wall and limped toward the

beleaguered giant. He felt terribly vulnerable without the rock wall behind him, but he

couldn't leave the courageous hill giant to die by himself.

Then suddenly, before Kith reached the melee, the wolves sprang away from the

giant and darted back to the shelter of the trees, leaving a dozen of their number behind,

dead.

"Where go hounds?" demanded the hill giant, shaking his fist after the wolves.

"I don't know," admitted the elf. "I don't think I scared them away."

"Good fight!" One-Tooth beamed at Kith-Kanan, wiping a trunklike wrist below his

running nose. "Big hounds mean, too!"

"Not so mean as we are, my friend," Kith noted, still puzzled by the sudden retreat of

the wolves just when their victory had seemed assured.

Kith-Kanan was relieved to see that One-Tooth's wounds, while bloody, were not

deep. He showed the giant how to clean them with snow, meanwhile keeping his eyes

nervously on the surrounding pines.

He heard the disturbance in the air before One-Tooth did, but both of them

instinctively looked up at the sky. They saw them coming from the east–a horizon full of

great soaring shapes, with proudly spread wings and long, powerful bodies.

"The griffons!" Kith cried, whooping with glee. The giant stared at him as if he had

lost his mind while he danced about the clearing, waving and shouting.

The great flock settled across the valley floor, squawking and growling over the best

perches. Sithas came to earth, riding one of the griffons, and Kith-Kanan recognized his

mount immediately.

"Arcuballis! Sithas!"

His brother, equally elated, leaped to the ground. The twins embraced, too full of

emotion for words.

"Big lion-bird," grunted One-Tooth, eyeing Arcuballis carefully. "Rock-nose bring

home."

"Bring home–to your village?" asked Kith.

"Yup. Lion-bird hurt. Rock-nose feed, him fly away."

"The giants must have taken him with them that night they first attacked us,"

Kith-Kanan guessed. "They nursed him back to health."

"And then he escaped, and found the flock in the wild. He was with them when I

finally discovered their nests," Sithas concluded.

Sithas related the tale of his search and the discovery of the flock. "I left the nestlings

and several dozen females who had been feeding them in the valley. The rest came with

me."

"There are hundreds," observed Kith-Kanan, amazed.

"More than four hundred, I think, though I haven't made an exact count."

"And the spell? It worked like it was supposed to?"

"I thought they were going to tear me apart. My hands were shaking so much I could

hardly hold the scroll," Sithas exaggerated. "I read the incantation, and the words seemed

to flame off the page. I had just finished the spell when the first one attacked."

"And then what?"

"He just landed in front of me, as if he was waiting for instructions. They all settled

down. That's when I saw Arcuballis. When I mounted him and he took to the air, the

others followed."

"By the gods! Let's see the humans try to stand against us now!" Kith-Kanan

practically crowed his excitement.

"How have you fared? Not without some trouble, I see." Sithas indicated the pile of

dead wolves, and Kith told him about the attack.

"They must have heard you coming," Kith speculated.

"Let's get back to the city. A whole winter has passed!" Sithas urged.

Kith turned toward the cave, suddenly spotting One-Tooth. The giant had

observed–at first with interest, but then with ill-concealed concern–the exchange between

the brothers.

It surprised the elf to realize the depth of the bond that had developed between them.

"Three-Legs fly away?" One-Tooth looked at Kith, frowning quizzically.

Kith didn't try to explain. Instead, he clasped one of the giant's big hands in both of

his own. "I'll miss you," he said quietly. "You saved my life today–and I'm grateful to

have had your friendship and protection!"

"Good-bye, friend," said the giant sadly.

Then it was time for the elves to mount the griffons and to turn their thoughts toward

the future . . . toward home.

P ART III: W INDRIDERS

19

Early Spring, Year of the Bear

2213 (PC)

The forestlands of Silvanost stretched below like a shaggy green carpet, extending to

the far horizons and beyond. Huge winged shadows flickered across the ground, marking

the path of the griffons. The creatures flew in great V-shaped wedges, several dozen

griffons in each wedge. These formations spread across more than a mile.

Kith-Kanan and Sithas rode the first two of the mighty beasts, flying side by side

toward their home. The forest had stretched below them for two days, but now, in the far

distance, a faint glimmer of ivory light appeared. They soared faster than the wind, and

swiftly that speck became identifiable as the Tower of the Stars. Soon the lesser towers of

Silvanost came into view, jutting above the treetops like a field of sharp spires.

As they left the wilderness behind, Kith-Kanan thought fondly of the giant they had

grown to know. One-Tooth had waved to them from the snow-filled valley until the fliers

had vanished from sight. Kith-Kanan still remembered his one tusklike tooth bobbing up

and down in a forlorn gesture of farewell.

They followed the River Thon-Thalas toward the island that held the elven capital.

The griffons streamed into a long line behind them, and several of them uttered squawks

of anticipation as they descended. Five hundred feet over the river, they raced southward,

and soon the whole city sprawled below them.

The creatures shrieked and squalled, alarming the good citizens of Silvanost so much

that, for several minutes, there existed a state of general panic, during which time most

elves assumed that the war had come home to roost via some arcane and potent human

ensorcelment.

Only when the two blond-haired elves were spotted did the panic turn to curiosity

and wonder. And by the time Sithas and Kith-Kanan had circled the palace grounds and

then led their charges in a gradual downward spiral toward the Gardens of Astarin, the

word had spread. The emotions of the Silvanesti elves exploded into a spontaneous

outpouring of joy.

Nirakina was the first to meet the twins as the great creatures settled to the ground.

Their mother's eyes flowed with tears, and at first she could not speak. She took turns

kissing each of them and then holding them at arms' length, as if making sure that they

were alive and fit.

Beyond her, Sithas saw Tamanier Ambrodel, and his spirit was buoyed even higher.

Lord Ambrodel had returned from his secret mission to Thorbardin. Loyally, he had

stayed discreet about what he had learned. Now he might have decisive news about a

dwarven alliance in the elven war.

"Welcome home, Your Highness," Ambrodel said sincerely as Sithas clasped the

lord chamberlain's shoulders.

"It's good to see you here to greet me! We will talk as soon as I can break away."

Ambrodel nodded, the elf's narrow face reflecting private delight.

Meanwhile, the griffons continued to descend into the gardens, and across the

gaming fields, and even into many of the nearby vegetable plots. They shrieked and

growled, and the good citizens of the city gave them wide berth. Nevertheless, each

griffon remained well behaved once it landed, moving only to preen its feathers or to

settle weary wings and legs. When they had all landed, they squatted comfortably on the

ground and took little note of the intense excitement surrounding them.

Kith-Kanan, with a barely noticeable limp, took his mother's arm as Hermathya and a

dozen courtiers emerged from the Hall of Audience. Lord Quimant walked, with a quick

stride, at their head.

"Excellency!" he cried in delight, racing forward to warmly embrace the Speaker of

the Stars.

Hermathya approached a good deal more slowly, greeting her husband with a formal

kiss. Her greeting was cool, though her relief was obvious even through her pretense of

annoyance.

"My son!" Sithas said excitedly. "Where is Vanesti?"

A nursemaid stepped forward, offering the infant to his father.

"Can this be him? How much he's changed!" Sithas, with a sense of awe, took his

son in his arms while the crowd quieted. Indeed, the elfin child was much larger than

when they had departed, nearly half a year earlier. His blond hair grew thick upon his

scalp. As his tiny eyes looked toward his father, Vanesti's face broke into a brilliant

smile.

For several moments, Sithas seemed unable to speak. Hermathya came to him and

very gently took the child. Turning away from her husband, her gaze briefly met Kith-

Kanan's. He was startled by the look he saw there. It was cool and vacant, as if he did not

exist. It had been many weeks since he had thought of her, but this expression provoked a

brief, angry flash of jealousy–and, at the same time, a reminder of his guilt.

"Come–to the palace, everyone!" Sithas shouted, throwing an arm around his

brother's shoulders. "Tonight there will be a feast for all the city! Let word be spread

immediately! Summon the bards. We have a tale for them to hear and to spread across the

nation!"

* * * * *

The news carried through the city as fast as the cry could pass from lips to ear, and

all the elves of Silvanost prepared to celebrate the return of the royal heirs. Butchers

slaughtered prime pigs, casks of wine rumbled forth from the cellars, and colorful

lanterns swiftly sprouted, as if by magic, from every tree, lamppost, and gate in the city.

The festivities began immediately, and the citizenry danced in the streets and sang the

great songs of the elven nation.

Meanwhile, Sithas and Kith-Kanan joined Lord Regent Quimant and Lord

Chamberlain Tamanier Ambrodel in a small audience chamber. The regent looked at the

chamberlain with some surprise and turned to Sithas with a questioning look. When the

Speaker of the Stars said nothing, Quimant cleared his throat and spoke awkwardly.

"Excellency, perhaps the lord chamberlain should join us

after the conclusion of this conference. After all, some of the items I have to report are of

the most confidential nature." He paused, as if embarrassed to continue.

"Indeed, in this nearly half a year that you have been absent, I must report that the

lord chamberlain has not in fact been present in the capital. He only returned recently,

from his family estates. Apparently matters of his clan's business interests took

precedence over affairs of state."

"Tamanier Ambrodel has my complete confidence. Indeed," Sithas replied, "we may

find that he has reports to make as well."

"Of course, my lord," Quimant said quickly, with a deep bow.

Quimant immediately started to fill them in on the events that had occurred during

their absence.

"First, Sithelbec still stands as strong as ever." The lord of Clan Oakleaf anticipated

Kith-Kanan's most urgent question. "A messenger from the fortress broke through the

lines a few weeks past, bringing word that the defenders have repulsed every attempt to

storm the walls."

"Good. It is as I hoped," Kith replied. Nevertheless he was relieved.

"However, the pressure is increasing. We have word of a team of dwarven

engineers–Theiwar, apparently–aiding the humans in excavating siege works against the

walls. Also, the number of wild elves throwing in their lot with Ergoth is increasing

steadily. There are more than a thousand of them, and apparently they have been formed

into a 'free elf company'."

"Fighting their own people?" Sithas was aghast at the notion. His face reddened with

controlled fury.

"More and more of them have questioned the right of Silvanost to rule them. And an

expedition of the wild elves of the Kagonesti arrived here shortly after you left to plead

for an end to the bloodshed."

"The ignoble scum!" Sithas rose to his feet and stalked across the chamber before

whirling to face Quimant. Vivid lines of anger marred his face. "What did you tell them?"

"Nothing," Quimant replied, his own face displaying a smug grin. "They have spent

the winter in your dungeon. Perhaps you'd care to speak to them yourself!"

"Good." Sithas nodded approvingly. "We can't have this kind of demonstration. We'll

make an example of them to discourage any further treachery."

Kith-Kanan faced his brother. "Don't you want to–at the very least–hear what they

have to say?"

Sithas looked at him as if he spoke a different language. "Why? They're traitors,

that's obvious! Why should we–"

"Traitors? They have come here to talk. The traitors are those who have joined the

enemy out of hand! We need to ask questions!"

"I find it astonishing that you, of all of us, should take this approach," Sithas said

softly. "You are the one who has to carry out our plans, the one whose life is most at risk.

Can you not understand that these ... elves"–Sithas spat the word as if it were

anathema–"should be dealt with quickly and ruthlessly?"

"If they are indeed traitors, of course! But you can take the trouble to hear them first,

to find out if they are in fact treacherous or simply honest citizens living in danger and

fear!"

Sithas and Kith-Kanan glowered at each other like fierce strangers. Tamanier

Ambrodel quietly watched the exchange. He had offered no opinion on any topic as yet,

and he felt that this was not the time to interject his view. Lord Quimant, however, was

more forthright.

"General, Excellency, please . . . there are more details. Some of the news is urgent."

The lord stood and raised his hands.

Sithas nodded and collapsed into his chair. Kith-Kanan remained standing, turning

expectantly toward the lord regent.

"Word out of Thorbardin arrived barely a fortnight ago. The ambassador, Than-Kar

of the Theiwar clan, reported it to me in a most unpleasant and arrogant tone. His king, he

claims, has ruled this to be a war between the humans and elves. The dwarves are

determined to remain neutral."

"No troops? They will send us nothing?" Kith-Kanan stared at Quimant, appalled.

Just when he had begun to see a glimmer of hope on the military horizon, to get news like

this! Nothing could be more disastrous. The general slowly slumped into his chair, trying

unsuccessfully to fight a rising wave of nausea.

Shaking his head in shock, he looked at his brother, expecting to see the same sense

of dismay written across Sithas's face. Instead, however, the speaker's eyes had narrowed

in an inscrutable expression. Didn't he understand?

"This is catastrophic!" Kith-Kanan exclaimed, angry that the Speaker didn't seem to

grasp this basic fact. "Without the dwarves, we are doomed to be terribly outnumbered in

every battle. Even with the griffons, we can't prevail against a quarter of a million men!"

"Indeed," Sithas agreed calmly. Finally he spoke to Ambrodel. "And your own

mission, my lord, does that bear this information out?"

Lord Quimant gave a start when he realized that Sithas was addressing Ambrodel.

"Rather dramatically not, Excellency," Ambrodel replied softly. Kith-Kanan and

Lord Quimant both stared at the chamberlain in mixed astonishment.

"I regret the subterfuge, my lords. The Speaker of the Stars instructed me to reveal

my mission to no one, to report only to him."

"There was no reason to say anything–not until now," Sithas said. Once again, the

others felt that commanding tone in his voice that brought all discussion to an abrupt halt.

"If the lord chamberlain will continue . . . ?"

"Of course, Your Excellency." Ambrodel turned to include them all in his

explanation. "I have wintered in the dwarven kingdom of Thorbardin."

"What?" Quimant's jaw dropped. Kith-Kanan remained silent, but his lips

compressed into a tight smile as he began to appreciate his brother's wiliness.

"It had been the Speaker's assessment, very early on, that Ambassador Than-Kar was

not doing an appropriately thorough job of maintaining open and honest communication

between our two realms."

"I see," Quimant said, with a formal nod.

"Indeed, as events have developed, our esteemed leader's assessment has been

proven to be accurate."

"Than-Kar has deliberately sabotaged our negotiations?" demanded Kith.

"Blatantly. King Hal-Waith has long backed our cause, as it was presented to him by

Dunbarth Ironthumb upon that ambassador's return home. Than-Kar's original mission

had been to report to us the king's intent to send twenty-five thousand troops to aid our

cause."

"But I saw no sign of these troops on the plain. There is no word of them now, is

there?" Kith-Kanan probed.

Quimant shook his head. "No–and certainly reports would have reached Silvanost

had they marched during the winter."

"They did not march, not then," continued Ambrodel. "The offer of aid came with

several conditions attached, conditions which Than-Kar reported to his king that we were

unwilling to accept."

"Conditions?" Now Kith was concerned. "What conditions?"

"Fairly reasonable, under the circumstances. The dwarves recognize you as overall

commander of the army, but they will not allow their own units to be broken up into

smaller detachments–and dwarven units will work only under dwarven leaders."

"Those commanders presumably answerable to me under battle conditions?"

Kith-Kanan asked.

"Yes," Ambrodel nodded.

The elven general couldn't believe his ears. Dwarven fighting prowess and tactical

mastery were legendary. And twenty-five thousand such warriors … why, if they fought

alongside griffon cavalry, the siege of Sithelbec might be lifted in a long afternoon of

fighting!

"There were some other minor points, also very reasonable. Bodies to be shipped to

Thorbardin for burial, dwarven holidays honored, a steady supply of ale maintained, and

so on. I do not anticipate any objection on your part."

"Of course not!" Kith-Kanan sprang to his feet again, this time in excitement. Then

he remembered the obstruction presented by Than-Kar, and his mood darkened. "Have

you concluded the deal? Must we still work through the ambassador? How long–"

Ambrodel smiled and held up his hands. "The army was mustering as I left. For all I

know, they have already emerged from the underground realm. They would march, I was

promised, when the snowmelt in the Kharolis Mountains allowed free passage." The

chamberlain shivered as he remembered the long, dark winter he spent there. "It never

gets warm in Thorbardin. You're always damp and squinting through the dark. By the

gods, who knows how the dwarves can stand living underground?"

"And the ambassador?" This time Sithas asked the question. Once again those lines

of anger tightened his face as he pondered the extent of Than-Kar's duplicity.

"King Hal-Waith would consider it a personal favor if we were to place him under

arrest, detaining him until such time as the next dwarven mission arrives. It should be

here sometime during the summer."

"Any word on numbers? On their march route?" Tactics already swirled through

Kith-Kanan's head.

Ambrodel pursed his lips and shook his head. "Only the name of the commander,

whom I trust will meet with your approval."

"Dunbarth Ironthumb?" Kith-Kanan was hopeful.

"None other."

"That is good news!" That dignified statesman had been the brightest element of the

otherwise frustrating councils between Thorbardin, Silvanesti, and Ergoth. The ambassador

from the dwarven nation had retained a sense of humor and self-deprecating whimsy

that had lightened many an otherwise tedious session of negotiation.

"Where am I to join him?" Kith-Kanan asked. "Shall I take Arcuballis and fly to

Thorbardin itself?"

Ambrodel shook his head. "I don't think you could. The gates remain carefully

hidden."

"But surely you could direct me! Didn't you say that you have been there?"

"Indeed," the chamberlain agreed with a nod. He coughed awkwardly. "But to tell

you the truth, I never saw the gates, nor could I describe the approach to you or to

anyone."

"How did you get in, then?"

"It's a trifle embarrassing, actually. I spent nearly a month floundering around in the

mountains, seeking a trail or a road or any kind of sign of the gate. I found nothing.

Finally, however, I was met in my camp by a small band of dwarven scouts. Apparently

they keep an eye on the perimeter and were watching my hapless movements, wondering

what I was up to."

"But you must have entered through the gate," Kith said.

"Indeed," nodded Ambrodel. "But I spent the two days of the approach–two very

long days, I might add-stumbling along with a blindfold over my eyes."

"That's an outrage!" barked Quimant, stiffening in agitation. "An insult to our race!"

Sithas, too, scowled. Only Kith-Kanan reacted with a thin smile and a nod of

understanding. "With treachery among their own people, it only seems a natural precaution,"

the elven general remarked. That lessened the tension, and Ambrodel nodded in

reluctant agreement.

"Excellency," inquired Quimant, with careful formality. It was obvious that the lord

regent was annoyed by not having been apprised of the secret negotiations. "This is

indeed a most splendid development, but was it necessary to retain such a level of

secrecy? Perhaps I could have aided the cause had I been kept informed."

"Indeed, quite true, my good cousin-in-law. There was no fear that the knowledge

would have been misplaced in you–save this one. In your position as regent, you are the

one who has spent the greatest amount of time with Than-Kar. It was essential that the

ambassador not know of this plan, and I felt that the safest way to keep you from a

revealing slip–inadvertent, of course–was to withhold the knowledge from you. The

decision was mine alone."

"I cannot question the Speaker's wisdom," replied the noble humbly. "This is a most

encouraging turn of events."

* * * * *

Kith left the meeting in order to arrange for the postings around the city. He wanted

all Silvanost to quickly learn of the call for volunteers. He intended to personally

interview and test all applicants for the griffon cavalry.

Sithas remained behind, with Quimant and Ambrodel, to attend to matters of

government. "As to the city, how has it fared in our absence?"

Quimant informed him of other matters: weapons production was splendid, with a

great stockpile of arms gathered; refugees from the plains had stopped coming to

Silvanost–a fact that had greatly eased the tensions and crowding within the city; the

higher taxes that Sithas had decreed, in order to pay for the war, had been collected with

only a few minor incidents.

"There has been some violence along the waterfront. The city guard has confronted

Than-Kar's escorts on more than one occasion. We've had several elves badly injured and

one killed during these brawls."

"The Theiwar?" guessed Sithas.

"Indeed. The primary troublemakers can be found among the officers of Than-Kar's

guard, as if they want to create an incident." Quimant's disgust with the dwarves was

apparent in his sarcastic tone.

We'll deal with them . . . when the time is right. We'll wait till Kith-Kanan forms his

cavalry and departs for the west."

"I'm certain he'll have no shortage of volunteers. There are many noble elves who

had resisted the call to arms, as it applies to the infantry," said Lord Quimant. "They'll

leap at the chance to form an elite unit, especially with the threat of conscription hanging

over their heads!"

"We'll keep news of Thorbardin's commitment secret," Sithas added. "Not a word of

it is to leave this room. In the meantime, tell me about the additional troops for the infantry.

How fares the training of the new regiments?"

"We have five thousand elves under arms, ready to march when you give the

command."

"I had hoped for more."

Quimant hemmed and hawed. "The sentiment in the city is not wholly in favor of the

war. Our people do not seem to grasp the stakes here."

"We'll make them understand," growled Sithas, looking to the lord as if he expected

Quimant to challenge him. His wife's cousin remained silent on that point, however.

Instead, Quimant hesitantly offered another suggestion. "We do have another source

of troops," he ventured. "However, they may not meet with the Speaker's satisfaction."

"Another source? Where?" Sithas demanded.

"Humans–mercenaries. There are great bands of them in the plains north of here and

over to the west. Many of them bear no great love for the emperor of Ergoth and would

be willing to join our service–for a price, of course."

"Never!" Sithas leaped to his feet, livid. "How can you even suggest such an

abomination! If we cannot preserve our nation with our own troops, we do not deserve

victory!"

His voice rang from the walls of the small chamber, and he glared at Quimant and

Ambrodel, as if daring a challenge. None was forthcoming, and slowly the Speaker of the

Stars relaxed.

"Forgive my outburst," he said, with a nod to Quimant. "You were merely making a

suggestion. That I understand."

"Consider the suggestion withdrawn." The lord bowed to his ruler.

* * * * *

The recruits for the griffon-mounted cavalry were sworn in during a sunny ceremony

a week after the brothers had arrived in the city. The event was held on the gaming fields

beyond the gardens, for no place else in the city provided enough open space for the great

steeds and their proud, newly appointed riders to assemble.

Thousands of elves turned out to watch, overflowing the large grandstands and lining

the perimeter of the fields. Others gathered in the nearby towers, many of which rose a

hundred feet or more into the air, providing splendid vantage.

"I welcome you, brave elves, to the ranks of an elite and decisive force, unique in our

grand history!" Kith-Kanan addressed the recruits while the onlookers strained to hear his

words.

"We shall take to the sky under a name that bespeaks our speed– henceforth we shall

be known as the Windriders!"

A great cheer arose from the warriors and the spectators.

As Quimant had predicted, many scions of noble families had flocked to the call to

arms once they learned of the nature of the elite unit. Kith-Kanan had disappointed and

angered a great number of them by selecting his troops only after extensive combat tests

and rigorous training procedures. Sons of masons, carpenters, and laborers were offered

the same opportunities as the proud heirs of the noble houses. Those who were not truly

desirous of the honor, or were unwilling or incapable of meeting the high standards

established by Kith-Kanan, quickly fell away, consigned to the infantry. At the end of the

brutal week of tests, the elven commander had been left with more than a thousand elves

of proven courage, dedication, and skill.

"You will train in the use of the light lance, the elven longbow, and the steel-edged

longsword. Lances will be wielded in the air or on the ground!"

He looked over the assembled elves. They stood, a pair flanking each griffon,

wearing shiny steel helms with long plumes of horsehair. The Windriders wore supple

leather boots and smooth torso armor of black leather. They were a formidable force, and

the training to come would only enhance their abilities.

Brass trumpets blared the climax of the ceremony, and each of the Windriders

received a steel-edged shortsword, which would be worn throughout the training. They

would have to learn fast, Kith-Kanan had warned his new recruits, and he knew that they

would.

He looked to the west, suddenly restless. It won't be long now, he told himself.

Soon the siege of Sithelbec would be broken–and how long after that would it be

before the war was won?

20

Midspring, 2213 (PC)

Kith-Kanan couldn't sleep. He went for a walk in the Gardens of Astarin, relieved

that the griffons had all been moved to the sporting fields. There the creatures rested and

enjoyed the fresh meat that the palace liverymen hastily had butchered and carted over to

them.

For a time, the elf lost himself in the twists and turns of the elegant gardens. The

soothing surroundings took him back to his youth, to untroubled days and, later, to

passionate nights. How many times, he reflected, had he and Hermathya met among this

secluded foliage?

Anxiously he tried to shrug off the memories. Soon he and Arcuballis would take to

the air, leaving this city and its temptations behind. The mere sight of her was a source of

deep guilt and discomfort to him.

