“It will be no impediment to driving the alfaljodthi eastward,” Runacar said. “But we also hope to save the forest, and those who live there.”
“Ah,” Amrunor said, as if suddenly enlightened, “you are a great sorcerer, able to do two things at once.”
“What else is an army for?” Runacar answered, deliberately matching Amrunor’s tone. He wasn’t quite sure whether the sea-horses were as otherworldly as the Aesalions, or if Amrunor simply had a flaky sense of humor.
“Since you have such a vast army, why call upon us, cousin? Surely our puny aid is nothing you cannot triumph without,” Amrunor said, clearly prepared to play this game for candlemarks.
“We need rain.” Incredibly, Andhel was taking Runacar’s side. “You can make it.” She slanted a sideways glance toward Runacar, as if to remind him she still didn’t like him.
“What do you need this rain to do?” Meraude asked.
“Slow the spread of the fire,” Runacar said. “Or stop it entirely, though I don’t think that’s possible. I saw a forest burn once. All the rain did was make steam.”
“I would gladly send you another waterspout,” Meraude said. “But it cannot be done without the kraken, and the kraken sleeps now and cannot be roused for many moonturns. But if it is rain you wish … know that the rain comes at a price,” she finished.
For a moment Runacar thought she was asking to be paid somehow, but then he realized she was merely saying the same thing Radafa had: interfere with the way the Wheel of the Year turned, and there would be a price to pay. It was no different, really, than if you overtaxed your Farmholders and their Landbonds starved to death—the price you paid for that was famine a year or two later.
“Is it a higher price than the lives of everyone who will die if Delfierarathadan burns to ash?” Runacar responded, realizing mid-sentence that he wasn’t asking a rhetorical question. “If it is, then we’ll find another way,” he finished.
Meraude and Amrunor regarded him with identical expressions of assessment. Runacar had long since gotten used to seeing eyes that might be any color at all: bright gold or red-amber or grey or even blue. But the two pairs of eyes gazing at him now were not merely green, but a green that shifted and swirled as water did. It was mesmerizing—so much so that when Meraude spoke again, it startled him.
“It is a high price, but not as high as that,” she said at last. “But you must know … water can quench fire, it is true. But the alfaljodthi witches can set even a stone ablaze.”
“Then I need to make sure they have other things to think about,” Runacar said grimly.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THUNDER MOON: FIRE AND THE FOLK OF THE AIR
Show someone a thing, even a thing disguised, and they will expect it to behave in accordance with the thing they know.
—Elrinonion Swordmaster of Caerthalien
“Audalo, which party shall I accompany?”
The Minotaur battle-leader had been a stripling when Runacar had first seen him, but that had been many Wheelturns ago and now he was in the prime of his strength, his coat sleek and glossy—and soon, as Elves reckoned time, he would be dead of old age, for Elves’ lives were long, and those of most of the Nine Races were not. All the friends Runacar had made in this decade of exile—save the Gryphons, perhaps, who counted their lives in centuries—would die long before him, whether they died in battle or not.
It was midday by now, and the day was so beautiful that a part of Runacar ached that it could not be used for fighting. Sea-birds wheeled and cried overhead, the sunlight sparkled on the sea, and the air was scented with an exhilarating mix of salt and flowers. Everything was brightly and sharply beautiful in a way he associated with the moments before a battle began, when life was sweetest because it might abruptly end. It was odd to feel that sensation here and now, with no battle in the offing.
“And why, in the name of Leaf and Grass, do you ask me such a question?” Audalo answered.
“You’re the highest-ranking general,” Runacar answered dryly, and was rewarded with a mocking snort.
“You are the one my cousin-uncle says can drive the Houseborn from the land and bring us peace at last—or as much peace as the Darkness will let us have.”
Runacar ignored Audalo’s mention of “the Darkness”—he’d never gotten an enlightening answer about what it was from anyone he asked. And besides, whatever it was, it wasn’t going to attack today.
“And not even the Woodwose trust me,” Runacar answered.
“But Keloit does,” Audalo answered inarguably. “And Pelere does. And so do I.”
Runacar waved that aside. “I am grateful for your trust, and for theirs. And that is beside the point. I’m asking you whether I should go south to help evacuate the Flower Forest, or continue north with you.”
“I suppose you should do as you think best,” Audalo said. “And before you start making faces at me like one of the shore-apes, let me ask you this: Where would you be more useful—telling the army how to fight in a way none of us have ever done, or blundering around among the Brightfolk you can’t even see?”
Put that way, the choice seemed obvious, but Runacar was tired and in a contrary mood. “Tanet is taking a meisne of Woodwose south,” he said.
“The Woodwose can see the Brightfolk,” Audalo said, sounding almost … ashamed.