As if circumstances mirrored his thoughts, he turned a corner and encountered his

brother's wife, walking in quiet contemplation. Hermathya looked up, but if she was at all

surprised to encounter him, her face didn't reveal anything.

"Hello, Kith-Kanan." Her smile was deep and warm and suddenly, it seemed to Kith,

reckless.

"Hello, Hermathya." He was certainly surprised to see her. The rest of the palace was

dark, and the hour was quite late.

"I saw you come to the garden and came here to find you," she informed him.

Alarms bells went off in his mind as he gazed at her. By the gods, how beautiful she

was! No woman he had ever known aroused him like Hermathya. Not even Anaya. He

could tell, by the smoldering look in her eyes, that her thoughts were similar.

She took a step toward him.

The instinct to reach out and crush her to him, to pull her into his arms and touch her,

was almost overpowering. But at the same time, he had sordid memories of their last tryst

and her unfaithfulness to his brother. He wanted her, but he dare not weaken

again–especially now, after all that he and Sithas had been through together.

Only with a great effort of will did Kith-Kanan step back, raising his hands to stop

her approach.

"You are my brother's wife," he said, somewhat irrelevantly.

"I was his wife last autumn," she spat, suddenly venomous.

"Last autumn was a mistake. Hermathya, I loved you once. I think of you now more

than I care to admit. But I will not betray my brother!" Again, he added silently. "Can

you accept this? Can we be members of the same family and not torment each other with

memories of a past that ought to be buried and forgotten?"

Hermathya suddenly clasped her hands over her face. Her body wracking with sobs,

she turned and ran, swiftly disappearing from Kith-Kanan's sight.

For a long time afterward, he stared at the spot where she had stood. The image of

her body, of her face, of her exquisite presence, remained vivid in his mind, almost as if

she was still there.

* * * * *

Three days later, Kith was ready to embark. His plan of battle had been made, but

there remained many things to be done. The Windriders wouldn't fly to the west for

another six weeks. Under the tutelage of their new captain, Hallus, they had to train

rigorously in the meantime.

"How long do you think it will take to find Dunbarth?" asked Sithas when he, his

mother, and Tamanier Ambrodel came to see Kith-Kanan off.

Kith shrugged. "That's one reason I'm leaving right away. I have to hook up with the

dwarves and fill them in on the timetable, then get to Sithelbec before the Windriders."

"Be careful," his mother urged. The color had come back into her face since the

brothers' return, and for the past several weeks she had seemed as merry and robust as

ever. Now she struggled not to weep.

"I will," Kith promised, holding her in his arms. They all hoped the war would end

quickly but understood that it might be many months, even years, before he could return.

The door to the audience chamber burst open, and the elves whirled, surprised and

then amused. Vanesti stood there.

Sithas's son, not yet a year old, toddled toward them with an unsteady gait and a

broad smile across his elven features. In his hand, he brandished a wooden sword, slashing

at imagined enemies to the right and left until his own momentum toppled him to the

floor. The sword abandoned, he rose and approached Kith-Kanan unsteadily.

"Pa-pa!" cried the tiny elf, beaming.

Kith blushed and stepped aside. "There's your papa," he said, indicating Sithas.

Kith-Kanan noted how much Vanesti had changed during the course of their winter

in the mountains. Conceivably the war could drag on for several more years. The toddler

would be a young boy by the next time he saw him.

"Come to Uncle Kith, Vanesti. Say good-bye before I ride the griffon!"

Vanesti pouted briefly, but then he wrapped his uncle in a tight hug. Lifting the tiny

fellow up and holding him, Kith felt a pang of regret. Would he ever be able to settle

down and have children of his own?

Once again Kith-Kanan and Arcuballis took off on an important mission. The vast

forestlands of Silvanesti sprawled beneath them. Far to the south, Kith caught an

occasional glimpse of the Courrain Ocean, which stretched past the horizon with a

limitless expanse.

Soon he came to the plains, and they continued to soar high above the sea of grass

that stretched to the limits of his vision. He knew that, northward, his embattled Wildrunners

still held their fortress against the pressing human horde. Soon he would join them.

He spotted the snowy crests of the Kharolis Mountains jutting into the sky. For a full

day, Kith watched the imposing heights grow closer, until at last he flew above the

wooded valleys that extended from the heart of the range and he was encircled on all

sides by great peaks.

Here he began his search in earnest. He knew that the kingdom of Thorbardin lay

entirely underground, with great gates providing access from the north and south. The

snowmelt had long passed from the forested valleys to the high slopes. The gate, he

reasoned, would occupy a lower elevation, both for enhanced concealment and easier

access.

He searched along these valleys every day from first to last light, seeking a sign of

the passage of the dwarven army. The land consisted of almost entirely uninhabited wilderness,

so he reckoned that the march of twenty thousand heavy-booted dwarves would

leave some kind of obvious trail.

For days, his search was fruitless. He began to chafe at the lost time. Borne by his

speedy griffon, he crossed the range two full times, but never did he find the evidence he

sought. His search took him through all of the high valleys and much of the lower

foothills. He decided, in desperation, that he would make his last sweep along the very

northern fringe of the range, where the jagged foothills petered out into low slopes and

finally the flat and expansive plains.

Frequent rainstorms, often accompanied by thunder and lightning, hampered his

search. He spent many miserable afternoons huddled with Arcuballis under whatever

shelter they could find while hail and rain battered the land. He wasn't surprised, for

spring weather was notoriously violent on the plains, yet the forced delays were extremely

dispiriting.

Nearly two weeks into his search, he was working his way to the north, following a

broad zigzag from east to west. The sun was high that day, so much so that he could see

his shadow directly below him. Finally the shadow ebbed away toward the east, matching

the sun's descent in the west. Still he had seen no sign of his quarry.

It was near sunset when something caught his eye.

"Let's go, old boy–down there," he said, unconsciously voicing the command that he

simultaneously relayed to Arcuballis through subtle pressure from his knees on the griffon's

tawny flanks. The creature tucked his wings and swooped low, flying along a

shallow stream that marked a broad, flat valley bottom.

At one place, however, the river spilled over a ten-foot shelf of rock, creating a

bright and scenic waterfall. It wasn't the beauty of the scene that had caught Kith-Kanan's

eye, however.

The elf noticed that the brush lining the stream banks was flattened and trampled;

indeed, there was a swath some twenty feet wide. The matted brush and grass extended in

an arc from the streambed above the falls to the waterway.

Kith-Kanan could see no other sign of passage anywhere in this broad,

meadow-lined valley, nor were there any groves of trees that might have concealed a

trail. Arcuballis came to rest on a large boulder near the stream bank. Kith swiftly

dismounted, leaving the griffon to preen his feathers and keep an eye alert for danger

while the elf explored the terrain.

The first thing he noticed was the muddy stream bank. Higher up, where the earth

was slightly drier, he saw something that made his heart pound.

Boot prints! Heavy footgear had trod here, and in great numbers. The prints indicated

their wearers were heading down the valley after emerging from the streambed. Of

course! The dwarves had taken great pains to keep the entrance to their kingdom a secret,

and now Kith understood why there had been no road, nor even a heavily used path,

leading to the north gate of Thorbardin.

The dwarves had marched along the streambed!

"Come on–back into the sky!" he shouted, rousing Arcuballis.

The creature crouched low to allow Kith to leap into the wide, deep saddle. The elf

lashed himself in with one smooth motion and kicked the griffon's flanks sharply.

Instantly Arcuballis sprang from the rock, his powerful wings driving downward to

carry them through the air. As the griffon began to climb, Kith-Kanan nudged him with

his knees, guiding him low above the stream.

They glided along the course of the stream while Kith-Kanan searched the ground

along either bank for more signs. Thank the gods for that waterfall! Dusk soon cast long

shadows across the valley, and Kith-Kanan realized that he would have to postpone his

search until the morrow.

Nevertheless, it was with high spirits that he directed Arcuballis to land. They

camped beneath an earthen overhang on the banks of the stream, and the griffon snatched

nearly a dozen plump trout from the water with lighting grasps of his eagle-clawed

forefeet. Kith-Kanan feasted on a pair of these while the griffon enjoyed his share.

The next morning Kith again beat the morning sun into the sky, and within an hour,

he had left the foothills behind. The mountain stream he followed joined another gravel -

bottomed watercourse, and here it became a placid brook, silt-bottomed and sluggish.

Here, too, there were signs that the dwarven column had emerged to march overland.

Now Kith-Kanan urged Arcuballis ahead, and the griffon's wings carried them to a

lofty height. The trail became a wide rut of muddy earth, clearly visible even from a thousand

feet in the air. The griffon followed the path below while the elf's eyes scanned the

horizon. For much of the day, all he could see was the long brown trail vanishing into the

haze of the north.

Kith-Kanan began to worry that the dwarves had already reached Sithelbec.

Certainly they were tough and capable fighters, but even in their compact formations,

they would be vulnerable to the sweeping charges of the human cavalry if they fought

without the support of auxiliary forces.

It was late afternoon before he finally caught sight of his goal and knew that he was

not too late. The marching column stretched as straight as a spear shaft across the plains,

moving toward the north. Kith urged the griffon downward, picking up speed.

As he flew closer, he saw that the figures marched with military precision in a long

column that was eight dwarves wide. How far into the distance the troops extended he

could not be certain, though he flew overhead for several minutes after he had observed

the tail of the column before he could even see its lead formations.

Now he was spotted from below. The tail of the column split and turned, while

companies of short, stocky fighters broke to the right and left, quickly swinging into

defensive postures. As Arcuballis dove lower, he saw the bearded faces, the metal helms

with their plumes of feathers or hair, and, most significantly, the rank of heavy crossbows

raised to fire!

He pulled back on the reins and brought Arcuballis into a sharp climb, hoping he was

out of range and that the dwarves wouldn't shoot without first identifying their target.

"Ho! Dwarves of Thorbardin!" he called, soaring about two hundred feet over the

ranks of suspicious upturned faces.

"Who are you?" demanded one, a grizzled captain with a shiny helmet plumed by

bright red feathers.

"Kith-Kanan! Is that you?" cried another gruff voice, one that the elf recognized.

"Dunbarth Ironthumb!" the elf shouted back, waving at the familiar figure.

Happy and relieved, he brought the griffon through a long, circling dive. Finally

Arcuballis came to rest on the ground, though the griffon pranced and squawked nervously

at the troops arrayed before him.

Dunbarth Ironthumb clumped toward him, a wide smile splitting his full,

gray-flecked beard. Unlike the other officers of his column, the dwarf wore a plain,

unadorned breastplate and a simple steel cap.

Kith sprang from the saddle and seized the stalwart dwarf in a bear hug. "By the

gods, you old goat, I thought I'd never find you!" he declared.

"Humph!" snorted Dunbarth. "If we'd wanted to be found, we would have posted

signs. Still, what with the storms we've been dodging–floods, lightning, even a black

funnel cloud!–it's a lucky thing you did find us. Why were you looking?"

The grizzled dwarf raised his eyebrows in curiosity, waiting for Kith to speak.

"It's a long story," the elf explained. "I'll save it for the campfire tonight!"

"Good enough," grunted Dunbarth. "We'll be making camp after another mile." The

dwarven commander paused, then snapped his fingers in sudden decision.

"To the Abyss with it! We'll make camp here!"

Dunbarth made Kith-Kanan laugh easily. The elf commander ate the hardtack of the

dwarves around the fire, and even took a draft of the cool, bitter ale that the dwarves hold

so dear but which elves almost universally find to be unpleasant to the palate.

As the fire died into coals, he spoke with Dunbarth and a number of that dwarf's

officers. He told them of the mission to capture the griffons and of the forming of the

Windriders. His comrades took heart from the tale of the flying cavalry that would aid

them in battle.

He also described, to mutters of indignation and anger, the complicity of Than-Kar

and his brother's plans to arrest the ambassador and return him to King Hal-Waith in

chains.

"Typical Theiwar treachery!" growled Dunbarth. "Never turn your back on 'em, I can

tell you! He never should have been entrusted with a mission of such importance!"

"Why was he?" Kith inquired. "Don't let it go to your head, but you were always a

splendid representative for your king and your people. Why did Hal-Waith send a replacement?"

Dunbarth Ironthumb shook his head and spat into the fire. "Part of it was my own

fault, I admit. I wanted to go home. All that talking and diplomacy was getting on my

nerves–plus, I'd never spent more than a few months on the surface at a time. I was in

Silvanost for a full year, you'll remember, not counting time on the march."

"Indeed," Kith-Kanan said, nodding. He remembered Tamanier Ambrodel's remarks

about that elf's long months underground. For the first time, he began to understand the

adjustment these subterranean warriors must make in order to undertake an aboveground

campaign. Growing up, working and training–all their lives were spent underground.

Surprising emotion choked his throat, for suddenly he realized the depth of the

commitment that had brought forth the dwarven army. He looked at Dunbarth and hoped

that the dwarf understood the strength of his appreciation.

Dunbarth Ironthumb gruffly cleared his throat and continued. "We have a tricky

equilibrium in Thorbardin, I'm sure you appreciate. We of the Hylar Clan control the central

realms, including the Life-Tree."

Kith-Kanan had heard of that massive structure, a cave city all of its own carved

from the living stone of a monstrous stalagmite. He nodded his understanding.

"The other clans of Thorbardin all have their own realms–the Daergar, the Daewar,

the Mar, and the Theiwar," continued Dunbarth. The old dwarf sighed. "We are a

stubborn people, it is well known, and sometimes hasty to anger. In none of us are these

traits so prevalent as among the Theiwar. But also there is a level of malevolence, of

greed and scheming and ambition, among our paleskinned brethren that is not to be found

among the higher dwarven cultures. The Theiwar are much distrusted by the rest of the

clans."

"Then why would the king appoint a Theiwar as ambassador to Silvanesti?"

Kith-Kanan asked.

"Alas, they are all those things I said, but so too are the Theiwar numerous and

powerful. They make up a large proportion of the kingdom's population, and they cannot

be excluded from its politics. The king must select his ambassadors, his nobles, even his

high clerics from the ranks of all the clans, including the Theiwar."

Dunbarth looked the elf squarely in the eye. "King Hal-Waith thought, mistakenly it

would appear, that the crucial negotiations with the elves had been concluded with my

departure from your capital. Therefore he took the chance of appointing a Theiwar to

replace me, having in mind another important task for me and knowing that the Theiwar

Clan would make a considerable disturbance if they were once again bypassed for such a

prominent ambassadorship.

"I think you start to get the picture" Dunbarth continued. "But now to matters that lie

before us, instead of behind. Do you have plans for a summer campaign?"

"The wheels are already in motion," Kith explained. "And now that I have caught up

with you, we can put the final phase of the strategy into motion."

"Splendid!" Dunbarth beamed, all but licking his lips in anticipation.

Kith-Kanan went on to outline his battle plan, and the dwarven warrior's eyes lit up

as every detail was described.

"If you can pull it off," he grunted in approval after Kith-Kanan had finished, "it will

be a victory that the bards will sing about for years!"

They spent the rest of the evening making less momentous conversation, and around

midnight, Kith-Kanan made his camp among the army of his allies. At dawn, he was up

and saddling Arcuballis, preparing to leave. The dwarves were awake, too, ready to

march.

"Less than three weeks to go," said Dunbarth, with a wink.

"Don't be late for the war!" chided Kith. Moments later, the sunlight flickered from

the griffon's wing feathers a hundred feet above the dwarven column.

Arcuballis soared into the sky, higher and higher. Yet it was many hours before Kith

saw it, a blocklike shape that looked tiny and insignificant from his tremendous height.

He would reach it by dark. It was Sithelbec, and for now at least, it was home.

21

Late Spring, in the Army of Ergoth

Long rows of makeshift litters filled the tent, and upon them, Suzine saw men with

ghastly wounds–men who bled and suffered and died even before she could begin to treat

them. She saw others with invisible hurts–warriors who lay still and unseeing, though

often their eyes remained open and fixed. Oil lanterns sputtered from tent poles, while

clerics and nurses moved among the wounded.

Men groaned and shrieked and sobbed pathetically. Others were delirious, madly

babbling about pastoral surroundings they would in all likelihood never see again.

And the stench! There were the raw smells of filth, urine, and feces, and the

sweltering cloud of too many men in too small an area. And there were the smells of

blood, and of rotting meat. Above all, there remained an ever-pervasive odor of death.

For months, Suzine had done all that she could for the wounded, nursing them,

tending their injuries, providing them what solace she could. For a time, there had been

fewer and fewer wounded as those who had been injured in the battles of the winter had

been healed or perished or were sent back to Ergoth.

But now it was a new season, and it seemed that the war had acquired a new ferocity.

Just a few days earlier, Giarna had hurled tens of thousands of men at the walls of

Sithelbec in a savage attempt to smash through the barricades. A group of the wild elves

had led the way, but the elves within the fortress had fallen upon their kin and the humans

who followed with a furious vengeance. More than a thousand had perished in the fight,

while these hundreds around her represented just a portion of those who had escaped with

varying degrees of injuries.

Most of the suffering were humans, but there were a number of elves–those who

fought against Silvanesti–and Theiwar dwarves as well. The Theiwar, under the stocky

captain Kalawax, had spearheaded one assault, attempting to tunnel under the fortress

walls. The elves had anticipated the maneuver and filled the tunnel, jammed tightly with

dwarves, with barrels full of oil, which had then been set alight. Death had been fast and

horrible.

Suzine went from cot to cot, offering water or a cool cloth upon a forehead. She was

surrounded by filth and despair, while she herself bore hurts that could not be seen but

which nevertheless cut deeply into her spirit.

So Suzine felt a kinship with these hapless souls and gained what little comfort she

could by caring for them and tending their hurts. She remained throughout most of this

long night, knowing that Giarna was tormented by the failure of his attack, that he might

seek her out. If he found her, he would hurt her as he always did, but here he would never

come.

The hours of darkness passed, and gradually the camp fell into restless silence. Past

midnight, even those men in the most severe pain collapsed into tentative slumber. Weary

to the point of collapse, praying that Giarna already slept, she finally left the wounded to

return to her own shelter.

Outside the hospital tent waited her two guards, the men-at-arms who escorted her

when she moved about the camp. Actually they were a pair of the Kagonesti elves who

had joined ranks with the army in the hope that it offered them a chance to gain

independence for their people. Oddly, she had come to enjoy the presence of the

softspoken, competent warriors in their face paint, feathers, and dark leather garb.

Suzine had wondered how such elves could rationalize their fight, since it was waged

with great terror against their own people. Several times she had asked the Kagonesti

about their reasons, but only once had she gotten an honest answer–from a young elf she

was caring for, who had been wounded in one of the attempts to storm the fortress walls.

"My mother and father have been taken as slaves to work in the iron mines north of

Silvanost," he had told her, his voice full of bitterness. "And my family's farm was seized

by the Speaker's troops when my father was unable to pay his taxes."

"But to go to war against your own people," she had wondered.

"Many of my people have been hurt by the elves of Silvanost. My people are the

Kagonesti and the elves of the plains! Those who live in that crystal city of towers are no

more my kin than are the dwarves of Thorbardin!"

"Do you wish to see the elven nation destroyed?"

"I only wish for the wild elves to be left alone, to regain our freedom, and to have

nothing to do with the causes of governments that have made our lands a battleground!"

The elf had gasped his beliefs with surprising vehemence, struggling to sit up until

Suzine eased him back down.

"If the Emperor of Ergoth treats us ill after this war is won, then shall we struggle

against him with the same fortitude! But until that time, the human army is our only hope

of throwing off the yoke of Silvanesti oppression!"

She had been deeply disturbed by the elf's declarations, for it did not fit her idea of

Kith-Kanan to hear such tales of injustice and discrimination. Surely he didn't know of

the treatment accorded to Kagonesti by his own people!

Thus she had convinced herself of his innocence and looked upon the Kagonesti

elves with pity. Those who had joined the human army she befriended and tried to ease

their troubled hurts.

Now her two guards held open her tent flap for her and waited silently outside. They

would stand there until dawn, when they would be relieved. As always, this knowledge

gave her a sense of security, and she lay down, totally exhausted, to try to get some sleep.

But though she lay wearily upon her quilt, she couldn't sleep. An odd sense of

excitement took hold of her emotions, and suddenly she sat up, aroused and intrigued.

Instinctively she went to her mirror. Holding the crystal on her dressing table, she

saw her own image first, and then she concentrated on setting her mind free.

Immediately she espied that handsome elven face, the visage she had not looked

upon for nearly eight months. Her heart leaped into her throat and she stifled a gasp. It

was Kith-Kanan.

His hair flew back from his face, as though tossed by a strong wind. She remembered

the griffon, only this time, instead of flying away from her, he was returning!

She stared at the mirror, breathless. She should report this to her general

immediately. The elven general was returning to his fortress!

Yet at the same time, she sensed a decision deep within her. The return of

Kith-Kanan stirred her emotions. He looked magnificent, proud and triumphant. How

unlike General Giarna! She knew she would say nothing about what she had seen.

Swiftly, guiltily, she placed the mirror back inside of its velvet-lined case. Almost

slamming the engraved ivory lid in her haste, she hid the object deep within her wardrobe

trunk and returned to her bed.

Suzine had barely stretched out, still tense with excitement, when a gust of wind

brushed across her face. She sensed that the flap of her tent had opened, though she could

see nothing in the heavy darkness.

Instantly she felt fear. Her elven guards would stand firm against any illicit intruder,

but there was one they would not stop–did not dare stop–for he held their fates in his

hands.

Giarna came to her then and touched her. She felt his touch like a physical assault, a

hurt that would leave no scar that could be seen.

How she hated him! She despised everything that he stood for. He was the master

slayer. She hated the way he used her, used everyone around him.

But now she could bear her hatred because of the knowledge of a blond-haired elf

and his proud flying steed–knowledge which, even as General Giarna took her, she found

solace in, knowledge that was hers alone.

* * * * *

Kith-Kanan guided Arcuballis through the pitch-dark skies, seeking the lanterns of

Sithelbec. He had passed over the thousands of campfires that marked the position of the

human army, so he knew that the elven stronghold lay close before him. He needed to

find the fortress before daylight so that the humans wouldn't learn of his return to the

plains.

There! A light gleamed in the darkness. And another!

He urged Arcuballis downward, and the griffon swept into a shallow dive. They

circled once and saw three lights arranged in a perfect triangle, glimmering on the

rooftop. That was the sign, the signal he had ordered Parnigar to use to guide him back to

the barracks.

Indeed, as the griffon spread his wings to set them gently atop the tower, he saw his

trusted second-in-command holding one of the lights. The other lantern-bearers were his

old teacher, Kencathedrus, and the steadfast Kagonesti elf known as White-lock.

The two officers saluted smartly and then clasped their commander warmly.

"By the gods, sir, it's good to see you again!" said Parnigar gruffly.

"It is a pleasure and a relief. We've been terribly worried." Kencathedrus couldn't

help but sound a little stern.

"I have a good excuse. Now let's get me and Arcuballis out of sight before first light.

I don't want the troops to know I've returned–not yet, in any event."

The officers looked at him curiously but held their questions in check while

arrangements were made with a stable master to secure Arcuballis in an enclosed stall.

Meanwhile, Kith-Kanan, concealed by a flowing, heavy robe, slipped into Kencathedrus's

chamber and awaited the two elven warriors. They joined him just as dawn was

beginning to lighten the eastern horizon.

Kith-Kanan told them of the quest for the griffons, describing the regiment of flying

troops and the coming of the dwarves and detailing his battle plans.

"Two weeks, then?" asked Parnigar, scarcely able to contain his excitement.

"Indeed, my friend–after all this time." Kith-Kanan understood what these elves had

been through. His own ordeals had been far from cheery. Yet how difficult it must have

been for these dynamic warriors to spend the winter and the spring and the first few

weeks of summer cooped up within the fortress.

"Fresh regiments are on the march to Sithelbec. The Windriders will leave in a few

days, making their way westward. The dwarves of Thorbardin, too, are preparing to move

into position."

"But you wish your own presence to remain secret?" asked Kencathedrus.

"Until we're ready to attack. I don't want the enemy to suspect any changes in our

defenses. When the attack develops, I want it to be the biggest surprise they've ever had."

"Hopefully the last surprise," growled Parnigar.

"I'll stay here for a week, then fly west at night to arrange the rendezvous with the

forces arriving from Silvanost. When I return, we'll attack. Until then, conduct your defenses

as you have in the past. Just don't allow them to gain a breach."

"These old walls have held well," Parnigar noted. "The humans have tried to assault

them several times and always we drove them back over the heaped bodies of their dead."

"The spring storms, in fact, did us more harm than all the human attacks,"

Kencathedrus added.

"I flew through some of them," Kith-Kanan said. "And I heard Dunbarth speak of

them."

"Hail crushed two of the barns. We lost a lot of our livestock." Kencathedrus

recounted the damage. "And a pair of tornadoes swept past, doing some damage to the

outer wall."

Parnigar chuckled grimly. "Some damage to the wooden wall–and a lot of damage to

the human tents!"

"True. The destruction outside the walls was even worse than within. I have never

seen weather so violent."

"It happens every year, more or less," Parnigar, the more experienced plainsman,

explained. "Though this spring was a little fiercer than most. Old elves tell of a storm

three hundred years ago when a hundred cyclones came roaring in from the west and tore

up every farm within a thousand miles."

Kith-Kanan shook his head, trying to imagine such a thing. It even dwarfed war! He

turned his attention to other matters. "How about the size of the human army? Have they

been able to replace their losses? Has it grown or diminished?"

"As near as we can tell–" Parnigar started to answer, but Kith-Kanan's former teacher

cut him off.

"There's one addition they've had, it shames me to admit!" Kencathedrus barked.

Parnigar nodded sorrowfully as the captain of the Silvanesti continued.

"Elves! From the woods! It seems they're content to serve an army of human

invaders, caring naught that they wage war against their own kingdom!" The elf, born

and bred amid the towers of Silvanost, couldn't understand such base treachery.

"I have heard this, to my surprise. Why are they party to this?" Kith-Kanan asked

Parnigar.

The Wildrunner shrugged. "Some of them resent the taxes levied upon them by a

far-off capital, with the debtors taken for servitude in the Clan Oakleaf mines. Others feel

that trade with the humans is a good thing and opens opportunities for their children that

they didn't have before. There are thousands of elves who feel little if any loyalty to the

throne."

"Nevertheless, it is gravely disturbing," Kith-Kanan sighed. The problem vexed him,

but he saw no solution at the present.

"You'll need some rest," noted Kencathedrus. "In the meantime, we'll tend to the

details."

"Of course!" Parnigar echoed.

"I knew that I could count on you!" Kith-Kanan declared, feeling overwhelmed by a

sense of gratitude. "May the future bring us the victory and the freedom that we have

worked so hard for!"

He took the officers up on their offer of a private bunk and enjoyed the feel of a

mattress beneath his body for the first time in several weeks. There was little more he

could do at the moment, and he fell into a luxurious slumber that lasted for more than

twelve hours.

22

Clan Oakleaf

The mouth of the coal mine gaped like the maw of some insatiable beast, hungry for

the bodies of the soot-blackened miners who trudged wearily between the shoring timbers

to disappear into the darkness within. They marched in a long file, more than a hundred

of them, guarded by a dozen whip-wielding overseers.

Sithas and Lord Quimant stood atop the steep slope that led down into the quarry.

The noise from below pounded their ears. Immediately below them, a slave-powered conveyor

belt carried chunks of crushed ore from a pit, where other slaves smashed the rock

with picks and hammers, to the bellowing ovens of the smelting plant. There more

laborers shoveled coal from huge black piles into the roaring heat of the furnaces.

Beyond the smelting sheds rose the smoke-spewing stacks of the weapon smiths, where

raw, hot steel was pounded into razor-edged armaments.

Some of the prisoners wore chain shackles at their ankles. "Those are the ones who

have tried to escape," Lord Quimant explained. Most simply marched along, not needing

any physical restraint, for they had been broken as slaves in a deeper, more permanent

sense. Each of these trudged, eyes cast downward, almost tripping over the one ahead of

him in the line.

"Most of them become quite docile," the lord continued, "after a year or two of labor.

The guards encourage this. A slave who cooperates and works hard is generally left

alone, while those who show rebelliousness or a reluctance to work are ... disciplined."

One of the overseers cracked his whip against the back of a slave about to enter the

mines. This fellow had lagged behind, opening a gap between himself and the worker in

front of him. At the flick of the lash, he cried out in pain and stumbled forward. Even

from his height, Sithas saw the red welt spread across the slave's back.

In his haste, the slave stumbled, then crawled pathetically to his feet under another

flurry of lashes from the guard.

"Watch now. The rest of them will step quite lively."

Indeed, the other slaves did hasten into the black abyss, but Sithas didn't think such

cruelty was warranted.

"Is he a human or an elf?" wondered the Speaker.

"Who–oh, the tardy one?" Quimant shrugged. "They get so covered with dust that I

can't really tell. Not that it makes much difference. We treat everybody the same here."

"Is that wise?" Sithas was more disturbed than he thought he would be about the

brutality he saw here.

Lord Quimant had attempted to dissuade Sithas from visiting the Clan Oakleaf

estates and mines, yet the Speaker had been determined to take the three-day coach ride

to Quimant's family's holdings. Now he began to wonder if perhaps Lord Quimant had

been right to want to spare him the sight. He had too many disturbing reservations about

the Oakleaf mines. Yet at the same time, he had to admit he needed the steel that came

from these mines and the blades that were cast by the nearby smithies.

"Actually, it's the humans who give us the most trouble. After all, the elves are here

for ten or twenty years, whatever the sentence happens to be for their crime. They know

they must suffer that time, and then they'll be free."

Indeed, the Speaker of the Stars had sentenced a number of citizens of Silvanost to

such labor–for failure to pay taxes, violence or theft against a fellow elf, smuggling, and

other serious transgessions. The whole issue had seemed a good deal simpler in the city,

when he could simply dismiss the offending elf and rarely, if ever, think of him again.

"So this is their miserable fate," he said quietly.

Quimant continued. "The humans, you know, are here for life–of course, a

foreshortened life, in any event. And you know how reckless they are anyway. Yes,

indeed, humans are the ones who give us the most problems. The elves, if anything, help

to keep them in line. We encourage their little acts of spying on one another."

"Where do all the humans come from?" inquired Sithas. "Surely they haven't all been

sentenced by elven courts."

"Oh, of course not! These are mostly brigands and villains, nomads who live to the

north. They trouble the elves and kender of the settled lands, so we capture them and set

them to work here."

Quimant shook his head, thinking before he continued. "Imagine–a paltry four or

five decades to grow up, experience romance, try to make a success of your life, and

leave children behind you! It's amazing they do so well, when you consider what little

time they have to work with!"

"Let's go back to the manor," said Sithas, suddenly very weary of the harsh spectacle

before him. Quimant had arranged for a splendid banquet after dark, and if they remained

here any longer, Sithas was certain that he would lose his appetite.

* * * * *

The ride back to Silvanost seemed to Sithas to take much longer than the trip into the

country. Still, he felt relieved to leave the Oakleaf estates behind.

The banquet had been a festive affair. Hermathya, the pride of Oakleaf, and her son

Vanesti had been the stars of the evening. The affair lasted far into the night, yet Quimant

and Sithas made an early start for the city on the following morning. Hermathya and the

boy remained behind, intending to visit the clanhold for a month or two.

The first two days of the trip had seemed to drag on forever, and now they had

reached the third and final day of the excursion. Sithas and Quimant traveled in the

luxurious royal coach. Huge padded couches provided them with room to recline and

stretch. Velvet draperies could be closed to block off dust and weather ... or intrusive ears

and eyes. Each of the huge wheels rested on its own spring mechanism, smoothing the

potholes of the crushed gravel trail.

Eight magnificent horses, all large palominos, trotted at the head of the vehicle, their

white manes and long fetlocks smoothly combed. Metal trim of pure gold outlined the

shape of the enclosed cabin, which was large enough to hold eight passengers.

The two lords traveled with an escort of one hundred elven riders. Four archers, in

addition to their driver, rode atop the cabin, out of sight and hearing of the pair of elves

within.

Sithas sat shrouded in gloom. His mind would not focus. He considered all the

progress that had been made toward a counterattack. The training of the Windriders was

nearly complete. In a few days, they would fly west to begin their part in Kith-Kanan's

great attack. The final rank of elven infantry–four thousand elves of Silvanost and the

nearby clanholds–had already departed. They should reach the vicinity of Sithelbec at the

same time as the Windriders.

Even these prospects did not brighten his mood. He imagined the satisfying picture

of the dwarven ambassador Than-Kar captured and brought to the Speaker of the Stars in

chains, but that prospect only reminded him of the prisoners of the Oakleaf mines.

Slave pits! With elven slaves! He accepted the fact that the mines were necessary.

Without them, the Silvanesti wouldn't be able to produce the vast supply of arms and

weapons needed by Kith-Kanan's army. True, there were good stockpiles of weapons, but

a few weeks of intensive fighting could deplete those reserves with shocking speed.

"I wonder," he said, surprising himself and Quimant by speaking aloud. "What if we

found another source of labor?"

The lord blinked at the Speaker in surprise. "But how? Where?"

"Listen to this." Sithas began to envision a solution, speaking his thoughts as they

occurred to him. "Kith-Kanan still needs reinforcements on the ground. By Gilean, we

were only able to send him four thousand troops this summer! And that left the capital

practically empty of able-bodied males."

"If Your Majesty will remember, I cautioned against such a number. The city itself is

laid bare. . . "

"I still have my palace guard–a thousand elves of the House Protectorate, their lives

pledged to the throne." Sithas continued. "We will form the slaves–the elven slaves–from

your mines into a new company. Swear them to the Wildrunners for the duration of the

war, their sentences commuted to military duty."

"They number a thousand or more," Quimant admitted cautiously. "They are

hardened and tough. It's perhaps true that they would make a formidable force. But you

can't close down the mines!"

"We will replace them with human prisoners captured on the battlefield!"

"We have no prisoners!"

"But Kith's counterattack begins in less than two weeks' time. He'll break the siege

and rout the humans, and he's bound to take many of them as captives." Unless Kith's

plan is a failure, he thought. Sithas wouldn't allow himself to consider that possibility.

"It may just work," Quimant noted, with a reluctant nod. "Indeed, if his attack is a

great success, we might actually increase the number of, ah ... laborers. Production could

improve. We could open new mines!" He warmed to the potential of the plan.

"It's settled, then," Sithas agreed, feeling a great sense of relief.

"What about Than-Kar, Excellency?" inquired Quimant after several more miles of

verdant woodlands slipped by.

"It will be time for retribution soon." Sithas paused. "You know that we intercepted

his spy with a message detailing the formation of the Windriders?"

"True, but we never discovered who the message was intended for."

"It was being carried west. It was sent to the Ergoth general, I'm certain." Sithas was

convinced that the Theiwar had joined with the humans in a bid for dominance of the

dwarven nation. "I'll keep Than-Kar in suspense until Kith is ready to attack, so he

doesn't find out that we're onto his treachery until it's too late for him to send another

warning to the west."

"A fine trap!" Quimant imagined the scene. "Surround the dwarves in their barracks

with your guard, disarm them before they can organize, and like magic, you have him as

your prisoner."

"It's too bad I promised to return him to King Hal-Waith," noted Sithas. "I'd like

nothing better than to send him to your coal mines."

Suddenly they leaned toward the front of the cabin as the coach slowed. They heard

the coachman calling out to the horses as he hauled back on the reins.

"Driver? What's the delay?" inquired the Speaker, leaning out the window. He saw a

rider–an elf, wearing the breastplate of the House Protectorate–galloping toward them

from the front of the column.

The elf wasn't a member of the escort, Sithas realized. He saw the foam-flecked state

of the horse and the dusty, bedraggled condition of the rider, and knew that the fellow

must have come a long way.

"Your Majesty!" cried the elven horseman, reining in and practically falling out of

the saddle beside the speaker's carriage door. "The city–there's trouble! It's the dwarves!"

"What happened?"

"We kept a watch over them as you ordered. This morning, before dawn, they

suddenly burst out of the inns where they were quartered. They took the guards by

surprise, killed them, and headed for the docks!"

"Killed?" Sithas was appalled–and furious. "How many?"

"Two dozen of the House Protectorate," replied the messenger. "We've thrown every

soldier in the city into the fray, but when I left six hours ago they were slowly fighting

their way to the riverbank."

"They need boats," guessed Quimant. "They're making a break for the west."

"They sniffed out my trap," groaned Sithas. The prospect of Than-Kar escaping the

city worried him, mostly because he feared the dwarf would somehow be able to warn the

humans about the Windriders.

"Can the house guards hold until we get there?" demanded the Speaker.

"I don't know."

"Dwarves hate the water," observed Quimant. "They won't try a crossing at night."

"We can't take that chance. Come in here," he ordered the rider, throwing open the

coach door. "Driver, to the city! As fast as you can get us there!"

The gilded carriage and its escort of a hundred mounted elves thundered toward

distant Silvanost, raising a wide plume of dust.

* * * * *

"They've made it to the river, and even now they seize boats along the wharf!"

Tamanier Ambrodel greeted Sithas on the Avenue of Commerce, the wide roadway that

paralleled the city's riverfront.

"Open the royal arsenal. Have every elf who can wield a sword follow me to the

river!"

"They're already there. The battle has continued all day." The royal procession had

arrived in the city with perhaps two hours of light remaining.

Sithas leaped from the coach and took the reins of a horse that had been saddled for

him on Tamanier's orders. He quickly donned a chain mail shirt and hefted the light steel

shield that bore the crest symbolizing the House of Silvanos.

In the meantime, the riders from his escort had dismounted, readying for conflict.

"They've barricaded themselves into two blocks of warehouses and taverns, right at

the waterfront. It seems they're having some difficulties getting their boats rigged,"

explained the lord chamberlain.

"How many have we lost?" asked the speaker.

"Nearly fifty killed, most in the first few hours of the fight. Since then we've been

content to keep them bottled up until you got here."

"Good. Let's root them out now."

Surprisingly, that thought gave him a sense of grim satisfaction. "Follow me!" Sithas

cried, turning the prancing stallion down the wide Avenue of Commerce. The elves of his

guard followed him. He inspected detachments that held positions down several streets

that led toward the wharf. Just beyond these companies, Sithas could see hastily erected

wooden barricades. He imagined the white, wide eyes of Theiwar dwarves peering

between the gaps of these crude defenses.

"They're there," a sergeant assured Sithas. "They don't show themselves until we

attack. Then they give a good accounting of themselves. Our archers have picked off

more than a few of them."

"Good. Attack when you hear the trumpets."

Sithas himself led the band of his personal guard toward White Rose Lane before

leading them down a narrow thoroughfare that was the most direct route to the

waterfront.

As he had suspected, the dwarves were prepared to meet them here as well. He saw

several large fishing boats lashed to the wharf, while bands of dwarves wrestled several

more into place. A sturdy line of dwarves blocked the street before him, arrayed four

deep, armed with crossbows, swords, and stubby dwarven pikes. A barrier of barrels,

planks, and huge coils of rope stood before them.

Behind these, Sithas saw the dwarven ambassador himself. Than-Kar, squinting in

the uncomfortable glow of afternoon sunlight, cursed and shouted at his guards as they

tried to pull the largest of the boats against the quay.

"Charge!" Sithas cried, his voice hoarse. "Break them where they stand!" Three

trumpeters blared his command. A roar arose from the elves gathered along the nearby

streets and lanes. Sithas spurred his charger forward.

A piece of paving stone had worked its way loose over many winters of frost and

springtimes of rain. Now it lay on White Rose Lane, looking for all the world like the rest

of the securely cemented stones that made up the smooth surface of the street.

But when the right forehoof of Sithas's mount came to rest for a fraction of a second

upon it, the treacherous stone skidded away, twisting the hoof of the charging horse.

Bones snapped in the animal's leg, and it collapsed with a shriek of pain, hurling the

Speaker of the Stars from the saddle. At the same time, a full volley of steel-tipped crossbow

quarrels whistled through the air, whirring over Sithas's head. He took no note of the

missiles as he crashed headlong into the roadway. His sword blade snapped in his hand,

and his face exploded in pain. Groaning, he struggled to rise.

The elves of the royal guard, seeing their ruler collapse before them and not knowing

that his fall had been caused by a loose paving stone, cried out in fury and rage. They

charged forward, swords raised, and began to clash with the dwarves who blocked their

path. Steel rang on steel, and shouts of agony and triumph echoed from the surrounding

buildings.

Sithas felt gentle hands on his shoulders. Though he could barely move, someone

turned him onto his back. With a shock, the Speaker of the Stars looked up to see that the

sky had become a haze of red smoke. Then a kerchief dabbed at his head and cool water

washed his brow. His eyes cleared, and he saw the anxious faces of several of his veteran

guards. The red haze, he realized, had been caused by the blood that still spurted from the

deep gashes on his forehead and cheeks.

"The fight," he gasped, forcing his lips and tongue to move. "How does the fight

go?"

"The dwarves stand firm," grunted an elf, cold fury apparent in his voice. Sithas

recognized the fellow as Lashio, a longtime sergeant-major who had been one of his

father's guards.

"Go! I'll be all right! Break them! They must not escape!"

Lashio needed no urging. Seizing his sword, he sprang toward the melee. "Don't try

to move, Excellency. I've sent for the clerics!" A nervous young trooper tried to dab at

Sithas's wounds, but the Speaker angrily brushed the fellow's ministrations away.

Sitting up, Sithas tried to ignore the throbbing in his head. He looked at the hilt of his

shattered weapon, still clutched in his bleeding hand. In fury, he tossed the ruined piece

away.

"Give me your sword!" he barked at the guardsman.

"B–But, Excellency . . . please, you're hurt!"

"Are you in the habit of disobeying orders?" Sithas snarled.

"No, sir!" The young elf bit his lip but passed his weapon, hilt first, to the Speaker of

the Stars without further delay.

Unsteadily Sithas climbed to his feet. The throbbing in his head pounded into a

crescendo, and he had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from crying out in pain. The din

of the battle raging nearby was nothing compared to the pain inside his head.

His unfortunate horse lay beside him, moaning and kicking. From the grotesque

angle of its foreleg, Sithas knew that the animal was beyond saving. Deliberately he cut

its throat with the sword, watching sadly as its lifeblood spurted across the pavement,

splattering his boots.

Slowly his head began to clear, as if the shock of the horse's death penetrated the

haze of his own wounds. He looked down the narrow lane and saw the mass of his royal

guard, still pressing against the line of Than-Kar's bodyguards. Sithas realized that he

could do nothing in that direction.

Instead, he looked up the street and saw a nearby tavern, the Thorn of the White

Rose. The melee in the street raged just beyond its doors. Sithas remembered the place. It

was a large establishment, with sleeping rooms and kitchen as well as the typical great

room of a riverfront tavern. Instinctively he knew that it would suit his purpose.

He started to hurry toward the door, shouting to those members of his guard who

were in the back of the fight, unable to reach the dwarves because of the press of their

comrades and the narrow confines of the lane.

"Follow me!" he called, pushing open the door. Several dozen of his guardsmen, led

by Lashio, turned to answer his call.

The startled patrons of the bar, all of whom were standing at the windows to watch

the fight in the street, turned in astonishment as their blood-streaked ruler stumbled in. Sithas

paid them no note, instead leading his small company past the startled bartender,

through the kitchen, and out into the alley behind the place.

A lone dwarf stood several paces away, apparently guarding this route of approach.

He raised his steel battleaxe and shouted a hoarse cry of alarm. It was the last sound he

made as the Speaker of the Stars lunged at him, easily dodging the heavy blow of his axe

to run him through.

Immediately Sithas and his small band raced from the alley onto the docks. The

dwarves fought to reach their boats as bands of the royal guardsmen surged onto the

waterfront from other nearby streets and alleys.

A black-bearded dwarf confronted Sithas. The elf saw that his attacker wore a

breastplate and helm of black steel, but it was his eyes that caught Sithas's attention: wide

and vacant, like the huge white circles of a madman, pure Theiwar.

Snarling his frustration–for he saw Than-Kar, behind this dwarf, scrambling into one

of the boats–Sithas charged recklessly forward.

But this foe proved far more adept than the Speaker's previous opponent. The

Theiwar's keen-edged battle-axe bashed Sithas's longsword aside, and only a desperate

roll to the side saved the elf from losing his right forearm. He bounced to his feet in time

to ward off a second blow, and for a few moments, the two combatants poked and

stabbed ineffectively, each searching for an opening.

Sithas thrust again, grimly pleased to see panic flash in the Theiwar's otherwise

emotionless eyes. Only a desperate twist to the side, one that dropped the dwarf to his

knees for a moment, saved him from the elf's deadly steel. With surprising quickness,

however, the dwarf sprang to his feet and parried Sithas's next blow.

Then the elf had to ward off several hard slashes as the dwarf drove him backward

for several steps. Sithas caught his heel on a coil of rope and tripped, but recovered in

time to parry a savage blow. Steel rang against steel, but his strong arm held firm.

Then, behind the black-armored warrior, the dwarven ambassador raised his head

and gave a sharp call. The dwarves on the dock immediately fell back toward the boats,

and this gave Sithas his opening.

The elf reached down and grasped the coil of rope. With a grunt of exertion, he

hurled it at the carefully retreating Theiwar. The dwarf raised his axe to knock the

snakelike strands aside, and Sithas darted forward.

His blade penetrated the dwarf's skin at the throat, just above his heavy breastplate.

With a gurgling cry of pain, the warrior stumbled, his wildly staring eyes growing cold

and vacant.

As his fallen foe slumped to the docks, Sithas leaped over the body, racing toward

the boat where Than-Kar frantically gestured to his guards. The Speaker of the Stars

reached the edge of the quay as the craft began to drift into the river. For a moment, he

considered leaping after it.

A second look at the boat full of dwarves changed his mind. Such a leap would

accomplish nothing but his own death. Instead, he could only watch in dismay as the

Theiwar dwarf and his bodyguards, propelled by a timely breeze, made their way

smoothly to the far bank of the Thon-Thalas River and the road to the west beyond.

23

A Week Later, Sithelbec

Kith-Kanan remained in Sithelbec for a week, keeping within the small officer's

cabin for the whole time. He met with Parnigar, Kencathedrus, and other of his trusted

officers. All were cautioned to secrecy on their leader's plan. Indeed, Kith made a point of

asking Parnigar to keep the news from his wife, who was human.

Kith had plenty of time to rest as well, but his sleep was troubled by recurring

dreams. Often in the past he had dreamed of Anaya, the lost love of his life, and more

recently the alluring vision of Hermathya had haunted him, often banishing Anaya from

his thoughts.

Now, since he had come to Sithelbec, a third woman intruded herself in his

dreams–the human woman who had saved him from General Giarna when he had been

captured. The trio of females waged a silent but forceful war in his subconscious.

Consequently his periods of true sleep were few in number.

Finally the week was over, and in the middle of a dark night, he left the fortress upon

the back of Arcuballis. This time his flight was short, a mere fifteen miles to the east. He

made for the wide clearing, surrounded by a dense ring of forest, that he had established.

He was pleased when the Windriders, under the young, capable Captain Hallus,

arrived on schedule. Four thousand elves of Silvanost had also camped here, providing

him with substantial reinforcement. Sithas left fresh orders and flew back to the fortress

before darkness broke. Few realized he had ever been gone.

It only remained to see whether Dunbarth and his dwarves would fulfill their part of

the bargain, but Kith-Kanan had few worries on this score. One more day had to pass

before their deadline.

* * * * *

Kencathedrus and Parnigar had done their work well. Kith-Kanan emerged from the

captain's room at sunset to find the fortress of Sithelbec alive with tension and subdued

excitement. Troops cleaned their weapons or oiled their armor. The elven horsemen fed

and saddled their mounts, preparing for the sortie that was coming. Archers checked their

bowstrings and gathered stores of extra arrows beside their positions.

Kith-Kanan walked among them, stopping to clap a warrior on the shoulder here or

to ask a quiet question there. Word of his return spread through the fortress, and the activities

of the Wildrunners took on a dramatic degree of purpose and determination.

Rumors spread like smoke on the wind. The Wildrunners would make a grand

attack! An elven army gathered on the plains beyond the fortress! The morale of the

human army had crumbled. They would be routed if faced with a vigorous sortie!

Kith-Kanan made no attempt to dispute these rumors.

Indeed, his tight-lipped demeanor served to heighten the tension and anticipation

among his troops. The long siege, barely a month short of a year, had brought the

Wildrunners to such a state that they would willingly risk their lives to end the

confinement.