That’s impossible. Woodwose aren’t Otherfolk—they’re alfaljodthi just like me.
“Melisha says it is because they have always known about the Brightfolk,” Audalo added. “Perhaps … if you had been raised in a Flower Forest, you, too, could see them.”
“I doubt it,” Runacar said curtly. Those of you I can see are more than enough for me. “Well, if I am to go north to take Daroldan Great Keep and drive its folk into the mountains, I had better find out who will come along to keep me company.”
* * *
Arilcarion wrote of war waged on land, for it was the only sort of war the Hundred Houses had ever known. The diversion of a river, the flooding of a battlefield, these did not alter the essential thrust of Arilcarion’s doctrine: war was fought on land. No matter what barges or skiffs Elvenkind built to navigate the lakes and rivers of its domains in time of peace, they had never built warships, for they never looked to the waters when they prepared for war.
And equally, they never looked to the skies.
Should any Warlord of the Hundred Houses ever have been asked to imagine such a campaign as Runacar was now engaged upon, their first thought would have been to use the winged Otherfolk as aerial cavalry mounts. Runacar had been fighting such campaigns for nearly a decade of Wheelturns now. When he thought of the winged Otherfolk, he thought of scouts, messengers, skirmishers. The reconnoiter of the burn-site had taken candlemarks, not sunturns. The speed of the army, in terms of gaining and disseminating information, was not the speed of a running horse, but the speed of a bird on the wing.
It was an advantage Runacar intended to make the most of.
* * *
The Ocean’s Own made good on their promises to send rain, and by the following day the sky—even this far north—was grey and cloud-choked. The cloud-cover did a little—not enough—to cut the ever-present stench of burning, and when the sky broke forth in incidental showers, the rain that fell was black and greasy.
The two armies diverged. The Hippogriffs and both Aesalions—no surprises there—were staying with the northern army. The Bearwards were dividing by gender: the Spellmothers and Healers were going north; the Berserkers, south. Individual Centaurs, Woodwose, and Minotaurs were choosing their destinations by some mysterious standard known only to them, though Pelere and Audalo were both remaining with the northern army. The southern army would travel within the Flower Forest, for added protection, while the northern army would advance along the tide line, both to draw the attention of the enemy, and to be in close proximity to the Ocean’s Own. The waters offshore were churned to milk by the presence of so many bodies, including an entir
e herd—or perhaps “school” was the better word—of sea-horses.
Since the few Gryphons who had joined his army had gone with Radafa, Runacar intended to use the Hippogriffs as messengers to coordinate with the southern force. Gunyel and her flight complained constantly about being asked to fly through the smoke-tainted clouds, but they did. The Hippogriff leader reported that even the monsoon the Ocean’s Own had called down upon the southern Flower Forest was only slowing the rate of the fire. Keloit sent word that they had contacted the gnomes and the rock-sprites and both races were willing to help, but it would take a fortnight or more for them to complete their work—if it could be done at all.
Runacar’s task was to buy them that time—and to keep the enemy from setting more fires.
One of the doctrines of war as laid out by Arilcarion was that the path to victory lay in controlling your foe’s thoughts just as you controlled the battlefield. A foe who thought the cost of war too high would sue for peace instead of risking a costly defeat. If Daroldan and Amrolion saw that all they would get—even if they won—was a wasteland, they would think even harder about the consequences of losing, especially to an enemy with whom there could be no truce, parley, or parole.
So, since the northern army wasn’t going to march in a highly-organized, well-drilled formation anyway, Runacar suggested to his commanders another task to be performed as they marched.
Destroy everything.
The Western Shore did not contain the extensive manors and Farmholds of the domains east of them. Here, all the people lived inside the Great Keep. But property, the domains still had, though in the wake of the domains’ retreat, the tall, wooden watchtowers that overlooked the fields stood empty, as did the fields, the dovecotes, the cow byres and sheepfolds, the orchards and vineyards. As the Otherfolk army passed by, all were destroyed: the vineyards dug up, the orchards despoiled of their harvests, the watchtowers and every wooden structure smashed to bits to provide wood for cookfires.
Three leagues spanned the distance from the shoreline to the forest, and three leagues was the width of the army’s line of march. It swept over the works representing centuries of labor and husbandry from Farmholder, Landbond, Craftworker—and unmade them all.
Of course this meant their progress was slow, for everything that had been abandoned was catch-trapped in one way or another, often with magic, and that meant the magicians who had stayed with the northern army must occupy the vanguard. In other circumstances, Runacar might have chafed at the constant delay—but now the slowness of their progress was a part of his strategy. He would give Damulothir and Leopheine time to see they had already lost, and show them that their only chance to save their people was not to fight, but to flee.