The general made his way to the high tower of the fortress. Darkness still shrouded

the plains, and the elves burned no lamps, even within the walls. Their nightvision

allowed them to move around and organize without illumination.

At the base of the tall structure, Kith found Parnigar, waiting as he had been ordered

to, with a young elf. The latter didn't wear the accoutrements of the warrior, but instead

was wrapped in a soft cloth robe. He wore doeskin boots, no helmet, and his eyes were

bright as Kith-Kanan approached.

"This is Anakardain," introduced Parnigar. The young elf saluted crisply, and

Kith-Kanan acknowledged the gesture, signaling Anakardain to relax.

"Has Captain Parnigar informed you of my needs?" he inquired quickly.

"Indeed, General." Anakardain nodded enthusiastically. "I am honored to offer my

humble skills in this task."

"Good. Let's get to the top of the tower. Captain?" Kith turned back to Parnigar.

"Yes, sir?"

"Have Arcuballis brought to the tower top. When I need to mount, I won't have time

to come down to the stables."

"Of course!" Parnigar turned to get the griffon, while the two elves entered the base

of the tower and made their way up the long, winding stairway to the top. Anakardain,

Kith sensed, wanted to ask a hundred questions, but he remained silent, which

Kith-Kanan greatly appreciated at this particular moment.

They emerged onto the high tower's parapet with the sky, still dark, looming

overhead. They could see a red glow where the crimson moon, Lunitari, had just set over

the western horizon. The white moon, Solinari, was a thin crescent in the east. The only

other illumination above them came from millions of stars, while it seemed that an equal

number of campfires burned in the great ring of the human army surrounding them.

The fortress of Sithelbec was a dark sprawl around them. The stars boded well,

Kith-Kanan thought. It was important that they have a clear day for the implementation

of his plan.

"This is where you desire my spell?" inquired Anakardain, finally breaking the

silence.

"Yes–to the limits of your range!"

"It will be seen for twenty miles," promised the young mage.

A shape, rising through the air, emerged from the darkness, and Anakardain flinched

backward nervously as Arcuballis came to rest on the parapet beside them. Kith

chuckled, easing the young elf's tension as he took the griffon's bridle and led him onto

the high platform.

Other elves, including Parnigar and a small detachment of archers, joined them. One

of the troopers carried a shining trumpet, and even through the darkness, the instrument

seemed to radiate a golden sheen. A faint glimmer of rosy sky marked the eastern horizon

by now, and they watched as it gradually extended over their heads. One by one the stars

winked out of sight, overtaken by the greater brightness of the sun.

Now Kith-Kanan could look down and see the fortress come alive around him. The

Wildrunner cavalry, three hundred proud elves, gathered before the huge wooden gates

that provided the main entrance and egress from the fort. Those gates had not been

opened in eleven months.

Behind the riders, companies of elven infantry gathered in a long column. Some of

these collected in the alleys and passages leading to the main avenue, for there wasn't

enough open space for all of the troops, some ten thousand in number, to form up before

the gates. The infantry includeed units of pike and longbow, plus many with sword and

shield. The elves stood or paced restlessly.

The plans for the attack had been made carefully. Kencathedras himself rode a

prancing charger before the gates. Though the proud veteran had wished to ride forth

with the first wave of cavalry, Kith-Kanan had ordered him to remain behind until the

infantry joined the fight.

This way, Kencathedrus would be able to direct each unit to begin its charge, and

Kith hoped they would avoid a great traffic jam at the gates themselves.

The next hour was the longest of Kith-Kanan's life. All of the pieces were in place,

all the plans had been laid. All that they could do now was to wait, and this was perhaps

the most difficult task of all.

The sun, with agonizing slowness, reached the eastern horizon and slowly crept

upward into the sky. The long shadow of the high tower stretched across the closest section

of the human camp west of the fortress. As the sun climbed, it dazzled

everyone–humans and elves alike–with its fiery brilliance.

The general studied the human camp. Wide, muddy avenues stretched among great

blocks of tents. Huge pastures, beyond the fringes of the tents, held thousands of horses.

Closer to the fortress walls, a ring of ditches, trenches, and walls of wooden spikes had

been erected. More piles of logs had been gathered at the fringes of the camp, dragged

from the nearest forests, some ten miles away, and collected for a variety of uses.

These siege towers had been constructed over the winter. Though the humans

preferred to let hunger and confinement do their work for them, obviously their patience

had begun to wear thin. These great wooden structures had many portals from which

archers could shower their missiles over Sithelbec's walls. Huge wheels supported the

towers, and Kith knew that eventually they would rumble forward to try to take the

fortress by storm. Only the high cost of such an attack had stayed the human hand thus

far.

Signs of activity began to dot the human camp as breakfast fires were lit and wagons

of provisions, pulled by draft horses, struggled along the muddy lanes. The sun crested

the wall of the fortress. The elves could count on the fact that the humans to the west

would be blinded by that bright orb.

The time, Kith-Kanan knew, had finally come.

"Now!"

The general barked that one word, and the trumpeter instantly raised his horn to his

lips. The loud bray of the call rang from atop the tower, blaring stridently across the fortress

and ringing harshly against the ears of the slowly awakening human army.

A deep rumble shook the fortress as gatesmen released the great stone

counterweights and the massive fortress gates swung open with startling swiftness.

Immediately the elven riders kicked their steeds, startling the horses into explosive bursts

of speed. Shouts and cries of excitement and encouragement whooped through the air as

the riders surged forth.

Still the trumpet brayed its command, and now the elven infantry rushed from the

gates, emerging from the dust cloud raised by the stampeding horses. Kencathedrus, his

lively mount prancing with excitement, indicated with his sword each company of foot

soldiers, and, in turn, they followed but a pace or two behind the unit that rushed before.

In the camp of the humans, the surprise was almost palpable, jerking men from

breakfast idylls, or for those who had had duty during the night, from sleep. Eleven

months of placid siege-making had had the inevitable effect of lessening readiness and

building complacency. Now the peace of a warm summer's morning exploded with the

brash violence of war.

The cavalry led the elven charge while the companies of foot soldiers spread into

lines and advanced behind the horsemen. The lead horses reached the ditch the humans

had excavated around the fortress and charged through the obstacle. Properly manned, it

would have been a formidable barrier, but the elven lances pierced the few humans who

stood up to challenge them as the horses charged up the steep dirt sides.

The elven lancers thundered through the ditch and then smoothly spread their

column into a broad line. Lances lowered, they charged into a block of tents, spearing and

trampling any humans who dared oppose them.

Trumpet calls echoed from the companies of the Ergothian Army, but to the elven

commander, the tones held a frantic, hysterical quality that accurately reflected the

confusion sweeping through the vast body of men. A group of swordsmen gathered,

advancing shield-to-shield into the face of the thundering cavalry.

The elven horses kicked and bucked. Riders stabbed with their lances. Some of the

wooden shafts splintered as their tips met the hard steel of human shields, but others

drove the sharp points between the shields into soft human flesh beyond. One powerful

elf thrust his lance forward so hard that it penetrated a shield, sticking the soldier beyond

into the ground like an insect might be pinned to a board for display.

That rider, like so many others, drew his sword following the loss of his lance. The

tight ranks of horse, crowded in among the tangle of tents and supply wagons, inevitably

broke into smaller bands, and a dozen skirmishes raged through the camp.

Elven riders hacked and chopped around them as the humans scrambled to put up a

defense. A rider decapitated one foe while his horse trampled another. Three humans

rushed at his shield side, and he bashed one of them to the ground. Whirling, the horse

reared and kicked, knocking another of the men off his feet. As the steed's forefeet fell,

the elf's sword, in a lightning stroke, caught the remaining footman in the throat. With a

gurgling gasp, he fell, already forgotten as his killer looked for another target.

There was no shortage of victims amid that vast and teeming camp. Finally the

humans started to gather with some sense of cohesion. Swordsmen collected in units of

two or three hundred, giving the horsemen wide berth until they could face them in

disciplined ranks. Other humans, the herdsmen, gathered the horses from the pastures and

hastened to saddle them. It would be some minutes before human cavalry could respond

to the attack, however.

Archers, in groups of a dozen or more, started to send their deadly missiles into the

elven riders. Fortunately the horses moved so quickly and the camp around them was so

disordered that this fire had little effect. Bucking, plunging horses trampled some of the

canvas tents and kicked the coals from the numerous fires among the wreckage. Soon

equipment, garb, and tents began to smolder, and yellow flames licked upward from

much of the ruined camp.

* * * * *

"Where is that witch?" demanded General Giarna, practically spitting his anger. He

spouted questions, orders, and demands at a panicked group of officers "Quickly! Get the

horses saddled! Organize archers north and south of the breach! Alert the knights! Gods

curse your slowness!"

Beside him, Kalawax, the Theiwar commander, watched shrewdly. "This was

unexpected," he murmured.

"Perhaps. It will also be a disaster for the elves. They have given me the opportunity

I have so long desired, to meet them in the open field!"

Kalawax said nothing. He merely studied the human leader, his Theiwar eyes

narrowed to slits. Even so, the whites showed abnormally large to either side of his

pupils.

Suzine was forgotten for the moment.

"General! General!" A mud-splattered swordsman lurched through the crowd of

officers and collapsed to his knees. "We attacked the elven line at the ditch, but they

stopped us! My men, all killed! Only–"

Further words choked away as the general's black-gloved hand seized the gagging

messenger. Giarna squeezed, and there was the sound of bones snapping.

Casting the corpse aside, General Giarna fixed each of his officers with a black,

penetrating gaze. To a man, they were terrified to the core.

"Move!" barked the commander.

The officers scattered, each of them racing to obey.

* * * * *

More trumpets blared, and companies of humans swarmed from across the vast

encampment, charging toward the elves who stood in a semicircle before the fortress

gates. The companies of Wildrunner infantry, led by Kencathedrus, met the first of these

attackers with shields and swords. The clash of metal and screaming of the wounded

added to the cacophony.

The humans around the fort still outnumbered the elves by ten to one, and

Kith-Kanan had only committed a quarter of the defenders to this initial sortie.

Nevertheless, small bands of humans acquitted themselves well, hurling their bodies

against the shredding blades of the elves.

"Stand firm there!" shouted Kencathedrus, urging his horse into a gap where two

elves had just fallen.

The captain maneuvered his steed into the breach while his blade struck down two

men who tried to force their way past him. Swords smashed against shields. Men and

elves slipped in the mud and the blood. Now the ditch served as a defensive line for two

of the elven companies. Cursing and slashing, the humans charged into the muddy

trough, only to groan and bleed and die beneath the swords of the elves.

Elven archers showered the human troops with a deadly rain of steel-tipped hail. The

ditch became a killing ground as panicked men turned to flee, tangling themselves among

the fresh troops that the human commanders were casting into the fray.

Beyond the ditch, the elven cavalry of three hundred riders plunged and raced among

thirty thousand humans. But more and more fires erupted, sending clouds of black smoke

wafting across the field, choking noses and throats and blocking vision.

Greedy flames licked at the wall of one tent, and suddenly the blaze crackled

upward. Wreckage fell inward, revealing several rows of neat casks, the cooking and

lamp oil for this contingent of the human army. One of the casks began to blaze, and hot

oil cascaded across the other barrels. A rush like a hot, dry wind surged from the tent,

followed by a dull thud of sound. Fiery oil sprayed outward. A cloud of hellfire

mushroomed into the sky, wreathed in black smoke.

Instantly the inferno spread to neighboring tents. A hundred men, doused by the

liquid death, screamed and shrieked for long moments before they dropped, looking like

charred wood.

From his vantage on the tower, Kith-Kanan watched the battle rage through the

camp. Though chaos reigned on the field, he could see that the sortie had affected only a

relatively small portion of the human camp. The enemy had begun to recover from the

surprise attack, and fresh regiments surged against the elven horsemen, threatening to cut

them off from any possible retreat.

"Sound the recall–now!" Kith-Kanan barked.

The trumpeter blared the signal even as Kith finished his command. The notes rang

across the field, and the elven riders immediately turned back toward the gates.

At the ditch, Kencathedrus and his men stood firm. A thousand human bodies filled

the trench, and there wasn't an elven blade that didn't drip with gore. The infantry opened

a gap in their line for the riders to thunder through as an increasing rain of arrows held

the humans at bay.

Even as this was happening, Kith turned his eyes to the south, looking along the

horizon for some sign that the next phase of his strategy could begin. The time was ripe.

There! He saw a row of banners fluttering above the gray, and soon he discerned

movement.

"The dwarves of Thorbardin!" he cried, pointing.

The dwarves came on in a broad line, trotting as fast as their stocky legs could carry

them. A throaty roar burst from their throats, and the legion of Thorbardin hastened into a

charge.

The humans were pressing the elven forces at the gates of Sithelbec. From his

vantage, Kith-Kanan watched with grim satisfaction as his Wildrunners managed to beat

back attack after attack. To the south, some of the humans had now realized the threat

lumbering forward against their backs.

* * * * *

"Dwarves!" The cry raced through the human camp, quickly reaching General

Giarna. Kalawax, beside him, gaped in astonishment, his already pallid complexion

growing even more pale.

"The dwarven legion! Hylar, from Thorbardin!" More reports, from the throats of

hoarse messengers, were brought back to the general in his command tent. "They drive

against the south!"

"I knew nothing of this!" squawked Kalawax, unconsciously backing away from

Giarna. The dwarf's earlier aplomb had vanished with this new turn of events. "My spies

have been tricked. Our agents in Silvanost have worked hard to prevent this!"

"You have failed!"

Giarna's words carried with them a sentence of doom. His eyes, black and yawning,

seemed to rage for a moment with a deep, parasitic fire.

His fist lashed out, pummeling the Theiwar on the side of his head. But this was no

ordinary blow. It connected squarely, and the dwarf's thick skull erupted. The general's

other hand seized the corpse by the neck. His face flushed, and his eyes flared with an

insane pleasure. In another moment, he cast the Theiwar–now a dried and shriveled

husk–to the side.

Kalawax was already forgotten as the general absently wiped his hand on his cloak,

focusing on the problem of how to stem this most recent attack.

* * * * *

"For Thorbardin! For the king!"

A few human companies of swordsmen raced to block the surging waves of dwarves,

but most of the Army of Ergoth was preoccupied with the elven sortie. Dunbarth Ironthumb

led the way. A man raised a sword, holding his shield across his chest, and then

chopped savagely downward at the dwarven commander. Dunbarth's battle-axe, held

high, deflected the blow with a ringing clash. In the next instant, the dwarven veteran

slashed his weapon through a vicious swing, cutting underneath the human's shield. The

man shrieked in agony as the axe sliced open his belly.

"Charge! Full speed! To the tents!"

Dunbarth barked the commands, and the dwarves renewed their advance. Those

humans who tried to stand in the way quickly perished, while others dropped their weapons

and fled. Some of these escaped, while others fell beneath the volley of crossbow fire

leveled by the dwarven missile troops.

Dunbarth led a detachment along a row of tents, chopping at the guy lines of each,

watching the rude shelters collapse like wilting flowers. They came upon a supply

compound, where great pots of stew had been abandoned, still simmering. Seizing

everything flammable, they tossed weapons and harnesses, even carts and wagons, onto

the coals. Quickly searing tongues of flame licked upward, igniting the equipment and

marking the spot of the dwarven advance.

"Onward!" cried Dunbarth, and again the dwarves moved toward Sithelbec.

The human troops didn't react quickly to this new threat. Small bands perished as the

stocky Hylar swept around them, and the waves of the attackers gave little time for the

humans to muster a stand.

The sheer numbers of the defenders gave the humans an edge. Soon Dunbarth found

some brave human contesting every forward step he tried to take. His axe rose and fell,

and many an Ergothian veteran perished beneath that gory blade. But more and more of

the humans stepped up.

"Stand firm!" cried Ironthumb.

Now the dwarves hacked and chopped in tight formation in the middle of a

devastated human camp. A thousand men rushed against their left, met by the sharp clunk

of crossbows and a volley of steel-tipped death. Hundreds fell, pierced by the missiles,

and others turned to flee.

Swords met axes in five thousand duels to the death. The dwarves fought with

courage and discipline, holding their ranks tight. They maimed and killed with brutal

efficiency, but they were well matched by the courageous humans who pressed them in

such great numbers.

But it was those numbers that would have to tell the tale. Slowly Dunbarth's force

contracted into a great ring. Amid the cries and the clanging and the shouting and

screaming, Dunbarth slowly realized the tactical situation.

The dwarven legion was surrounded.

24

Late Morning, Battle of Sithelbec

Kith-Kanan watched the courageous stand of the dwarves with a lump of admiration

burning in his throat. Dunbarth's magnificent charge had taken the pressure off the elves

at the gate, and now Kencathedrus's force could surge forward again, expanding their

perimeter against the distracted humans.

Attacked from two sides, the Army of Ergoth wavered and twitched like a huge but

indecisive beast set upon by a swarm of stinging pests. Great masses of human foot soldiers

stood idle, waiting for orders while their comrades perished in desperate battles a

few hundred yards away.

But now a sense of purpose seemed to settle across the humans. The tens of

thousands of horses had been saddled. The riders, especially the light horsemen of

General Giarna's northern wing, had reached their steeds and were ready for battle.

Unlike the humans on foot, however, the cavalry did not race piecemeal into the fray,

setting themselves up for defeat. Instead, they collected into companies and regiments

and finally into massive columns. The riders surged around the outside of the melee,

gathering and positioning themselves for one crucial charge.

The elves of the sortie force could save themselves by a quick return to the fortress.

The dwarves, however, were isolated amid the wreckage of the south camp and had no

such fallback. Lacking pikes, they would be virtually helpless against the onslaught

Giarna was almost ready to unleash.

Kith-Kanan turned to Anakardain, who had remained at his side throughout the

battle. "Now! Give the signal!" commanded the general.

The elven mage pointed a finger toward the sky. " Exceriate ! Pyros, lofti !" he cried.

Instantly a crackling shaft of blue light erupted from his pointing hand, hissing

upward amid a trail of sparks. Even in the bright sunlight, the bolt of magic stood out

clearly, visible to all on the battlefield.

And, Kith devoutly hoped, to those who waited some twenty miles away–waited for

this very signal.

For several minutes after the flare, the battle raged, unchecked. Nor was there any

sign that might alter this, though Kith-Kanan kept his eyes glued to the eastern horizon.

The sun hung midway between that horizon and the zenith of noon, though it seemed

impossible that the battle had raged for barely three hours.

Now the human cavalry galloped from the pastures, an impressive mass of horsemen

under the tight control of a skilled commander. They surged around the trampled encampment,

veering toward the embattled dwarves.

Finally Kith-Kanan, still staring to the east, saw what he had been looking for: a line

of tiny winged figures, a hundred feet above the ground and heading fast in this direction.

Sunlight glinted from shiny steel helms and sparkled from deadly lance heads.

"The charge–sound it again!" barked the elven general to his trumpeter.

Another blare sounded across the field, and for a moment, the momentum of battle

paused. Humans looked upward in surprise. Their officers, in particular, were puzzled by

the command. The elven and dwarven troops, hard pressed now, seemed to be in no

position to execute an offensive.

"Again–the charge!"

Again and again the call brayed forth.

Kith-Kanan watched the Windriders as the soaring line approached nearer and

nearer, within two or three miles of the field. The elven general picked up his shield and

checked to see that his sword hung loosely in his scabbard.

"Take over the command," Kith told Parnigar, at the same time grabbing the reins of

Arcuballis and stepping to the griffon's side.

The Wildrunner captain stared at his general. "Surely you're not going out there! We

need you here. Your plan is working! Don't jeopardize it now!"

Kith shook his head, casting off the arguments. "The plan has a life of its own now.

If it fails, sound the recall and bring the elves back into the fortress. Otherwise, continue

to give them support from the archers on the walls–and be ready to bring the rest of them

out if the humans start to break."

"But, General!" Parnigar's next objections died away as Kith-Kanan swung into his

high leather saddle. Obviously he would not be deterred from his actions.

"Good luck to you," finished the captain, grimly looking over the field where

thousands of humans still surged in attack.

"Luck has been with us so far," Kith replied. "May she stay with us just for a little

longer."

Now the Windriders, still flying in their long, thin ranks, slowly nosed into shallow

dives. They hadn't yet been sighted by the humans on the ground, who had no reason to

expect attack from the air.

Again the bugler brayed his charge. Arcuballis sprang from the tower, his powerful

wings carrying Kith-Kanan into line with the other Windriders. At this cue, the griffons

shrieked their harsh challenge, a jarring noise that cut cleanly through the chaos of the

battle. Talons extended, beaks gaping, they howled downward from the heavens.

The whole pulse of the battle ceased as the shocking vision swept lower. Men, elves,

and dwarves alike gaped upward.

Cries of alarm and terror swept through the human ranks. Units of men who had until

now maneuvered in tightly disciplined formations suddenly scattered into uncontrolled

mobs. The shadows of the griffons passed across the field, and again the beasts shrilled

their savage war cries.

If the reaction by the humans to the sudden attack was dramatic and pronounced, the

effect upon the horses was profound. At the first sound of the approaching griffons, all

cohesion vanished from the cavalry units. Horses bucked and pitched, whinnied and

shrieked.

The Windriders passed over the entire battlefield a hundred feet above the ground.

Occasionally a human archer had the presence of mind to launch an arrow upward, but

these missiles always trailed their targets by great distances before arcing back to earth,

to land as often as not among the human ranks.

Elven archers along the walls of Silthelbec showered their stunned opponents with

renewed volleys as their captains sensed the battle's decisive moment.

"Again–once back, and we'll take to the ground," Kith-Kanan cried, edging

Arcuballis into a dive. The unit followed, and each griffon tucked its left wing, diving

steeply and turning sharply to the left.

The creatures swung through a hundred-and-eighty-degree arc, losing about sixty

feet of height. Now the cries of the elven riders joined those of the griffons as they raced

over the human army. Bugles blared from the fortress walls and towers and from the

ranks of the sortie force. Throaty dwarven cheers erupted from Dunbarth's veterans, and

the legion of Thorbardin quickly broke its defensive position, charging into the panicked

humans surrounding them.

The elves of the sortie force, too, charged through the ditch into the humans who had

been pressing them with such intensity. Columns of elves burst from the open gates of

Sithelbec, reinforcing their comrades.

Kith-Kanan selected a level field, a wide area of pasture between the western and

southern human camps, for a landing site and brought the griffons to earth there. His first

target would be the brigade of armored knights that were struggling to regain control of

their mounts.

The griffons barely slowed as they tucked their wings and sprang forward, propelled

by their powerful leonine hindquarters while their deadly foreclaws reached forward as if

eager to shred the flesh of the foe.

The single line of griffons, their riders still holding their lances forward, ripped into

the bucking, heaving mass of panicked horses. No charge of plate-mailed knights ever

struck with such killing force. Lances punctured armor and horses fell, gored by the

claws of the savage griffons, and then the elven swords struck home.

Kith-Kanan buried his lance in the chest of a black-armored knight as the human's

horse bucked in terror. He couldn't see the man's face behind the closed shield of his dark

helmet, but the steel tip of his weapon erupted from his victim's back in a shower of

blood. Arcuballis sprang, his claws tearing away the saddle of the heavy war-horse as the

terrified animal crashed to the ground.

His lance torn away by the force of the charge, Kith drew his sword. A knight

plunged nearby, desperately struggling to control his mount; Kith-Kanan stabbed him in

the back. Another armored warrior, on foot and wielding a massive morning star, swung

the spiked ball at Arcuballis. The griffon reared back and then pounced on the man,

tearing out his throat with a single powerful strike of his beak.

A chaotic jumble of shrieks and howls and moans surged around Kith, mingling with

the pounding of hooves and the clash of sharp steel against plate mail. But even the

superior armor of the humans couldn't save them. With no control over their mounts, they

could do little more than hold on and try to escape the maelstrom of death. Very few of

them made it.

"To the air!" Kith cried, spurring Arcuballis into a powerful upward leap. Shattered

knights covered the ground below them while the thundering mass of their horses

stampeded right through a line of human archers who couldn't get out of the way in time.

All around Kith-Kanan, the other griffons sprang into the air, and with regal grace, the

Windriders once again soared across the field. Slowly they climbed, forming again into a

long line, flying abreast.

As the griffon's wings carried him upward, Kith looked across the field. In the

distance rolled great clouds of dust. Some twenty thousand horses had already stampeded

away from the battle, and these plumes marked their paths of flight. Human infantry fled

from the tight ranks of the dwarven legion, while the elven reinforcements drove terrified

humans into panic. Many of the enemy had dropped their weapons and thrown up their

hands, pleading and begging for mercy.

Kith-Kanan veered toward the Ergothian foot soldiers, the line of Windriders

following in precise formation. He took up his bow and carefully nocked an arrow. He let

the missile fly, watching it dart downward and penetrate the shoulder of one of the foot

soldiers. The fellow toppled forward, his helmet rolling in the mud, and Kith-Kanan got a

jolt when he espied the long blond hair cascading around his body. Other arrows found

targets among this company as the griffons passed overhead, and the general noticed with

surprise these other rnen, too, all had blond hair.

One of them turned and launched an arrow upward, and a nearby griffon shrieked,

pierced through the wing. The animal's limb collapsed, and the beast tipped suddenly to

the side, plummeting to the earth among the Ergothian archers. The rider died from the

force of the crash, but this didn't stop the soldiers from hacking and chopping at his body

until only a gory mess remained.

Kith shot another arrow, and a third, watching grimly as each took the life of one of

these blond savages. Only when the humans had been riddled with losses did the

Windriders consider the death of their comrade avenged. As they soared away,

Kith-Kanan was struck by the narrow face of one of his victims, lying faceup in the mud.

Diving lower, he saw a pointed ear and blond hair.

Elves! His own people fighting for the Army of the Emperor of Ergoth! Growling in

anger, he urged Arcuballis upward, the rest of his company following. With terrible

purpose, he looked across the mud-and-blood-strewn field for an appropriate target.

He saw one group of horsemen, perhaps two thousand strong, that had rallied around

a streaming silver banner–the ensign of General Giarna himself, Kith knew. Instantly he

veered toward this unit as the general was urging his reluctant troops into a renewed

charge. The griffons flew low, no more than ten feet off the ground, and the creatures

shrilled their coming.

Unaffected by the curses of their commanding general, the human riders allowed

their horses to turn and scatter, unwilling to face the griffon cavalry. Kith-Kanan urged

Arcuballis onward, seeking the general himself, but the man had vanished among the

dusty, panicked ranks of his troops. He might already have been trampled to death, for all

Kith-Kanan knew.

The Windriders flew across the field, landing and attacking here and there, wherever

a pocket of the human army seemed willing to make a stand. Often the mere appearance

of the savage creatures was enough to break a formation, while occasionally they crashed

into the defending ranks and the griffons tore with talons and beaks while their elven

riders chopped and hacked with their lethal weapons.

The elves on the ground and their dwarven allies raced across the field, encouraging

the total rout of the human army. More and more of the humans held up their hands in

surrender as they concluded that escape was impossible. Many of the horses were

stampeded, riderless, away from the field, lost to the army for the forseeable future. A

great, streaming column of refugees–once a proud army but now a mass of panicked,

terrified, and defeated men–choked the few roads and scarred new trails across the prairie

grasslands.

When the Windriders finally came to earth before the gates of Sithelbec, they landed

only because there were no more enemies left to fight. Huge columns of human prisoners,

guarded by the watchful eyes of elven archers and dwarven axemen, stood listlessly along

the walls of the fortress. Amidst the smoke and chaos of the camps, detachments of the

Wildrunners poked and searched, uncovering more prisoners and marking stockpiles of

supplies.

"General, come quickly!" Kith-Kanan looked up at the cry, seeing a young captain

approaching. The elf's face was pale, and he gestured toward a place on the field.

"What is it?" Sensing the urgency in the young soldier's request, Kith hurried behind

him. In moments, he knew the reason for the officer's demeanor.

He found Kencathedrus lying among the bodies of a dozen humans. The old elf's

body bled from numerous ugly wounds.

"We beat them today," gasped Kith-Kanan's former teacher and weaponmaster,

managing a weak smile.

"Didn't we, though?" The general took his friend's head in his hands, looking toward

the nearby officer. "Get the cleric!" he hissed.

"He's been here," objected Kencathedrus. Kith-Kanan could read the result in the

wounded elf's eyes: There was nothing that even a cleric could do.

"I've lived to see this day. It makes my life as a warrior complete. The war is all but

won. You must pursue them now. Don't let them escape!"

Kencathedrus gripped Kith's arm with surprising strength, nearly raising himself up

from the ground. "Promise me," he gasped. "You will not let them escape!"

"I promise!" whispered the general. He cradled Kencathedrus's head for several

minutes, even though he knew that he was dead.

A messenger–a Kagonesti scout in full face paint–trotted up to Kith-Kanan to make a

report. "General, we have reports of enemy activity in the north camp."

That part of the huge circular human camp had seen the least fighting. Kith nodded

at the scout and gently laid Kencathedrus's body on the ground. He rose and called to a

nearby sergeant-major.

"Take three companies and sweep through the north camp," he ordered. He

remembered, too, that General Giarna and his horsemen had escaped in that direction. He

gestured to several of his Windriders. "Follow me."

25

Afternoon, Battle of Sithelbec

Suzine watched the battle in her glass. Here in her tent in the northern camp, she did

not feel the brunt of battle so heavily. Though the men here had raced to the fight and

suffered the same fate as the rest of the army, the camp itself had not yet experienced the

wholesale destruction that marked the south and west camps of the humans.

She had seen the Windriders soaring from the east, had watched their inexorable and

unsuspected approach against her general's army, and she had smiled. Her face and her

body still burned from Giarna's assaults, and her loathing for him had crystallized into

hatred.

Thus when the elf commander had led the attack that sundered the army around her,

she had felt a sense of joy, not dismay, as if Kith-Kanan had flown with no other purpose

than to effect her own personal rescue. Calmly she had watched the battle rage, following

the elven general in her mirror.

When he led the charge against Giarna's remnant of the great cavalry brigades, she

had held her breath, part of her hoping he might come upon the human general and strike

him dead, another part wishing that Giarna would simply flee and leave the rewards of

victory to the elven forces. Even when her elven guards fled from their posts, she had

taken no note.

Now she heard marching outside her tent as the elves of the sortie force moved

through the north camp looking for human survivors. Suzine heard some men surrender,

pleading for their lives; she heard others attack with taunts and curses, and finally

screams and moans as they fell.

The battle coursed around her, washing the tent city in smoke and flame and pain

and blood. But still Suzine remained within her tent, her eyes fixed upon the goldenhaired

figure in her mirror. She watched Kith-Kanan, mounted upon the leaping, clawing

figure of his great beast, slash and cut his way through the humans who tried to challenge

him. She saw that the elven attack moved steadily closer to her. Now the Wildrunners

fought a mere thousand yards to the south of her tent.

"Come to me, my warrior!" she breathed.

She willed him to come to her with all of her heart, watching in her glass as

Kith-Kanan hacked the head from a burly human axeman.

"I am here!" Suzine desperately wanted Kith-Kanan to sense her presence, her desire,

her–did she dare believe it–love.

The opening of her tent flap interrupted her reverie. It was him! It must be! Her heart

afire, she whirled, and only when she saw Giarna standing there did brutal reality shatter

her illusion. As for Giarna, he looked past her violently, at the image of the elven

commander in the mirror.

The human general stepped toward her, his face a mask of fury, more like a beast's

than a man's. It sent an icy blade of fear into the pit of Suzine's stomach.

When Giarna reached her and seized her arms, each in one bone-crushing hand, that

blade of fear twisted and slashed within her. She couldn't speak, couldn't think; she could

only stare into those wide, maddened eyes, the lips flecked with spittle, stretched taut to

reveal teeth that seemed to hunger for her soul.

"You betrayed me!" he snarled, throwing her roughly to the ground. "Where did

these flying beasts come from? How long have they been waiting, ready to strike?" He

knelt and punched her roughly, splitting her lip.

He glanced at the mirror on the table. Now, her concentration broken, the image of

Kith-Kanan had faded, but the truth of her obsession had been revealed.

The general's black-gauntleted hand pulled a dagger from his belt, and he pressed it

between her breasts, the point puncturing her gown and then brushing the skin beneath it.

"No," he said, at the very moment when she expected to die. "That would be too

merciful, too cheap a price for your treachery."

He stood and glared down at her. Every instinct of her body told her to scramble to

her feet, to fight him or to run! But his black eyes seemed to hypnotize her to the ground,

and she couldn't bring herself to move.

"Up, slut!" he growled, kicking her sharply in the ribs and then reaching down to

seize her long red hair. He pulled her to her knees, and she winced, closing her eyes,

expecting another blow to her face.

Then she sensed a change within the small confines of the tent, a sudden wash of air

against her face . . . the increase in the sounds of battle beyond . . .

Giarna cast her aside, and she looked at the door to the tent.

There he was!

Kith-Kanan stood in the opened tent flap. Beyond him lay bodies on the ground, and

she caught a glimpse of men and elves hacking against each other with swords and axes.

The tents in her line of view smoked and smoldered, some spewing orange flame.

The golden-haired elf stepped boldly into the darkened tent, his steel longsword

extended before him. He spoke harshly, his blade and his words directed at the human

general.

"Surrender, human, or die!" Kith-Kanan, obviously not recognizing the commander

of the great human army in the semidarkness of the tent, took another step toward Giarna.

The human general, his dagger still in his hand and his body trembling with rage,

stared soundlessly at the elf for a moment. Kith-Kanan squinted and crouched slightly,

ready for close-quarter fighting. As he studied his opponent, recognition dawned,

memories of that day of captivity a year before, when the battle had gone against the

elves.

"It's you," the elf whispered.

"And it is fitting that you come to me now," replied the human general, his voice a

strangled, triumphant snarl. "You will not live to enjoy the fruits of your victory!"

In a flash of motion, the man's hand whipped upward. In the same instant, he

reversed his grip on the dagger, flipping its hilt from his hand and catching the tip of the

foot-long blade in his fingertips.

"Look out!" Suzine screamed, suddenly finding her voice.

Giarna's hand lashed out, flinging the knife toward Kith's throat. Like a silver streak,

the blade flashed through the air, true toward its mark.

Kith-Kanan couldn't evade the throw, but he could parry it. His wrist twitched, a

barely perceptible movement that swung the tip of his sword through an arc of perhaps

six inches. That was enough; the longsword hit the knife with a sharp clink of metal, and

the smaller blade flipped over the elf's shoulder to strike the tent wall and fall harmlessly

to the ground.

Suzine scrambled away from Giarna as the man drew his sword and rushed toward

the elf. Kith-Kanan, eight inches shorter and perhaps a hundred pounds lighter than the

human general, met the charge squarely. The two blades clashed with a force that rang

like cymbals in the confines of the tent. The elf took one step back to absorb the

momentum of the attack, but Giarna was stopped in his tracks.

The two combatants circled, each totally focused on the other, looking for the

slightest hint, the twitch of an eye or a minute shifting of a shoulder, that would warn the

other of an intended lunge.

They slashed at each other, then darted out of the way and just as quickly slashed

again. Neither bore a shield. Consummate swordsmen both, they worked their way

around the spacious tent. Kith-Kanan tipped a dressing screen in front of the human. The

man leaped over it. Giarna drove the elf backward, hoping to trip him on Suzine's cot.

Kith sensed the threat and sprang to the rear, clearing the obstacle and then darting to the

side, driving against the human's flank.

Again the man parried, and the two warriors continued to circle, each conserving his

strength, neither showing the weariness of the long day's battle. Where Giarna's face was

a mask of twisted hatred, however, the elf's remained an image of cool, studied

detachment. The man struck with power that the elf could not hope to match, so

Kith-Kanan had to rely on skill and control for each parry, each lightning thrust of his

own.

The woman glanced back and forth, her eyes wide with horror alternating with hope.

They were too equal in skill, she saw, and given this fact, Giarna's size and strength

inevitably would vanquish the elf. An increasing sense of desperation marked Kith's parries

and attacks. Once he stumbled and Suzine screamed. Only Giarna's heavy boot, as it

caught in a fold of her rug, prevented his blade from tearing through the elf's heart.

Nevertheless, he managed to cut a slash in Kith's side, and the elf grunted in pain as

he regained his balance. Suzine saw a tightness in his expression that hadn't been there

before. It could be called the beginnings of fear. Once he glanced toward the door, as if

he hoped for assistance from that quarter.

Only when he did that did Suzine notice the sudden quiet that seemed to have

descended across the camp. The fight outside had moved beyond them. Kith-Kanan had

been left behind.

She saw Giarna drive Kith backward with a series of ringing blows, and she knew

she had to do something! Kith sprang forward, desperation apparent in each of his swinging

slashes. Giarna ducked away from each blow, giving ground as he searched for the

fatal opening.

There! The elf overreached himself, leaning too far forward in an attempt to draw

blood from his elusive target.

Giarna's sword came up, its tip glistening from Kith's moist blood, held for just a

moment as the elf followed through with his reckless swing.

Kith tried to twist away, raising his left arm so that he would take the wound in his

shoulder, but Giarna simply raised that deadly spike and drove it toward the elf's neck.

The sound of shattering glass was the next thing that Suzine knew. She didn't

understand how she came to hold the frame of her mirror in her hands, didn't comprehend

the shards of glass scattered across the rug. More glass, she saw, glinted upon Giarna's

shoulders. Blood spurted from long slashes in his scalp.

The human leader staggered, reeling from the blow to his head, as Kith-Kanan

twisted away. He looked at the woman, gratitude shining in his eyes–or was that

something deeper, more profound, more lasting, that she wished to see there?

The elf's blade came up, poised to strike, as Giarna shook his head and cursed,

wiping the blood from his eyes. His back to the door, he stared at the elf and the woman,

his face once again distorted by his monstrous hatred.

Kith-Kanan stepped to Suzine's side, sensing the man's hatred and protecting her

from any sudden attack.

But there would be no attack. Groggy, bleeding, surrounded by enemies, Giarna

made a more pragmatic decision. With one last burning look at the pair, he turned and

darted through the tent flap.

Kith-Kanan started forward but stopped when he felt Suzine's hand on his arm.

"Wait'" she said softly. She touched the bloodstained tunic at his side, where Giarna's

sword had cut him.

"You're hurt. Here, let me tend your wound."

The weariness of the great battle finally arose within Kith-Kanan as he lay upon the

bed. For the first time in more months than he cared to remember, he felt a gentle

sensation of peace.

* * * * *

The war almost ceased to exist for Kith-Kanan. It became distant and unreal. His

wound wasn't serious, and the woman who tended him was not only beautiful but also

had been haunting his dreams for weeks.

As the Army of Ergoth scattered, Parnigar took command of the pursuit, skillfully

massing the Wildrunners to attack concentrations of the enemy wherever they could be

found. Kith-Kanan was left to recuperate and paid little attention to his lieutenant's

reports of progress.

They all knew the humans were beaten. It would be a matter of weeks, perhaps

months now, before they were driven back across the border of their own empire. Windriders

sailed over the plains, dwarves and elves marched, and elven cavalry galloped at

will.

And back at the nearly abandoned fortress, the commander of this great army was

falling in love.

26

Late Summer, Year of the Bear

Already the cool winds presaging autumn swirled northward from the Courrain

Ocean, causing the trees of the great forestlands to discard their leaves and prepare for the

long dormancy of winter. The elves of Silvanesti felt the winds, too, throughout the

towns and estates and even in the great capital of Silvanost.

The city was alive with the great jubilation of victory. Word from the front told of

the rout of the human army. Kith-Kanan's army was on the offensive. The elven general

had sent columns of Wildrunners marching swiftly across the plains, fighting the pockets

of human resistance.

The dwarven league did its part against the humans, while the Windriders swept

down from the skies, shattering the once-proud Ergothian regiments, capturing or killing

hundreds of humans, and scattering the rest to the four winds. Most bands of desperate

survivors sought nothing more than flight back to the borders of Ergoth.

Great camps of human prisoners–tens of thousands–now littered the plains. Many of

these Kith-Kanan sent to the east upon the orders of his brother, where the human

prisoners were condemned to spend their lives in the Clan Oakleaf mines. Others were

assigned to rebuild and strengthen the fortress of Sithelbec and repair the damage to

settlements and villages ravaged by two years of war.

These should be the greatest days of my life, Sithas brooded over the reports from

his great emerald throne. He was reluctant to leave the Hall of Audience for the brightness

of the garden or the city despite the beautiful late afternoon sky.

An hour ago he had ordered his courtiers and nobles to leave him alone. He was

disconsolate, despite the most recent missive from Kith-Kanan–borne by a Windrider

courier, the news less than a week old–which had continued favorable reports of victory.

Perhaps he would have been relieved to talk to Lord Quimant–no one else seemed to

understand the pressures of his office–but that nobleman had left the city more than a

week earlier to assist in the administration of the new prisoner slaves at his family's

mines in the north. He had no clear idea when he would return.

Sithas's mind ran over his brother's latest communication. Kith reported that the

central wing of the Army of Ergoth, which had tried to march home by the shortest and

most direct route, had since ceased to exist. The entire force had been eradicated when

the Wildrunners gathered and attacked the central wing, causing massive casualties.

There was no longer much of a southern wing, either. Its soldiers had suffered the

highest toll in the initial counterattack. And the smaller northern wing, with its thousands

of light horsemen and fast-moving infantry under the shrewd General Giarna, had been

scattered into fragments that desperately sought refuge among the clumps of forest and

rough country that fringed the plains.

Why, then, could Sithas not share in the exultation of the Silvanost citizenry?

Perhaps because reports had been confirmed of Theiwar dwarves joining with the

fleeing remnants of Giarna's force, even though their cousins, the Hylar, fought on the

side of the elves. Sithas had no doubt that the Theiwar were led by the treacherous

general and ambassador Than-Kar. Such internecine dwarven politics served to further

confuse the purposes of this war.

Neither was there any doubt now that large numbers of renegade elves fought on the

side of Ergoth. Elves and dwarves and humans fighting against elves and dwarves!

Quimant continued to advocate the hiring of human mercenaries to further reinforce

Kith-Kanan's armies. This was a step that Sithas was not prepared to take. And yet . . .

The immediate victory didn't seem to offer an end to the differences among the elves.

Would Silvanesti ever be pure again? Would involvement in this war break down the barriers

that separated elvenkind from the rest of Krynn?

Even the name of the war itself, a name he had heard uttered in the streets of the city,

even murmured from the lips of polite society, underscored his anguish. Following the

summer's battles and the lists of the dead, it had become the universal sobriquet for the

war, too commonly known to be changed even by the decree of the Speaker of the Stars.

The Kinslayer War.

The name left a bitter taste on his tongue, for to Sithas, it represented all that was

wrong about the cause they fought against. Blind, misguided elves throwing in their lot

with the human enemy–they forfeited their right to any kinship!

More serious to Sithas, in a personal sense, was the nasty rumor now making the

rounds of the city, a preposterous allegation. The scurrilous gossip had it that Kith-Kanan

himself had taken a human woman for a consort! No one, of course, dared present this

news to Sithas directly, but he knew that the others believed and whispered the ludicrous

tale.

He had ordered members of the House Protectorate to disguise themselves as

workers and artisans and to enter the taverns and inns frequented by the citizens. They

were to listen carefully, and if they overheard anyone passing this rumor, the culprit was

to be immediately arrested and brought to the palace for questioning.

"Pa-pa?"

The voice brightened his mood as nothing else could. Sithas turned to see Vanesti

toddling toward him, carrying–as always–the wooden sword Kith-Kanan had made for

him before departing for Sithelbec.

"Come here, you," the Speaker of the Stars said, kneeling before the throne and

throwing wide his arms.

"Pa-pa!" Vanesti, his beaming face framed by long golden curls, hastened his pace

and immediately toppled forward, landing on his face.

Sithas scooped the tyke into his arms and held him, patting him on the back until his

crying ceased. "There, there. It doesn't hurt so bad, does it?" he soothed.

"Ow!" objected the youth, rubbing his nose.

Sithas chuckled. Still carrying his son, he started toward the royal door that led to the

Gardens of Astarin.

* * * * *

Quimant returned two days later and came to see Sithas as the Speaker sat alone in

the Hall of Audience.

"Your plan has worked miracles!" reported the lord. If he noticed his ruler's

melancholy air, he didn't call attention to it. "We have tripled the number of slaves and

can work the mines around the clock now. In addition, the freed elves have marched off

to the plains. They make a very formidable company indeed!"

"The war may be over by the time they reach the battlefield," sighed Sithas. "Perhaps

I have simply freed a number of malefactors for nothing."

Quimant shook his head. "I've heard the reports. Even though the Wildrunners are

pushing the humans westward, I wouldn't expect a complete end to the war before next

summer."

"Surely you don't think the Army of Ergoth will reassemble now that the Windriders

are pursuing them?"

"Not reassemble, no, but they will break into small bands. Kith-Kanan's army will

find many of them, but not all. Yes, Excellency, I fear we will still have an enemy to

contend with a year from now–perhaps even longer."

Sithas cast off the notion as unthinkable. Before the debate proceeded further,

however, a guard appeared at the hall's door.

"What is it?" inquired the Speaker.

"Lashio has captured a fellow, a stonemason, in the city. He was spreading the–er,

the tale about General Kith-Kanan."

Sithas bolted upright in his throne. "Bring him to me! And summon the stablemaster.

Tell him to bring a whip!"

"Your Majesty?"

The words came from behind the guard, who stepped aside and let Tamanier

Ambrodel enter. The noble elf approached and bowed formally. "May I have a private

word with the Speaker?"

"Leave us," Sithas told the guard. When only Quimant and himself were present, he

gestured Tamanier to speak.

"I wish to prevent you from allowing a grave injustice," Ambrodel began.

"I dispense the justice here. What business is it of yours?" demanded Sithas.

Ambrodel flinched at the Speaker's harsh tone but forged ahead. "I am here at your

mother's request."

"What is the nature of this 'injustice'?"

"It concerns your punishment of this elf, this mason. Your mother, as you know, has

received letters from Kith-Kanan separate from the official missives he sends to you. It

seems that he communicates to her on matters that he does not care to discuss … with

others."

Sithas scowled.

"Kith-Kanan has taken a human woman as his companion. He has written your

mother about her. Apparently he is very much smitten."

Sithas sagged backward in the monstrous throne. He wanted to curse at Tamanier

Ambrodel, to call him a liar. But he couldn't. Instead, he had to accept the unthinkable, no

matter how nightmarish the knowledge.

He suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

* * * * *

Sithas labored for hours over the letter he tried to write to his brother. He attempted a

number of beginnings.

Kith-Kanan, my Brother,

I have word from mother of a woman you have taken from the enemy

camp. She tells me that the human saved your life. We are grateful, of

course.

He could go no further. He wanted to write, Why? Why? Don't you understand what

we're fighting for? He wanted to ask why victory had come to smell like failure and

defeat.

Sithas crumpled up the parchment and hurled it into the fireplace. The realization hit

him brutally.

He no longer had anything to say to his brother.

27

Early Winter, Last Day of 2213 (PC)

The blizzard swept over the ice-berg dotted ocean and around the snow-swept flanks

of the Kharolis Mountains. It roared over the plains, making life a bitter and icy nightmare

for the armies of both sides.

Those forces–human, elven, and dwarven–ceased all maneuvers and combat.

Wherever the blast caught them, the brigades and regiments of the Wildrunners sought

what little shelter they could and made quarters for the winter. Their Ergothian enemies,

in even smaller bands, occupied towns, farm outposts, and wilderness camps in a

desperate attempt to shelter themselves from nature's onslaught.

The Windriders, together with a large detachment of the dwarven legion, were more

fortunate. Their camp occupied the barns and cabins of a huge farm, abandoned by its human

tenants during the rout of the Ergothian Army. Here they found livestock for the

griffons and bins of grain from which elven and dwarven cooks prepared a hard bread

that, while bland and tough, would sustain the troops for several months.

The rest of Kith-Kanan's army occupied a multitude of camps, more than forty,

across an arc of the plains stretching some five hundred miles.

On this brutally cold day, Kith made an inspection of the Windriders' camp. He

pulled his woolen scarf closer about his face. It wouldn't entirely block the wind, but

perhaps it would keep his ears from becoming frostbitten. In a few minutes, he would

reach the shelter of the dwarven lodge, where he would meet with Dunbarth. After that,

the warm fire of his own house . . . and Suzine.

The Wildrunners had succeeded in driving the remnants of the Ergothian Army

hundreds of miles to the west. Throughout the campaign, Suzine had ridden with Kith on

his griffon and lain with him in his tent. Zestful and hardy in a way that was unlike elven

females, Suzine had adopted his life as her own and made no complaints about fighting

conditions or the vicissitudes of weather.

The Army of Ergoth had left thousands of corpses behind on the plains. The bravest

of the human warriors had taken shelter in tracts of forestland, where the Windriders

couldn't pursue. Most of their fellows streamed home to Daltigoth. But these stubborn

remnants, mostly light horsemen from the northern wing of the Ergothian Army, fought

and held out.

Trapped within the forests, the horsemen couldn't use their strengths of speed and

surprise. Out of necessity, the human army began waging a relentless campaign of

guerrilla warfare, striking in small groups, then falling back to the woods. Ironically the

elves among them had proven particularly adept at organizing and utilizing these

scattershot tactics.

After months of hard pursuit and small victories in countless skirmishes, Kith-Kanan

was preparing for a sweeping attack that might have expelled the hated enemy from the

elven lands altogether. The Wildrunner infantry had assembled, ready to drive into the

tracts of forest and expunge the Ergothian troops. Elven cavalry and the Windriders

would fall upon them after they were forced into the open.

Then the early blows of winter had paralyzed military operations.

In his heart, the elven general felt scant disappointment that circumstances would

force him to remain in the field at least until spring. He was content in the large,

well-heated cottage that he had requisitioned, his due as commander. He was content in

the arms of Suzine. How she had changed his life, revitalized him, given him a sense of

being that extended beyond the present! It was ironic, he reflected, that it was war

between their people that had brought them together.

The long, low shape of the dwarven lodge emerged before him, and he knocked on

the heavy wooden door, setting aside thoughts of his woman until later. The portal swung

open, and he stepped into the dim, cavelike log house that the dwarves had erected as

their winter shelter. The temperature, while warmer than the outside air, was quite a bit

cooler than that which was maintained in the elven shelters.

"Come in, General!" boomed Dunbarth, amid a crowd of his veterans gathered

around a platform in the middle of the lodge.

Two nearly naked dwarves gasped for breath on the stage before hurling themselves

at each other. One of them swiftly picked his opponent up and flipped him over his shoulder,

whereupon the dwarven crowd erupted into cheers and boos. More than a few

pouches, bulging with gold and silver coins, changed hands.

"At least you don't lack for diversion," remarked Kith-Kanan with a smile, settling

beside the dwarf commander at a low bench that several other dwarves had swiftly

vacated for him.

Dunbarth chuckled. "It'll do until we can get back to the real war. Here, I've had

some wine heated for you."

"Thanks." Kith took the proffered mug while Dunbarth hefted a foaming tankard of

ale. How the dwarves, who marched with a relatively small train of supplies, maintained

a supply of the bitter draft was a mystery to Kith, yet every time he visited this winter

shelter he found them drinking huge quantities of the stuff.

"And how do our elven comrades weather the storm?" inquired the dwarven

commander.

"As well as could be expected. The griffons seem unaffected for the most part, while

the Windriders and other elves have sufficient shelter. It could be a long winter."

"Aye. It could be a long war, too." Dunbarth made the remark in a lighthearted tone,

but Kith-Kanan didn't think he was joking.

"I don't think so," the elf countered. "We have the remnants of the humans trapped to

the west. Surely they can't move any more than we can in the midst of this storm."

The dwarf nodded in silent agreement, so the elf continued. "As soon as the worst of

the winter passes, we'll head into the attack. It shouldn't take more than two months to

push the whole mass of them off the plains and back within the borders of Ergoth where

they belong!"

"I hope you're right," replied the dwarven general sincerely. "Yet I'm worried about

their commander, this Giarna. He's a resourceful devil!"

"I can handle Giarna!" Kith's voice was almost a growl, and Dunbarth looked at him

in surprise.

"Any word from your brother?" inquired the dwarf after a moment's pause.

"Not since the storm set in."

"Thorbardin is disunited," reported his companion. "The Theiwar agitate for a

withdrawal of dwarven troops, and it seems they might be winning the Daergar Clan over

to their side."

"No wonder, with their own 'hero' joining ranks with the Army of Ergoth." The

reports had been confirmed in late autumn: After Sithas had driven him from Silvanost,

Than-Kar had delivered his battalion over to General Giarna. The Theiwar dwarves had

helped protect the retreating army during the last weeks of the campaign before winter

had stopped all action.

"A shameful business, that," agreed Dunbarth. "The lines of battle may be clear on

the field, but in the minds of our people, they begin to grow very hazy indeed."

"Do you need anything here?" inquired Kith-Kanan.

"You wouldn't have a hundred bawdy dwarven wenches, would you?" asked

Dunbarth with a sly grin. He winked at the elf. "Though perhaps they would merely sap

our fighting spirits. One has to be careful, you know!"

Kith laughed, suddenly embarrassed about his own circumstances. The presence of

Suzine in his house was common knowledge throughout the camp. He felt no shame

about that, and he knew his troops liked the human woman and that she returned their

obvious affection. Still, the thought of her being regarded as his "bawdy wench" he found

disturbing.

They talked for a while longer of the pleasures of homecomings and of adventures in

more peaceful times. The storm continued unabated, and finally Kith-Kanan remembered

that he needed to finish his rounds before returning to his own house. He bade his

farewells and continued his inspection of the other elven positions before turning toward

his cottage.

His heart rose at the prospect of seeing Suzine again, though he had been gone from

her presence for mere hours. He couldn't bear the thought of this winter camp without

her. But he wondered about the men. Did they see her as a "wench" as Dunbarth seemed

to? As some sort of camp follower? The thought would not go away.

A bodyguard, an immaculate corporal in the armor of the House Protectorate, threw

open the door of his house as he approached. Kith quickly went inside, enjoying the

warmth that caressed him as he shook off his snow-covered garb.

He passed through the guardroom–once the parlor of the house, but now the garrison

for a dozen men-at-arms, those trusted with the life of the army commander. He nodded

at the elves, all of whom had snapped to attention, but he quickly passed through the

room into the smaller chambers beyond, closing the interior door behind him.

A crackling blaze filled the fireplace before him, and the aroma of sizzling beef

teased his nostrils. Suzine came into his arms and he felt completely alive. Everything

would wait until the delights of reunion had run their course. Without speaking, they

went to the hearth and lay down before the fire.

Only afterward did they slowly break the spell of their silence.

"Did you find Arcuballis in the pasture?" Suzine asked, lazily tracing a finger along

Kith-Kanan's bare arm.

"Yes. He seems to prefer the open field to the barn," the elf replied. "I tried to coax

him into a stall, but he stayed outside, weathering the storm."

"He's too much like his master," the human woman said tenderly. Finally she rose

and fetched a jug of wine that she had warmed by the fireplace. Huddled together under a

bearskin, they each enjoyed a glass.

"It's odd," said Kith-Kanan, his mood reflective. "These are the most peaceful times

I've ever spent, here beside the fire with you."

"It's not odd," replied the woman. "We were meant to know peace together. I've seen

it, known it, for years."

Kith didn't dispute her. She had told him how she used to watch him in the mirror,

the enchanted glass that she had crashed over Giarna's skull to save his life. She carried

the broken shards of the glass in a soft leather box. He knew that she had seen the

griffons before the battle yet hadn't told her commander about this crucial fact. Often he

had wondered what could have made her take such a risk for one–an enemy!–she had met

only once before.

Yet as the weeks became months, he had ceased to ask these questions, sensing–as

did Suzine–the rightness of their lives together. She brought to him a comfort and serenity

that he thought had been gone forever. With her, he felt a completeness that he had

never before attained, not with Anaya nor Hermathya.

That she was a human seemed astonishingly irrelevant to Kith. He knew that the folk

of the plains, be they elf or dwarf or human, had begun to see the war break the barriers

of racial purity that had so long obsessed them. He wondered, for a brief moment,

whether the elves of Silvanost would ever be able to appreciate the good humans, people

like Suzine.

A schism was growing, he knew, among his folk. It divided the nation just as

certainly as it would inevitably divide his brother and himself. Kith-Kanan had made up

his mind which side he was on, and in that decision, he knew that he had crossed a line.

This woman with him now, her head resting so softly upon his shoulder, deserved

more than to be considered a general's "bawdy wench." Perhaps the fumes from the fire

wafted too thickly through the room, muddling his thoughts. Or perhaps their isolation

here on the far frontiers of the kingdom brought home to Kith the truly important things

in his life.

In any event, he made up his mind. Slowly he turned, feeling her stir against his side.

Sleepily she opened an eye, brushing aside her red hair to smile at him.

"Will you become my wife?" asked the general of the army.

"Of course," replied his human woman.

P ART IV: K INSLAYER

28

from The River of Time ,

the Great Scroll of Astinus,

Master Historian of Krynn

The Kinslayer War spewed blood across the plainslands for nearly forty years. It was

a period of long, protracted battles, of vast interludes of retrenchment, of starvation,

disease, and death. Savage blizzards froze the armies camped in winter, while fierce

storms–lightning, hail, and cyclonic winds–ripped capriciously through the ranks of both

sides during the spring season.

From the historian's perspective, there is a dreary sameness to the war. Kith-Kanan's

Wildrunners pursued the humans, attacked them, seemed to wipe them out, and then even

more humans took the places of the slain.

General Giarna maintained complete control of the Ergothian troops, and though his

losses were horrendous, he bore them without regret. The pressure of his sudden attacks

chipped away at the elves, while reinforcements balanced out the general's losses. A

stalemate evolved, with the forces of Silvanesti winning every battle, but with the

humans always averting complete defeat.

Despite this monotonous pattern, the course of the war had several key junctures.

The Siege of Sithelbec must be considered a decisive hour. It seemed the last chance for

General Giarna to attain an undiluted victory. But the Battle of Sithelbec turned the tide

and will always be ranked among the turning points of the history of Krynn.

Throughout, the life of one individual best illustrates the tragedy and the inevitability

of the Kinslayer War. This is the human wife of Kith-Kanan, Suzine des Quivalin.

Relative of the great Emperor Quivalin V, as well as his heirs (a total of three

Quivalin rulers presided over the war), her presence in the army of her nation's enemy

served to solidify the human resolve. Disowned by her monarch, sentenced in absentia to

hang by her former lover, General Giarna, she took to the elven cause with steadfast

loyalty.

For over thirty-five years, the greater part of her life, she remained true to her

husband, first as his lover and later as his companion and adviser, always as his wife. She

was never accepted by the elves of Silvanesti; her husband's brother never even

acknowledged her existence. She bore Kith-Kanan two children, and the half-elves were

raised as elves among the clans of the Wildrunners.

Yet the elven army, like its society, changed over the years. Even as human blood

entered the royal elven veins, the human presence came to be accepted as a part of the

Wildrunner force. The pure racial lines of the eastern elves became irrelevant in the

mixed culture of the west. Even as they fought for the cause of Silvanesti, Kith-Kanan's

elves lost the distinction of the war's purpose as seen by Sithas.

And the battles raged on and seemingly built to an inevitable climax, only to have

the elusive moment of decision once again slip out of reach.

Beyond these key moments, however, and certainly surpassing them in oddity, was

the peculiar end of the war itself. . . .

29

Early Spring, Year of the Cloud Giant

2177 (PC)

The sprig that had once made such a proud sapling now towered over Kith-Kanan, a

stalwart oak of some sixty feet in height. He gazed at it but could summon little emotion.

He found that the memory of Anaya had faded over the distance of time. Nearly four

decades of combat, of battles against the elusive armies of Ergoth, had worn away at his

life. It seemed that treasured thoughts of a time before the war had been the first

memories to disappear. Mackeli and Anaya might have been acquaintances of a friend,

elves he had heard described and seen illustrated but had never actually met.

Even Suzine. He had a hard time now remembering her as she used to be. Her hair,

in earlier days lush and fiery red, was now thin and white. Once supple grace had become

slow and awkward movement, her once beautiful young body arthritic and stiff. Her sight

and hearing had begun to fail. While he, with his elven longevity, was still a young adult,

she had become an elderly woman.

He had flown here early this morning, partly in order to avoid her–to avoid all of

those who gathered at the forest camp, an hour's flight by griffon from here, for the war

conference. This was the eighth such council between himself and his brother. They met

about once every five years. Most of the gatherings occurred, like this one, halfway

between Silvanost and Silthelbec. Kith-Kanan couldn't bear the thought of returning to

the elven capital, and Sithas preferred to avoid a journey all the way to the war zone.

These quintennial conferences had begun as grand outings, an opportunity for the

general and his family, together with his most trusted captains, to embark on a journey

away from the tedious rigors of war. By now, they were anathema to Kith, as predictable

in their own way as the battlefield.

His brother's family and retinue had made an art out of shunning the human woman

whom Kith-Kanan had married. Suzine was always invited to the banquets and feasts and

celebrations. Once there, however, she was pointedly ignored. Some elves, such as his

mother, Nirakina, had defied the trend, showing kindness and courtesy to Kith's wife.

Nirakina's husband of the past thirty years, Tamanier Ambrodel, who came from the

plainslands himself, tried to lessen the prejudice that fell upon her.

But Hermathya and Quimant and the others had shown her only contempt, and over

the years, Suzine had tired of facing their antagonism. Now she avoided the large gatherings,

though she still traveled with Kith-Kanan to the conference site.

Kith looked away from the tree, as if guilty about his thoughts, which now turned to

his children. Suzine had borne him two half-elves, and he knew that they should bring

him joy.

Ulvian, son of Kith-Kanan! That one, it would seem, was destined to rule some day.

Was he not the eldest son of the elven hero who had led his army faithfully for all the

years of the Kinslayer War? Despite the rapid growth to adulthood that was a mark of his

half-human ancestry, how could he fail to show the wisdom and bravery that had been his

father's traits of survival for all these years? So far, those traits hadn't been evident. The

lad showed a lack of ambition bordering on indolence, and his arrogant and supercilious

nature had alienated anyone who had tried to be his friend.

Or Verhanna, his daughter. Blessed image of her mother? She was in danger of

becoming, with her constant tantrums and her litany of rude demands, a living reminder

of the divisive war that had become a way of life for him and for all of the elven peoples.

The Kinslayer War. How many families had been divided by death or betrayal? No

longer was this a war between elves and humans, if it had ever been that. The population

of Silvanesti couldn't support the level of warfare, so now, in addition to the stalwart

dwarves, huge companies of human mercenaries fought alongside his Wildrunners. They

were well paid for serving the elven standards.

At the same time, many elves, especially the Kagonesti, driven from the nation by

the demanding decrees of the Speaker of the Stars, had fled to the human banner.

Dwarves, particularly of the Theiwar and Daergar clans, had also enlisted to serve the

Emperor of Ergoth.

This was a strange admixture of alliances. How often had elf slain elf, human fought

human, or dwarf butchered dwarf? Each battle brought new atrocities, as likely as not

visited by fighters of one race against enemies of the same background.

The war, once fought along clear and precise lines, had become an endlessly feeding

monster, for the numberless enemy seemed willing to pay any price to win, and the

skilled and valiant troops of Kith-Kanan purchased victory after victory on scores of

battlefields with the precious coin of their own blood. Yet ultimate victory–a settlement

of the war itself–remained elusive.

With a sigh, Kith-Kanan rose to his feet and crossed wearily to Arcuballis. He would

have to get back to the camp, he knew. The conference was due to begin in an hour. The

griffon leaped into the sky while the rider mused sadly about the time when his life had

been shadowed by the growth of a tree in the forest.

* * * * *

"We have chased the humans across the plains every summer! We kill a thousand of

them, and five thousand come to take their places," Kith-Kanan loudly complained about

the frustrating cycle of events.

Sithas, Lord Quimant, and Tamanier Ambrodel had come from the capital city to

attend this council. For his part, Kith-Kanan had brought Parnigar and Dunbarth

Ironthumb on his journey across the plains. Other members of their respective

parties–including Hermathya, Nirakina, Suzine, and Mari, Parnigar's newest human

wife–now enjoyed the shade of awnings and trees around the fringes of the great meadow

where they camped.

Meanwhile, the two delegations engaged in heated discussion within an enclosed tent

in the middle of the clearing. Two dozen guards stood, out of earshot, around the shelter.

The most savage of the spring storms were still some weeks away, but a steady

drizzle soaked the tent and added to the gray futility of the mood.

"We crush an army in battle, and another army marches at us from another direction.

They know they cannot defeat us, yet they keep trying! What kind of creatures are they?

If they kill five of my Windriders at the cost of a thousand of their own soldiers, they hail

it as a victory!"

Kith-Kanan shook his head, knowing that it was a human victory whenever his

griffon cavalry lost even one precious body. The Windriders numbered a bare hundred

and fifty stalwart veterans now, scarcely a third of their original number. There were no

more griffons; to ride, nor trained elven warriors to mount them. Yet the tide of humans

flowing across the plains seemed to grow thicker every year.

"What kind of beings are these that they could spill so much blood, lose so many

lives, and still carry forward their war?" Sithas demanded, exasperated. Even after forty

years of warfare, the Speaker of the Stars couldn't fathom the motivations of the humans

or their various allies.

"They breed like rabbits," observed Quimant. "We have no hope of matching their

numbers, and our treasury runs dry simply to maintain the troops that we have."

"Knowing that this is true and doing something about it are two different things,"

Sithas retorted.

The council lapsed into glum silence. There was a depressing familiarity to their

predicament. The national attrition caused by the war had become readily apparent thirty

years earlier.

"The winter, at least, has been mild," suggested Parnigar, trying to improve their

mood. "We lost very few casualties to cold or snow."

"Yes, but in the past, such winters have given us the heaviest spring storms,"

answered Kith-Kanan. "And the summers are always bloody," he concluded.

"We could send peace feelers to the emperor," suggested Tamanier Ambrodel. "It

may be that Quivalin the Seventh is more amenable than his father or grandfather."

Parnigar snorted. "He's been ruler for four years. In that time, we've seen, if

anything, an increase in the pace of Ergoth's attacks.! They butcher their prisoners. This

past summer, they began poisoning wells wherever they passed. No, Quivalin the

Seventh is no peacemonger."

"Perhaps it is not the emperor's true will," suggested Quimant, drawing another snort

from Parnigar. "General Giarna has made an empire for himself of the battlefield. He

would be reluctant to relinquish it–and what better way to sustain his power than to

ensure that the war continues?"

"There is the matter of General Giarna," grunted Dunbarth, with an uncharacteristic

scowl. "He presses forward with every opportunity, more brutal than ever. I don't think

he'd desist even if given the order. War has become his life. It sustains him!"

"Surely after all these years . . . ?" Tamanier wondered.

"The man doesn't age! Our spies tell us he looks the same as he did forty years ago,

and he has the vitality of a young man. His own troops hate and fear him, but there are

worse ways to ensure the obedience of your subordinates."

"We have taken the extreme step of sending assassins after him, a brigade comprised

of humans and elves both." Kith related the tale of the assassination attempt. "None

survived. From what we have pieced together, they reached Giarna in his tent. His

personal security seemed lax. They attacked with daggers and swords but couldn't even

injure him."

"Surely that's an exaggeration," suggested his brother. "If they got that close, how

could they not have been successful?"

"General Giarna has survived before, under circumstances where I would have

expected him to die. He has been showered with arrows. Though his horse may be slain

beneath him, he gets away on foot. He has fought his way out of deadly ambushes,

leaving dozens of dead Wildrunners behind him."

"Something unnatural is at work there," pronounced Quimant. "It's dangerous to

think of peace with such a creature."

"It is dangerous to fight such a creature as well," remarked Parnigar pointedly.

Quimant understood the intent of the remark. Parnigar had done nearly a half century of

fighting, after all, while Quimant's family had spent those years raking in a fortune in

munitions profits. But the lord coolly ignored the warrior's provocation.

"We cannot talk of peace, yet," emphasized Sithas. He turned to his brother. "We

need something that will allow us to bargain from a position of strength."

"Do you mean to suggest that you'd be willing to bargain?" asked Kith-Kanan,

surprised.

Sithas sighed. "You're right. You've all been right, but for years, I've refused to

believe you. But it has begun to seem inconceivable that we can win a complete victory

over the humans. And we cannot maintain this costly war forever!"

"I must inform you," interjected Dunbarth, clearing his throat. "Though I have stalled

my king for several years now, his patience will not last forever. Already many dwarves

are agitating for us to return home. You must realize that King Pandelthain is not so

suspicious of humans as was King Hal-Waith."

And you, old friend–you deserve the chance to go home, to rest and retire.

Kith-Kanan kept that thought to himself. Nevertheless, the changes wrought by age in

Dunbarth were more apparent than any that were manifest in the elves. The dwarf's beard

and hair were the color of silver. His once husky shoulders had a frail look to them, as if

his body was a mere shell of its former self. The skin of his face was mottled and

wrinkled.

Yet his eyes still shined with a merry light and keen perceptiveness. Now, as if he

followed Kith's thoughts, he turned to the elven general and chuckled. "Tell 'em, young

fellow. Tell 'em what we've got up our sleeves."

Kith nodded. The time was right.

"We have word that the humans are planning a trap against the Windriders. They

will lure the griffons into an archery ambush. We want to amass the Wildrunners, using

all the mercenaries, garrison forces, and dwarves–our entire army. We want to come at

them from the north, east, and south. If we hit them hard and we keep the advantage of

surprise, we'll achieve the kind of setback that will force them to the bargaining table."

"But Sithelbec–you'd leave the fortress unscreened?" Sithas asked. In the course of

the Kinslayer War, the siege of those high palisades had become an epic tale, and a

bustling military city had blossomed around the walls. The place had a tremendous

symbolic as well as practical importance to the Silvanesti cause, and a sizable proportion

of the Wildrunners were permanently garrisoned there.

"It's a risk," Kith-Kanan admitted. "We will move quickly, striking before the

humans can learn our intentions. Then the Windriders will act as the bait of the trap, and

while the enemy is distracted, we will strike."

"It's worth a try," urged Parnigar, supporting his general's plan. "We can't keep

chasing shadows year after year!"

"Some shadows are more easily caught," observed Quimant acidly. "The human

women, for example."

Parnigar leaped to his feet, knocking his chair over backward and lunging toward the

lord.

"Enough!" The Speaker of the Stars reached out and pushed the warrior back toward

his chair. Even in his rage, Parnigar heeded his ruler.

"Your insulting remark was uncalled for!" barked Kith-Kanan, staring at Quimant.

"True," Sithas agreed. "But neither would it be invited if you and your officers kept

your loyalties a little more clear in your own heads!"

Kith-Kanan flushed with anger and frustration. Why did it always come down to

this? He glared at Sithas as if his twin was a stranger.

A noise at the tent flap pulled their attention away from the conference. Vanesti,

Ulvian, and Verhanna, the children of the royal twins, erupted into the tent with

impertinent boldness. Hermathya followed.

Kith-Kanan met her eyes and froze, suddenly numb. By the gods, he had forgotten

how beautiful she was! Furious and guilty, he nonetheless watched her furtively. She cast

him a sideways glance, and as always, he saw the beckoning in her eye that only

furthered his pain. Never again, he knew, would he betray his brother. And now there

was the matter of his own wife.

"Uncle Kith!" Vanesti irritated his father by running directly to his uncle. The young

elf stopped quickly and then pantomimed a formal bow.

"Come here. Stop acting like the court jester!" Kith swept his nephew into an

embrace, keenly aware of the eyes of his own children upon him. Ulvian and Verhanna,

though younger than Vanesti, had matured much more quickly because of their

half-human blood. Already young adults, they looked disdainfully upon such adolescent

outbursts of emotion.

Perhaps, too, they sensed the bitter contrast in their relationship with their own uncle.

There had never been an "Uncle Sithas" or a "come here, children!" between them. They

were half-human and consequently had no place in the Speaker's royal family.

Perhaps they understood, but they didn't forgive.

"This reminds me of a final matter for discussion," Sithas said stiffly. He relaxed

when Vanesti left Kith's side to stand with Ulvian and Vehanna beside the open door flap

of the tent.

"Vanesti is due to begin his training in the warrior arts. He has disdained the

academies in the city and has prevailed upon me to make this request: Will you take him

as your squire?"

For a moment, Kith-Kanan sat back, acutely aware of Vanesti's hopeful gaze. He

couldn't suppress a surge of affection and pride. He liked the young elf and felt that he

would be a good warrior–good at whatever he attempted, for that matter. Yet he couldn't

entirely ignore another feeling.

The proposition reminded him of Ulvian. Kith had sent his son to Parnigar, as squire

to that most able soldier. The young half-elf had proven so intractable and shiftless that,

with deep regret, Parnigar had been forced to send him back to his father. The failure had

stung Kith-Kanan far more than it had disturbed Ulvian.

Yet when he looked at the young form of Vanesti, so much like a younger version of

Kith-Kanan himself, he knew what his answer must be.

"It would be my honor," Kith replied seriously.

* * * * *

The aging woman watched the image of the elf in the mirror. The glass was cracked

and patched, with several slivers missing. It had, after all, been reconstructed from

shards. Five years earlier, she had hired a legion of skilled elven artisans to take those

broken pieces, guarded by Suzine for years, adding crafts of their own to restore the glass

to some measure of its former power.

It seemed that, with the distance that had grown between herself and her husband,

she had little left to do in life but observe the course of things around her. The mirror

gave her the means to do so, without forcing her to leave her carriage and be exposed to

the subtle humiliations of the Silvanesti elves.

Suzine flushed as she thought of Hermathya and Quimant, whose cutting remarks

had hurt her decades earlier when she had allowed them to penetrate her emotions. Yet

even those barbs had been easier to take than the aloof silence of Sithas, her own

brother-in-law, who had barely acknowledged her existence!

Of course, there was goodness to be found in elvenkind, too. There was Nirakina,

who had always treated her as a daughter, and Tamanier Ambrodel, who had offered

friendship. But now age had impaired even those relationships. How could she feel like a

daughter to Nirakina when the four-centuries old elf-woman seemed like a spry young

woman beside the aging Suzine? And her hearing made conversation difficult, so that

even Tamanier Ambrodel had to shout his remarks, often repeating them two or three

times. She found it less embarrassing to simply avoid these two good souls.

So she remained in this enclosed coach that Kith-Kanan had given her. The large

vehicle was comfortably appointed, even to the point of containing a soft bed–a bed that

was always hers alone.

For what must have been the millionth time, she wondered about the course her life

had taken, about the love she had developed for an elf who would inevitably outlive her

by centuries. She couldn't regret that decision. Her years of happiness with Kith-Kanan

had been the finest of her life. But those years were gone, and if she didn't regret her

choice of nearly four decades earlier, neither could she bury the unhappiness that was

now her constant companion.

Her children were no comfort. Ulvian and Verhanna seemed embarrassed by their

mother's humanness and shunned her, pretending to be full-blooded elves insofar as they

could. But she felt pity for them as well, for their father had never shown them the

affection that would have been due his proper heirs–as if he himself was secretly

ashamed of their mixed racial heritage.

Now that she was too old to ride a horse, her husband carted her around in this

carriage. She felt like so much baggage, a cargo that Kith-Kanan was determined to see

properly delivered before he proceeded with the rest of his life. How long could she

remain like this? What could she do to change her lot in her waning years?

Her mind drifted to the enemy–to her husband's enemy and her own. General Giarna

frightened her now more than ever before. Often she had observed him in the repaired

glass, shocked by the youthful appearance and vigor of the man. She sensed in him the

power of something much deeper than she had first suspected.

Often she remembered the way Giarna had slain General Barnet. It was as if he had

sucked the life out of him, she remembered thinking. That, she now knew, was exactly

what he had done. How many more lives had the Boy General claimed over the years?

What was the true cost of his youthfulness?

Her mind and her mirror drifted back to Kith-Kanan. She saw him in the conference.

He was close enough to her that she could see him very clearly indeed. The elf's image

grew large in her mirror, and then she looked into his eyes, through his eyes. She stared,

as she had learned to do years before, into his subconscious.

She looked past the war, the constant fear that she found within him, to gentler

things. She sought the image of his three women, for she was used to seeing the elf

women Anaya and Hemathya there. Suzine sought the image of herself–herself as a

young woman, alluring and sensual.

That image had grown more difficult to find of late, and this added to her sorrow.

This time she could find no remembrance of herself. Even the spritely Anaya was

gone, her image replaced by the picture of a tall, slender tree. Then she came upon

Hermathya and sensed the desire in Kith's mind. It was a new sensation that suddenly

caused the mirror to glow, until Suzine turned her face away. The mirror faded into

darkness as tears filled her eyes.

Slowly, gently, she placed the mirror back into its case. Trying to stem the trembling

of her hands, she looked about for her coachman. Kith-Kanan wouldn't return for several

hours, she knew.

When he did, she would be gone.

30

Spring, 2177 (PC)

The lord-major-chieftain supreme of Hillrock stretched his brawny arms, acutely

aware that his muscles were not so supple as they had once been. Placing a huge hand to

his head, he stroked blunt fingers through hair that seemed to grow thinner by the week.

Squinting against the setting sun, he looked about his pastoral community of large

one-room dwellings hewn from the rock of this sheltered valley. To the east towered the

heights of the Khalkist Mountains, while to the west, the range settled into the flatlands

of the Silvanesti plain.

For three decades, he had ruled as lord-major-chieftain supreme, and they had been

good years for all of his people. Good years, but past now. Poking his broad tongue

against the single tooth that jutted proudly from his lower gum, the lord-major exercised

his mind by attempting to ponder the future.

A nagging urge tugged at him, desirous of pulling him away from peaceful Hillrock.

He couldn't put his finger on the reasons, but the hill giant who had once been called

One-Tooth now felt a need to leave, to strike out across those plains. He was reluctant to

answer this compulsion, for he had the feeling that once he left, he would never return.

He couldn't understand this compulsion, but it grew more persistent every day.

Finally the hill giant gathered his wives together, cuffing and cursing them until he

had their attention.

"I go away!" he said loudly.

The formalities completed, he hefted his club and started down the valley. Whatever

the nature of the longing that drew him to the plains, he knew that he would find its

source in an elf who had once been his friend.

* * * * *

The conference broke up in awkward farewells. Only Hermathya displayed emotion,

screaming and rebuking Sithas for his decision to send Vanesti to the battlefield. The

Speaker of the Stars coolly ignored his wife, and she collapsed into spasms of weeping.

She desperately hugged the young elf, to his acute embarrassment, and then retired to her

coach for the long journey back to Silvanost.

Few had noted Suzine's departure late on the previous day. Kith-Kanan was puzzled

by her leaving, though he assumed she had reason to return to Sithelbec. In truth, he was

also a little relieved. The presence of his human wife put strain on any communication

with Sithas, and Suzine's absence had made the subdued farewell banquet a little easier to

endure.

Still, it was unlike her to depart so abruptly without advising him, so he couldn't

totally banish his concern. This concern mounted to genuine anxiety when, ten days later,

they finally arrived at the fortress and learned that the general's wife hadn't been seen.

Nor had she sent any message.

He dispatched Windriders to comb the plains, seeking a sign of Suzine's grand coach.

However, true to Kith's prediction, the spring storm season began early, and thunderstorms

blanketed the grasslands with hail and torrential rains. Winds howled unchecked

across hundreds of miles of prairie. The search became all but impossible and had to be

suspended for all intents and purposes.

In the meantime, Kith-Kanan threw himself into the choreogrgphy of his great battle

plan. The forces of the Wildrunners mustered at Sithelbec, preparing to march westward,

where they would hit the human army before General Giarna even realized they had left

the region of the fortress.

Intelligence about the enemy was scarce and unreliable. Finally Kith called upon the

only scout he could count on to make a thorough reconnaissance: Parnigar.

"Take two dozen riders and get as close as you can," ordered Kith-Kanan, knowing

full well that he was asking his old friend to place his life at grave risk. But he had no real

alternative.

If the veteran resented the difficult order, he didn't let on. "I'll try to get out and back

quickly," he replied. "We want to get the campaign off to an early start."

"Agreed," Kith noted. "And be careful. I'd rather see you come back empty-handed

than not come back at all."

Parnigar grinned, then grew suddenly serious. "Has there been any word about–I

should say 'from'–Suzine?"

Kith sighed. "Not a thing. It's as if the world gobbled her up. She slipped away from

the conference that afternoon. I brought Vanesti back to the camp as my squire and found

her gone."

"These damned storms will run their course in another few weeks," said the scout,

"but I doubt you'll be able to send fliers out before then. No doubt she's holed up safe on

some farmstead. . . ."

But his words lacked conviction. Indeed, Kith-Kanan had lost optimism and didn't

know what to believe anymore. All indications were that Suzine had left the camp of her

own free will. Why? And why wasn't he more upset?

"You mentioned your squire." Parnigar smoothly changed the subject. "How's the

young fellow working out?"

"He's eager, I've got to grant him that. My armor hasn't gleamed like this in years."

"When we march . . . ?"

"He'll have to come along," Kith replied. "But I'll keep him to the rear. He doesn't

have enough experience to let him near the fighting."

"Aye," grunted the old warrior before disappearing into the storm.

* * * * *

"This will do, driver. I shall proceed on foot."

"Milady?" The coachman, as he opened the door for Suzine, looked at her in

concern. "The Army of Ergoth has scouts all over here," he said. "They'll find you for

sure."

I'm counting on that. Suzine didn't verbalize her reply. "Your dedication is touching,

but, really, I'll be fine."

"I think the general would be–"

"The general will not be displeased," she said firmly.

"Very well–" His reluctance was plain in his voice, but he assisted her in stepping to

the ground. The carriage rested at the side of a muddy trail. Several wide pathways led

into the woods around them.

She was grateful for the smoothness of the trail. Neither her eyes nor her legs were

up to a rigorous hike. She turned toward the coachman who had carried her so faithfully

across the plains for more than a week. Her mirror, now resting in the box on her belt,

had shown her where to go, allowing her to guide them around outposts of human pickets.

The only other possession she carried was in a pouch at her belt: a narrow-bladed

knife. She wouldn't be coming back, but she couldn't tell the driver that.

"Wait here for two hours," she said. "I'll be back by then. I know these woods well.

There are some old sights I would like to see."

Nodding and scowling, the driver climbed back onto his seat and watched until the

woods swallowed her up. She hurried along the trail as fast as her aging legs would carry

her, but even so, it took her more than an hour to cover two miles. She moved unerringly

past many forks in the path, certain that the mirror had shown her the right way.

Shortly after she passed the end of her second mile, an armored crossbowman

stepped into the path before her.

"Halt!" he cried, leveling his weapon. At the same time, he gaped in astonishment at

the lone old woman who approached the headquarters of the Army of Ergoth.

"I'm glad you are here to greet me," she said pleasantly. "Take me to see General

Giarna!"

"You want to see the general?"

"We're . . . old friends."

Shaking his head in amazement, the guard nevertheless led Suzine a short way

farther down the trail, entering a small clearing. The top of the meadow was almost completely

enclosed by a canopy of tall elms–protection against detection from the air,

Suzine knew.

"The general's in there." The man gestured to a small cottage near the clearing's

edge. Two men-at-arms flanked the doorway, and they snapped to attention as Suzine

walked up to them.

"She wants to see the general," explained the crossbowman, with a shrug.

"Should we search her?" The question, from a muscular halberdier, sent a shiver

down Suzine's stooped spine. She felt acutely conscious of the dagger in her pouch.

"That won't be necessary." Suzine recognized the deep voice from within the cottage.

The watchmen stood aside, allowing Suzine to step through the door.

"You have come back to me!"

For a moment, Suzine stood still, blinking and trying to see in the dim light. Then the

large black-cloaked figure moved toward her, and she knew him–knew his sight, his

smell, and his intimidating presence.

With a sense of dull wonder, she realized that the tales she had heard, the images of

her mirror, were all true. General Giarna stood before her now. She knew that he must be

at least seventy years old, but he looked the same as he had forty years earlier!

He stepped closer to her. She felt the revulsion and fear she had known forty years

earlier when he had approached her, had used her. Slowly her fingers closed around the

weapon in her pouch. The man loomed over her, looking down with a slightly patronizing

smile. She stared into his eyes and saw that same hollowness, the same sense of void, that

she remembered with such vivid terror.

Then she pulled out the knife and threw back her arm. Why is he laughing? She

wondered about that even as she drove the point of the weapon toward the unarmored

spot at his throat. Giarna made no attempt to block her thrust.

The blade struck his skin but snapped as the weapon broke at the hilt. The useless

shard of metal fell to the floor as Suzine blinked, incredulous.

General Giarna's throat showed not the tiniest hint of a wound.

* * * * *

It wasn't until Parnigar returned with his company of scouts that Kith-Kanan

received any vital information regarding the enemy's positions. Wearing sodden trail

clothes from the nine-day reconnaissance, the veteran captain reported to Kith-Kanan as

soon as he returned to the fort.

"We pushed at the fringes of their position," he reported. "Their pickets were as thick

as flies on a dead horse. They got two of my scouts, and the rest of us barely slipped out

of their grasp."

Kith shook his head, wincing. Even after forty years of war, the death of each elf

under his command struck him like a personal blow.

"We couldn't get into the main camp," explained Parnigar. "There were just too many

guards. But judging by the density of their patrols, I have to conclude they were guarding

the main body of Giarna's force."

"Thanks for taking the risk, my friend," said Kith-Kanan finally. "Too many times I

have asked you."

Parnigar smiled wearily. "I'm in this fight to the end–one way or another!" The lanky

warrior cleared his throat hesitantly. "There's . . . something else."

"Yes?"

"We found the Lady Suzine's coachman on the outskirts of the human lines."

Kith-Kanan looked up in sudden fear. "Was he–is he alive?"

"Was." Parnigar shook his head. "He'd been taken by their pickets, then escaped after

a fight. Badly wounded in the stomach, but he made it to the trail. We found him there."

"What did he tell you?"

"He didn't know where she was. He had dropped her beside the trail, and she

followed a path into the woods. We checked out the area. Guards were thicker than ever

there, so I think the headquarters must have been somewhere nearby."

Could she be heading back to Giarna? Kith-Kanan sensed Parnigar's unspoken

question. Surely she wouldn't betray Kith-Kanan.

"Can you show me where this place is?" asked the elven commander urgently.

"Of course."

Kith sighed sympathetically. "I'm sorry that you must travel again so quickly, but

perhaps. . . ."

Parnigar waved off the explanation. "I'll be ready to ride when you need me."

"Go to your quarters now. Mari's been waiting for you for days," Kith-Kanan

ordered, realizing that Parnigar still dripped from his drenched garments. "She's probably

got dry clothes all ready to get you dressed."

"I doubt she wants to dress me!" Parnigar chuckled knowingly.

"Off to your wife now, before she grows old on you!" Kith's attempt at humor felt

lame to both of them, though Parnigar forced a chuckle as he left.

31

Late Spring, Silvanost

Hermathya looked at herself in the mirror. She was beautiful and she was young ...

yet for what purpose? She was alone.

Tears of bitterness welled in her eyes. She rose and whirled away from her table,

only to be confronted by her bed. That canopied, quilted sleeping place mocked her every

bit as harshly as did the mirror. For decades, it had been hers alone.

Now even her child had been sent away. Her anger throbbed as hot as ever, the same

rage that had turned the two-week journey back to the city into a silent ordeal for Sithas.

He endured her fury and didn't let it bother him, and Hermathya knew that he had won.

Vanesti was gone, serving beside his uncle on the front lines of danger! How could

her husband have done this? What kind of perverse cruelty would cause him to torture his

wife so? She thought of Sithas as a stranger. What little closeness they had once enjoyed

had been worn thin by the stresses of war.

Her thoughts abruptly wandered to Kith-Kanan. How much like Sithas he

looked–and yet how very different he was! Hermathya looked back upon the passion of

their affair as one of the bright moments of her life. Before her name had been uttered as

the prospective bride of the future Speaker of the Stars, her life had been a passionate

whirl.

Then the announcement had come–Hermathya, daughter of the Oakleaf Clan, would

wed Sithas of Silvanos! She remembered how Kith-Kanan had begged–he had

begged!–her to accompany him, to run away. She had laughed at him as if he were mad.

Yet the madness, it now seemed, was hers. Prestige and station and comfort meant

nothing, she knew, not when compared to the sense of happiness that she had thrown

away.

The one time since then when Kith-Kanan and she had come together illicitly flared

brightly in her mind. That episode had never been repeated because Kith-Kanan's guilt

wouldn't allow it. He had avoided her for years and was awkward when they were

brought together through necessity.

Shaking her head, she fought back the tears. Sithas was in the palace. Hermathya

would go to him and make him bring their son back home!

She found her husband in his study, perusing a document with the Oakleaf stamp, in

gold, at the top. He looked up when she entered, and blinked with surprise.

"You must call Vanesti back," she blurted, staring at him.

"I will not."

"Can't you understand what he means to me?" Hermathya fought to keep her voice

under control. "I need him here with me. He's all I've got!"

"We've been over this. It will do the lad good to get out of the palace, to live among

the troops. Besides, Kith will take good care of him. Don't you trust him?"

"Do you?" Hermathya uttered the insinuation without thinking.

"Why? What do you mean?" There had been something in her tone. Sithas leapt from

his chair and stared at her accusingly.

She turned away, suddenly calm. She controlled the discussion now.

"What did you mean, do I trust him?" Sithas's voice was level and cold. "Of course I

do!"

"You have been gullible before."

"I know that you loved him," the Speaker added. "I know of your affair before our

marriage. I even know that he pleaded with you to go with him when he flew into exile."

"I should have gone!" she cried, whirling suddenly.

"Do you still love him?"

"No." She didn't know whether this was a lie or not. "But he loves me!"

"That's nonsense!"

"He came to me in my bedroom long ago. He didn't leave until the morning." She

lied about the room because it suited her purpose. Her husband wouldn't know that it was

she who had gone to him.

Sithas stepped closer to her. "Why should I believe you?"

"Why should I lie?"

His open hand caught her across the cheek with a loud smack. The force of his blow

sent her tumbling backward to the floor. With a burning face, she stood up, her eyes

spitting fire at him.

"Vanesti will stay on the plains," Sithas declared as she turned and fled. He turned to

the window, numb, and stared to the west. He wondered about the stranger his brother

had become.

* * * * *

"You believed that you could come here to kill me?" General Giarna looked at

Suzine with mild amusement. The old woman backed against the closed door of his

cottage. She had picked up the broken blade of her knife, but the weapon felt useless and

futile, for it couldn't harm her enemy.

Thunder rumbled outside as another storm swept across the camp.

"Your death would be the greatest thing that could happen to Krynn." She spoke

bravely, but her mind was locked by fear. How could she have been so stupid as to come

here alone, thinking she could harm this brutal warrior? Instead, she had become his

prisoner.

Her heart quailed as she remembered the man's dark tortures, his means of gaining

information from his captives. And no captive had ever possessed such valuable information

as the wife of his chief enemy.

Now the general laughed heartily, placing his hands on his hips and leaning

backward like a young man. "My death, you should know, is not so easily attained."

Suzine stared at him.

"Do you remember the last night of General Barnet?"

She would never forget that awful, shriveled corpse, cast aside by General Giarna

like an empty shell, drained of all its life.

"My powers come from places you cannot begin to understand!"

He paced in agitation, looking at her.

"There are gods who care for people of power, gods whose names are only

whispered in the dead of night, for fear of frightening the children!"

General Giarna whirled again, his brow furrowed in concentration. "There is

Morgion, god of disease and decay. I tell you, he can be bought! I pay him in lives, and

he saves his curse from my flesh! And there are others–Hiddukel, Sargonnas! And of

course–" his voice dropped to a whisper; his body quivered, and he looked at Suzine–"the

Queen of Darkness, Takhisis herself! They say that she is banished, but that's a lie. She is

patient and she is generous. She bestows her powers on those who earn her favor!

"It is the power of life, in all its aspects! It allows me to be strong and young, while

those around me grow old and die!"

Now he stared directly at her, and there seemed to be genuine anguish in his voice.

"You might have shared this with me! You were a woman of power. You would have

made a fitting partner for me! Who knows, one day we might have ruled Ergoth itself!"

"Your madness consumes you," Suzine replied.

"It is not madness!" he hissed. "You cannot kill me. No human can kill me! Nor a

dwarf, nor an elf. None may slay me!"

General Giarna paced restlessly. A steady beat of rain suddenly began pounding on

the roof, forcing him to raise his voice. "Not only do I remain young and vigorous, but I

am also invulnerable! " He looked at her sideways, slyly. I even had my men capture a

griffon so that I might devour it and take over its aura. Now not even one of those beasts-

–the bane of this long war–can claim my blood.

"But enough of this talk," said Giarna, suddenly rough. He took her arm and pulled

her to a chair, throwing her into it.

"My spies tell me that the Wildrunners prepare an attack. They will move on my

headquarters here because they have learned of our plans to ambush the griffons."

Suzine looked at him dumbly.

"No doubt you know the route of march they will take when they come west. You

will tell me. Be sure of this, you will tell me. I will simply move my ambush and

consummate the victory that has eluded me for so long."

Fear pulsed hotly in Suzine's mind. She did know! Many nights she had been present

during battle planning between Parnigar and Kith-Kanan. The other officers had ignored

her, assuming that she wasn't listening, but out of curiosity, she had paid attention and

absorbed most of the details.

"The only question is–" Giarna's voice was a deep bass warning–"will you tell me

now or afterward?"

Her mind focused with exceptional clarity. She heard the rain beating steadily

against the wooden frame of the house. She thought of her children and her husband, and

then she knew.

There was a way–an escape for her! But she had to act fast, before she had second

thoughts.

Her bleeding fingers, still clutching the knife blade, jerked upward. Giarna saw the

movement, an expression of mild annoyance flickering across his face. The crone already

knew she couldn't harm him!

Him. In that instant, he recognized his mistake as the keen edge sliced through

Suzine's own neck. A shower of bright blood exploded from the torn artery, covering the

general as the old woman slumped to the ground at his feet.

* * * * *

One-Tooth plodded through yet another thunderstorm. His march, already an epic by

hill giant standards, had taken him through the foothills of his beloved mountains and

across hundreds of miles of flatlands.

How did people ever live around here? He wondered at a life without the comforting

rocky heights. He felt vulnerable and naked on these open prairies of grass.

Of course, his journey was made easier by the fact that such inhabitants as he

encountered fled in panic at his approach, giving him a free sampling of whatever food

had been bubbling on the stove or whatever milk might be chilling in the damp cellar.

The giant still didn't know why he had embarked upon this quest or what his ultimate

destination would be. But his feet swung easily below him, and the miles continued to

fall behind. He felt young again, more spry than he had in decades.

And he was propelled by an inchoate sense of destiny. When his march ended, that

was where his destiny would be found.

32

One Week Later

Rain lashed at the griffon and its rider, but the pair pressed on through the storm.

Though the day was hours old, the horizon around them remained twilit and dim, so

heavy was the gray blanket of clouds. Arcuballis flew low, seeking a place to land,

cringing still closer to the earth against sudden blasts of lightning that seemed to warn

them from the sky.

Finally Kith-Kanan found it–the small house in the center of the farmstead, down the

trail where the coachman had seen Suzine disappear. Parnigar had showed him the trail

two miles back, but he had flown past the clearing twice. So closely entwined were the

overhanging branches that he hadn't even noticed it.

The trailhead was more than two miles away, and she couldn't have walked much

farther than this. Yet there seemed to be nothing else besides anonymous woods for

several miles in all directions. This had to be the place.

Arcuballis dove quickly to earth, dropping like a stone between the limbs of the

broad elms. The griffon landed in a crouch, and Kith's sword was in his hand.

The door to the small house stood partially open, slamming and banging against its

frame as the wind gusts shifted direction. The yard around the house was churned to mud,

mired by the hooves of countless horses. Blackened pits showed where great cook fires

had burned, but now these were simply holes filled with sodden ash.

Cautiously Kith-Kanan dismounted and approached the house. He pushed the door

fully open and saw that it consisted of one main room, and that room was now a shambles.

Overturned tables, broken chairs, a pile of discarded uniforms, and a collection of

miscellaneous debris all contributed to the disarray.

He began to pick through debris, kicking things with his boots and moving big pieces

with his free hand, always holding his longsword at the ready. He found little of worth

until, near the back corner, his persistence was rewarded.

A tingle of apprehension ran along his spine as he uncovered a wooden box he

recognized instantly, for it was the one Suzine had used to store her mirror. Kneeling, he

pulled it from beneath a moldy saddle blanket. He opened the top, and his reflection

stared back at him. The mirror had remained intact.

Then as he looked, the image in the glass grew pale and wavery, and suddenly the

picture became something else entirely.

He saw a black-cloaked human riding a dark horse, leading a column of men through

the rain. The human army was on the march. He could recognize no landmarks, no

signposts in the murky scene. But he knew that the humans were moving.

Obviously the planned ambush of the Windriders was suspected and now would

have to be cancelled. But where did the humans march? Kith had a sickening flash of

Sithelbec, practically defenseless since most of the garrison had marched into the field

with the Wildrunners. Could General Giarna be that bold?

A more hideous thought occurred to him. Had Suzine betrayed him, revealing their

battle plans to the human commander? Did the enemy march somewhere unknown to set

up a new ambush? He couldn't bring himself to believe this, yet neither could he ignore

the evidence that she had been here at the human command post.

Where was Suzine? In his heart, he knew the answer.

Grimly he mounted Arcuballis and took off. He made his way back to the east,

toward the spearhead of his army, which he had ordered to march westward in an attempt

to catch the human army in its camp. Now he knew that he had to make new plans–and

quickly.

It took two days of searching before the proud griffon finally settled to earth, in a

damp clearing where Kith had spotted the elven banner.

Here he found Parnigar and Vanesti and the rest of the Wildrunner headquarters.

This group marched with several dozen bodyguards, trying to remain in the approximate

center of the far-flung regiments. Because of the weather, the march columns were

separated even more than usual, so that the small company camped this night in relative

isolation.

"They've broken camp," announced Parnigar, without preamble.

"I know. Their base camp is abandoned. Have you discovered where they've gone?"

Kith's worst fears were confirmed by Parnigar's answer. "East, it looks like. There

are tracks leading in every direction, as always, but it looks like they all swing toward the

east a mile or two out of the camps."

Again Kith-Kanan thought of the ungarrisoned fortress rising from the plains a

hundred miles to the east.

"Can we attack?" asked Vanesti, unable to restrain himself any longer.

"You'll stay here!" barked Kith-Kanan. He turned to Parnigar. "In the morning we'll

have to find them."

"What? And leave me here alone? In the middle of nowhere?" Vanesti was

indignant.

"You're right," Kith conceded with a sigh. "You'll have to come. But you'll also have

to do what I tell you!"

"Don't I always?" inquired the youth, grinning impishly.

* * * * *

General Giarna slouched in his saddle, aware of the tens of thousands of marching

soldiers surrounding him. The Army of Ergoth crept like a monstrous snake to the east,

toward Sithelbec. Outriders spread across a thirty-mile arc before them, seeking signs of

the Wildrunners. Giarna wanted to meet his foe in open battle while the weather was

unchanged, hoping that the storm would neutralize the elves' flying cavalry. The

Windriders had made his life very difficult over the years, and it would please him to

fight a battle where the griffons wouldn't be a factor.

Even in his wildest hopes, he hadn't reckoned on weather as dismal as this. A day

earlier, a tornado had swept through the supply train, killing more than a thousand men

and destroying two weeks' worth of provisions. Now many columns of his army

blundered through the featureless landscape, lost. Every day a few more men were struck

by lightning, crippled or killed instantly.

The general didn't know that, even as he marched to the east, the elven army trudged

westward, some twenty-five miles to the north. The Wildrunners sought the encampment

of the human army. Both forces blundered forward in disarray, passing within striking

range of each other, yet not knowing of their enemy's presence.

General Giarna looked to his left, to the north. There was something out there! He

sensed it, though he saw nothing. His intuition informed him that the presence that drew

him was many miles away.

"There!" he cried, suddenly raising a black-gloved hand and pointing to the north.

"We must strike northward! Now! With all haste!"

Some companies of his army heard the command. Ponderously, under the orders of

their sergeants-major, they wheeled to the left, preparing to strike out toward the north,

into the rain and the hail–and, soon, the darkness. Others didn't get the word. The

ultimate effect of the maneuver spread the army across twice as much country as Giarna

intended, opening huge gaps between the various brigades and adding chaos to an already

muddled situation.

"Move, damn you!" The general cried, his voice taut. Lightning flashed over his

head, streaks of fire lancing across the sky. Thunder crashed around them, sounding as if

the world was coming apart.

Still the great formations continued their excruciating advance as the weary humans

endeavored to obey Giarna's hysterical commands.

He couldn't wait. The scent drew him on like a hound to its prey. He wheeled his

horse, kicking sharp spurs into the black steed's flanks. Breaking away from the column

of his army, he started toward the north ahead of his men.

Alone.

* * * * *

Warm winds surged across the chill waters of the Turbidus Ocean, south of Ergoth,

collecting moisture and carrying it aloft until the water droplets loomed as monumental

columns of black clouds, billowing higher until they confounded the eyes of earthbound

observers by vanishing into the limitless expanse of the sky.

Lightning flashed, beginning as an occasional explosion of brightness but increasing

in fierceness and tempo until the clouds marched along to a staccato tempo, great sheets

of hot fire slashing through them in continuous volleys. The waters below trembled under

the fury of the storm.

The winds swirled, propelled by the rising pressure of steam. Whirlwinds grew

tighter, shaping into slender funnels, until a front of cyclones roared forward, tossing the

ocean into a chaotic maelstrom of foam. Great waves rolled outward from the storm,

propelled by lashing torrents of rain.

And then the storm passed onto land.

The mass of clouds and power roared northward, skirting the Kharolis Mountains as

it veered slightly toward the east. Before it lay the plains, hundreds of miles of flat, sodden

country, already deluged by thunder and rain.

The new storm surged onto the flatlands, unleashing its winds as if it knew that

nothing could stand in its path.

* * * * *

A soaking Wildrunner limped through the brush, raising his hand to ward off the hail

and wipe rain away from his face. Finally he broke into a clearing and saw the vague outlines

of the command post. Finding it had been sheer luck. He was one of two dozen men

who had been sent with the report, in the hopes that one of them would reach Kith-

Kanan.

"The Army of Ergoth!" he gasped, stumbling into the small house that served as the

general's headquarters. "It approaches from the south!"

"Damn!" Kith-Kanan instantly saw the terrible vulnerability of his army, stretched as

it was into a long column marching east to west. Wherever the humans hit him, he would

be vulnerable.

"How far?" he asked quickly.

"Five miles, maybe less. I saw a company of horsemen–a thousand or so. I don't

know how many other units are there."

"You did well to bring me the news immediately." Kith's mind whirled. "If Giarna is

attacking us, he must have something in mind. Still, I can't believe he can execute an

attack very well–not in this weather."

"Attack them, uncle."

Kith turned to look at Vanesti. His fresh-faced nephew's eyes lit with enthusiasm.

His first battle loomed.

"Your suggestion has merit," he said, pausing for a moment. "It's one thing that the

enemy would never suspect. His grasp of the battle won't be much greater than mine, if

I'm on the offensive. And furthermore, I have no way to organize any kind of defense in

this weather. Better to have the troops moving forward and catch the enemy off balance."

"I'll dispatch the scouts," Parnigar noted. "We'll inform every company that we can.

It won't be the whole army, you realize. There isn't enough time, and the weather is too

treacherous."

"I know," Kith agreed. "The Windriders, for one, will have to stay on the ground."

He looked at Arcuballis. The great creature rested nearby, his head tucked under one

wing to protect himself from the rain.

"I'll take Kijo and leave Arcuballis here." The prospect made him feel somehow

crippled, but as the storm increased around him, he knew that flight would be too dangerous

a tactic.

He could only hope that his enemy's attack would be equally haphazard. In this wish,

he was rewarded, for even as the fight began, it moved out of the control of its commanders.

* * * * *

The two armies blundered through the rain. Each stretched along a front of several

dozen miles, and great gaps existed in their formations. The Army of Ergoth lumbered

north, and where its companies met elves, they fought them in confusing skirmishes. As

often as not, they passed right through the widely spaced formations of the Wildrunner

Army, continuing into the nameless distance of the plains.

The Wildrunners and their allies struck south. Like the humans, they encountered

their enemy occasionally, and at other times met no resistance.

Skirmishes raged along the entire distance, between whatever units happened to meet

each other in the chaos. Human horsemen rode against elven swords. Dwarven

battle-axes chopped at Ergothian archers. Because of the noise and the darkness, a

company might not know that its sister battalion fought for its life three hundred yards

away, or that a band of enemy warriors had passed across their front a bare five minutes

earlier.

But it didn't matter. The real battle took shape in the clouds themselves.

33

Niqhtfall, Midsummer

Year of the Cloud Giant

Hail thundered through the woods, pounding trees into splinters and bruising

exposed flesh. The balls of ice, as big across as steel pieces, quickly blanketed the

ground. The roar of their impact drowned all attempts at communication.

Kith-Kanan, Vanesti, and Parnigar halted their plodding horses, seeking the minimal

shelter provided by the overhanging boughs of a small grove of elms. They were grateful

that the storm hadn't caught them on the open plains. Such a deluge could be extremely

dangerous without shelter. Their two dozen bodyguards, all veterans of the House

Protectorate, took shelter under neighboring trees. All the elves were silent, wet, and

miserable.

They hadn't seen another company of Wildrunners in several hours, nor had they

encountered any sign of the enemy. They had blundered through the storms for the whole

day, lashed by wind and rain, soaked and chilled, fruitlessly seeking sign of friend or foe.

"Do you know where we are?" Kith asked Parnigar. Around them, the pebbly residue

of the storm had covered the earth with round, white balls of ice.

"I'm afraid not," the veteran scout replied. "I think we've maintained a southerly

heading, but it's hard to tell when you can't see more than two dozen feet ahead of you!"

All of a sudden Kith held up a hand. The hailstorm, with unsettling abruptness, had

ceased.

"What is it?" hissed Vanesti, looking around them, his eyes wide.

"I don't know Kith admitted. "Something doesn't feel right."

The black horse exploded from the bushes with shocking speed, its dark rider leaning

forward along the steed's lathered neck. Sharp hooves pounded the ice-coated earth,

sending slivers of crushed hailstones flying with each step. The attacker charged past two

guards, and Parnigar saw the glint of a sword. The blade moved with stunning speed,

slaying both elven bodyguards with quick chops.

"We're attacked!" Parnigar shouted. The veteran scout seized his sword and leaped

into his saddle, spurring the steed forward.

Kith-Kanan, followed by Vanesti, ducked around the broad tree trunk just in time to

see Parnigar collide with the attacker. The brutal impact sent the elf's mare reeling sideways

and then tumbling to the ground. The horse screamed as the elven warrior sprang

free, crouching to face the black-cloaked human on his dark war-horse.

"Giarna!" hissed Kith-Kanan, instantly recognizing the foe.

"Really?" gasped Vanesti, inching forward for a better look.

"Stay back!" growled the elven general.

The black steed abruptly reared, lashing out with its forehooves. One of them caught

Parnigar on the skull, and the elf fell heavily to the ground.

Frantically Kith looked toward his bow, tied securely to his saddlebags on the other

side of the broad tree. Cursing, he drew his sword and darted toward the fight.

With savage glee, the human rider leaped from his saddle, straddling Parnigar as the

stunned elf struggled to move. As Kith ran toward them, the human thrust his sword

through the scout's chest, pinning him to the ground with the keen blade.

Parnigar flopped on his back, stuck to the earth. Blood welled around the steel blade,

and the icy pebbles of hail beneath him quickly took on a garish shade of red. In moments,

his struggles faded to weak twitching, and then to nothing.

By that time, Kith had lunged at the black swordsman. The elf slashed with his

sword but gaped in surprise as the quick blow darted past Giarna. The man's fist

hammered into Kith-Kanan's belly, and the elf grunted in pain as he staggered backward,

gasping for air.

With a sneer, the human pulled out his blade, turning to face two more Wildrunners,

Kith's bodyguards, who charged recklessly forward. His sword flashed once, twice, and

the two elves dropped, fatally slashed across their throats.

"Fight me, you bastard!" growled Kith-Kanan.

"That is a pleasure I have long anticipated!" General Giarna's face broke into a

savage grin. His teeth appeared to gleam as he threw his head back and laughed

maniacally.

A quartet of veteran Wildrunners, all loyal and competent warriors of the House

Protectorate, rushed General Giarna from behind. But the man whirled, his bloody sword

cutting an arc through the air. Two of the guards fell, gutted, while the other two

stumbled backward, horrified by their opponent's quickness. Kith-Kanan could only stare

in shock. Never had he seen a weapon wielded with such deadly precision.

The retreating elves moved backward too slowly. Giarna sprang after them, leaping

like a cat and stabbing one of them through the heart. The other elf rushed in wildly. His

head sailed from his body following a swathlike cut that the human made with a casual

flick of his wrist.

"You monster!" The youthful scream caught Kith-Kanan's attention. Vanesti had

seized a sword from somewhere. Now he charged out from behind the elm trunk, lunging

toward the murderous human general.

"No!" Kith-Kanan cried out in alarm, rushing forward to try to reach his nephew. His

boot caught on a treacherous vine and he sprawled headlong, looking up to see Vanesti

swinging his sword wildly.

Kith scrambled to his feet. Each of his movements seemed grotesquely slow,

exaggerated beyond all reason. He opened his mouth to shout again, but he could only

watch in horror.

Vanesti lost his balance following his wild attack, stumbling to the side. He tried to

deflect the human's straight-on stab, but the tip of General Giarna's blade struck Vanesti

at the base of his rib cage, penetrating his gut and slicing through his spine as it emerged

from his back. The youth gagged and choked, sliding backward off the blade. He lay on

his back, his hands clutching at the air.

* * * * *

The lord-major-chieftain supreme of Hillrock pressed forward, trudging resolutely

through weather the like of which he had never experienced before. Hailstones pummeled

him, rain lashed his face, and the wind roared and growled in its futile efforts to penetrate

the hill giant's heavy wolfskin cloak, a cloak he had worn proudly for forty years.

Yet One-Tooth plodded on, grimly determined to follow the compulsion that had

drawn him here. He would see this trek through to its end. The burning drive that had led

him this far seemed to grow more intense with each passing hour, until the giant broke

into a lumbering trot, so anxious was his feeling that he neared his goal.

As he moved across the plains, a strange haze seemed to settle over his mind. He

began to forget Hillrock, to forget the giantesses who were his wives, the small

community that had always been his home. Instead, his mind drifted to the heights of his

mountain range, to one snow-blanketed winter valley long age and a small, fire-warmed

cave.

* * * * *

Later, elves who had lived for six hundred years swore that they had never before

seen such a storm. The weather erupted across the plains with a violence that dwarfed the

petty squabbles of the mortals on the ground.

The thunderheads grew in frenzy, an explosive, seething mass of power that

transcended anything in human or elven memory. The storms lashed the plains, striking

with wind and fire and hail.

At nightfall, when darkness gathered across the already sodden plains on the night of

the summer solstice, Solinari gleamed full and bright, high above the clouds, but no one

on Krynn could see her.

Lightning erupted, hurling crackling bolts to the ground. Great cyclones of wind,

miles across, whirled and roared. They spiraled and burst, a hundred angry funnel clouds

that shrieked over the flat plains, leveling everything in their path.

The great battle of armies never occurred. Instead, a howling dervish of tornadoes

formed in the west and roared across the plains, scattering the two forces before them,

leaving tens of thousands of dead in their wake.

The most savage of the tornadoes swirled through the Army of Ergoth, scattering

food wagons, killing horses and men, and sending the remnants fleeing in all directions.

But if the human army suffered the bulk of the death toll, the Wildrunners suffered

the greatest destruction. Huge columns of black clouds, mushrooming into the heights of

the distant sky, gathered around the great stone block of Sithelbec. Dark and foreboding,

they collected in an awful ring about the city.

For hours, a dull stillness pervaded the air. Those who had sought shelter in

Sithelbec fled, fearing the unnatural calm.

Then the lightning began anew. Bolts of energy lashed the city. They crackled into

the stone towers of the fortress, exploding masonry and leaving the smell of scorched

dust in the air. They seared the blocks of wooden buildings around the wall, and soon

sheets of flame added to the destruction.

Like a cosmic bombardment, crackling spears of explosive electricity thundered into

the stone walls and wooden roofs. Crushing and pounding, pummeling and bruising, the

storm maintained its pressure as the city slowly collapsed into ruin.

* * * * *

Kith realized that he was screaming, spitting his hatred and rage at this monstrous

human who had dogged his life for forty years. He threw caution aside in a desperate

series of slashes and attacks, but each lunge found Giarna's sword ready with a parry–and

each moment of battle threatened to open a fatal gap in the elf's defenses.

Their blades clanged together with a force that matched the thunder. The two

opponents hacked and chopped at each other, scrambling over deadfalls, pushing through

soaking thorn bushes, driving forward in savage attacks or careful retreats. The rest of the

House Protectorate bodyguards rushed, in a group, to their leader's defense. The human's

blade was a deadly scythe, and soon the elves bled the last of their lives into the icy,

hail-strewn ground.

It became apparent to Kith that Giarna toyed with him. The man was unbeatable. He

could have ended the fight at virtually any moment, and he seemed completely impervious

to Kith's blows. Even when, in a lucky moment, the elf's blade slashed against the

human's skin, no wound opened.

The man continued to allow Kith to rush forward, to expend himself on these

desperate attacks, and then to stumble back, seemingly inches ahead of a mortal blow.

Finally he laughed, his voice a sharp, animal bark.

"You see now that, for all your arrogance, you cannot live forever. Even elven lives

must come to an end!"

Kith-Kanan stepped back, gasping for breath and staring at the hated enemy before

him. He said nothing as his throat expanded, gulping air.

"Perhaps you will die with as much dignity as your wife," suggested Giarna, musing.

Kith froze. "What do you mean?"

"Merely that the whore thought she could do what all of your armies have been

unable to do. She tried to kill me!"

The elf could only stare in shock. Suzine! By the gods, why would she attempt

something so mad, so impossible?

"Of course, she paid the price for her stupidity, as you will do as well! My only

regret was that she took her own life before I could draw the information I needed from

her."

Kith-Kanan felt a sense of horror and guilt. Of course she had done this. He had left

her no other way in which to aid him.

"She was braver and finer than we will ever be," he said, his voice firm despite his

grief.

"Words!" Giarna snorted. "Use them wisely, elf. You have precious few left!"

Vanesti lay on the ground, so still and cold that he might have been a pale patch of

mud. Near him, Parnigar lay equally still, his eyes staring sightlessly upward, his fingers

curled reflexively into fists. His warm blood had melted the hailstones around him, so

that he lay in an icy crimson pool.

Marshaling his determination, Kith charged, recklessly slashing at his opponent in a

desperate bid to break his icy control. But Giarna stepped to the side, and Kith found

himself on his back, looking up into gaping black holes, the deadened eyes of the man

who would be his killer. The elf tried to scramble away, to spring to his feet, but his cloak

snagged on a twisted limb beside him. Kith kicked out, then fell back, helpless.

Trapped between two logs, Kith-Kanan couldn't move. Desperately, feeling a rage

that was nonetheless overpowering for its helplessness, he glared at the blade that was

about to end his life. Giarna stood over him, slowly raising the bloodstained weapon, as if

the steel intended to savor the final, fatal thrust.

The crushing blow of a club knocked Giarna to the side before the killing blow could

fall. Stuck behind the deadfall, Kith couldn't see where the blow had come from, but he

saw the human stumble, watched the great weapon swing through his field of vision.

Snarling with rage, Giarna whirled, ready to slay whatever impertinent foe distracted

him from his quarry. He felt no fear. Was he not impervious to the attack of elf, dwarf, or

human?

But this was no elf. Instead, he stared upward at a creature that towered over his

head. The last thing Giarna saw before the club crushed his skull and scattered his brains

across the muddy ground was a lone white tooth, jutting proudly from the attacker's jaw.

* * * * *

"He's alive," whispered Kith-Kanan, scarcely daring to breathe. He kneeled beside

Vanesti, noting the slow rise and fall of his nephew's chest. Steam wisped from his

nostrils at terrifyingly long intervals.

"Help little guy?" inquired One-Tooth.

"Yes." Kith smiled through his tears, looking with affection at the huge creature who

must have marched hundreds of miles to find him. He had asked him why, and the giant

had merely shrugged.

One-Tooth reached down and grasped the bundle that was Vanesti. They wrapped

him in a cloak, and now Kith rigged a small lean-to beneath the shelter of some leafy

branches.

"I'll light a fire," said the elf. "Maybe that will draw some of the Wildrunners."

But the soaked wood refused to burn, and so the trio huddled and shivered through

the long night. Then in the morning, they heard the sound of horses pushing along a

forest trail.

Kith wormed his way through the bushes, discovering a column of Wildrunner

scouts. Several veterans, recognizing their leader, quickly approached him, but they had

to overcome their fear of the hill giant when they came upon the scene of the savage

fight.

Gingerly they rigged a sling for the youth and prepared to make the grueling ride to

Sithelbec.

"This time you'll come home with me," Kith told the giant. In the thinning mist, they

started toward the east. Not for several days, until they met more survivors of his

army–some who had had word from the fortress–did they learn that the home they

marched to had been reduced to a smoldering pile of rubble.

Epilogue

Autumn, 2177 (PC)

Shapeless blocks of stone jutted into the sky, framed by the burned-out timbers that

outlined walls, gates, and other structures of wood. Sithelbec lay in ruins. The tornadoes

and lightning had razed the fortress more effectively than any human attack could have

done. The surviving Wildrunners collected on the plains around the wreckage, nursing

their wounded and trying to piece together the legacy of the disaster.

Only gradually did they become aware that the humans were gone. The Army of

Ergoth had broken and fled, driven by nature to do what forty years of elven warfare had

been unable to accomplish. The surviving humans streamed toward the lush farmlands of

Daltigoth, the war forgotten.

The Theiwar dwarves–those who survived–headed back to Thorbardin. And the

elves who had fought for the human cause returned to the woodlands, there to strive for

survival in the ruins left by the storms of spring.

Dunbarth Ironthumb organized the ranks of his Hylar legion, most of whom had

been fortunate enough to find riverbank caves that had sheltered them during the worst of

the storm.

"It's back to good, old-fashioned rock walls and a stone ceiling over my head!"

announced the gruff veteran, clasping Kith-Kanan's hand before he embarked on the long

march.

"You've earned it," said the elf sincerely. For a long time, he watched the receding

column of stocky figures until it disappeared into the mists to the south.

Sithas journeyed to the plains once more, two months after the great storm. He came

to get his son, to bring him home. Vanesti would live, though barring a miracle, he would

never stand on his own legs.

The twins stood before the ruins of Sithelbec. The city was a blackened patch of

earth, a chaotic jumble of charred timbers and broken, twisted stone.

The Speaker of the Stars met his brother's eyes.

"Tamanier Ambrodel has gone to Daltigoth. He, together with an ambassador from

Thorbardin–a Hylar ambassador–will arrange a treaty. We will see the swords sheathed

once and for all."

"Those swords that remain," said Kith quietly. He thought of Parnigar and

Kencathedrus–and Suzine–and all the others who had perished in the course of this war.

"This war has changed many things–perhaps everything," observed Sithas quietly.

Hermathya told me! his mind screamed silently. He wanted to accuse his brother, to set

this discussion on the solid ground of truth, but he couldn't.

Kith nodded, silent.

These lands, Sithas thought, with a look at the wreckage around him. Were they

worth clinging to? They had been held at a cost in lives that was beyond measuring. Yet

what had they won?

Humans would never be totally banished from the western lands, the Speaker knew.

Kith-Kanan would certainly allow those who had fought for his cause to remain. And the

elves who had opposed them–what would be their fate? Permanent banishment? Sithas

didn't want to think of further strife, further suffering inflicted upon his people. Yet at the

same time, he was opposed to further changes.

There was only one way now to preserve the purity of Silvanesti. Just as the infected

limb of a diseased person must be removed to save the whole, so must the infected

society of his nation be cut away to preserve the sanctity of Silvanesti.

"I'm granting you the lands extending from here to the west," announced Sithas

firmly. "They are no longer part of Silvanesti; You may do with them as you like."

"I have thought about this," replied Kith, his voice a match for his brother's strength.

His words surprised Sithas, for he had thought his announcement would be unanticipated.

Yet Kith-Kanan, too, seemed to sense that they were no longer part of the same world.

"I will build my new capital to the west, among the forested hills." Qualinesti, he

thought, though he didn't say the name aloud. To himself, he vowed that it would be a

land of free elves, a place that would never go to war for the sake of some mistaken

purity.

As the two brothers parted, the clouds remained leaden over the storm-lashed plains.

The elves, once one nation, henceforth became two.