* * *
“Look! They’re coming!” Pelere said, gesturing skyward. It had been a sennight and more since Runacar had sent Radafa for help. Now the Gryphon had returned, and it looked as if he’d brought his whole Ascension with him.
Runacar glanced skyward just as the first winged forms broke through the overcast. They flew in an arrowhead formation just as birds of passage did: wingtip to wingtip, as steady and precise as a grand-taille of knights in formal procession. Their shadows raced across the ground before them, and their wings and their bodies blotted out the sky. They were too many to count, and the sight was … impressive.
The Ascension flew once over the line of march, then began to land down by the water’s edge, backwinging in the way any large winged thing must. The shore-apes foraging among the tide pools fled amid a raucous chorus of scolding yelps—they were timid things, but endlessly curious, and would be back within the sunturn. In a few heartbeats, the whole Ascension was down, looking even more numerous than they had in the air. Of course the marchers had come to a stop once the Gryphons arrived, and of course anything resembling order immediately disintegrated, but Runacar had long since given up caring about appearances. They’d hear whatever news the newcomers had brought, then march onward. (He very much hoped someone in Daroldan was Scrying or Farseeing every move the Otherfolk made.)
He looked for Radafa, but couldn’t spot him. Not that Gryphons were identical, because they weren’t—not only was there a wide variation in color and pattern among them, but several of them had crests of dark feathers as well. No, there were just too many to make out any individual … though he thought the two smallest, the ones with the dappled haunches and vividly barred feathers, must be the youngest.
Before Runacar gave up and asked Pelere to point out Radafa, the Gryphon came bounding out of the surf toward Hialgo.
“Horrible weather!” he said happily. “Clouds halfway to the Mystrals, and all the way to the Kashadabadshar!”
“We still need anything you can do to help,” Runacar said.
“Come!” Radafa said, gesturing with a foreclaw. “Riann wants to meet you.”
Runacar dismounted and tossed his reins over his saddle—Hialgo would stand until he returned for him—and moved in the direction Radafa indicated, with Pelere at his side.
The Gryphons were milling about. Some had gone to seek out friends among the gathered Otherfolk, others were conversing quietly with one another. The two children were splashing enthusiastically in the shallows, chasing fish. He tried to put out of his thoughts how much this resembled the arrival of a noble family at Caerthalien Great Keep, but he couldn’t. It looked just the same, Gryphons or not. He wondered just when he’d started seeing them as people, and not as monstrous animals that talked. He wondered if it indicated madness, or sanity, or just exhaustion, and realized it really didn’t matter.
One of the crested Gryphons—female; apparently that was what the crest indicated—turned toward them as they approached. Runacar stopped at the tide line, having no desire to spend half the night drying and re-oiling his boots and armor.
“You are the Star-Child who has turned against his people?” Riann asked.
It was certainly not the first time he had faced that accusation. “My people are dead. I turn against those who killed them,” Runacar said patiently.
“So you seek revenge?” Riann asked.
Runacar sighed, wondering what Radafa had told her. Just because he was used to the questions didn’t mean he liked them. “Revenge has to have a point,” he said. It was hard to explain a thing when he didn’t completely understand it himself and half the Otherfolk didn’t even have the concept. “My family is dead. The High King has destroyed everything I know and love. I have nothing left to fight for—so I might as well fight against something.”
Riann regarded him without speaking for what seemed like an eternity. “Poor Runacar,” she said at last, and though it was impossible to discern any emotion in the harsh hissing whisper of Gryphon voices, somehow Runacar knew she was not mocking him. “Have you ever considered not fighting?”
The very idea made him laugh. He’d been born in the midst of war and spent his whole life fighting. He would almost certainly die the same way. Fighting was who he was. But he didn’t want to try explaining that to Riann. “Not today,” he said briefly. “You wouldn’t have come if you didn’t intend to help,” he added. “The Ocean’s Own have brought rain, but it isn’t enough. The forest is still burning. And the fire is spreading.”
“The Gryphons command the winds only,” Riann said gently. “We will take counsel with the Ocean’s Own, so our efforts do not work against theirs. But all that is within our power to do, we shall do.”
“Thank you,” Runacar said humbly. “And—if you will permit—I have thought of another way you can aid us. Without shedding the blood of any,” he added, remembering Radafa’s aversion to violence.
* * *
It had been Drotha’s idea originally, and the Aesalion wasn’t averse to shedding blood at all. He’d been listening as Runacar had been discussing with Pelere and Audalo how to make the best use of the one asset the enemy would not know how to combat: the power of flight.
“I don’t want to ask the Gryphons to
actually kill anyone,” Runacar said, “and the Hippogriffs tend to be a little scatterbrained.” As well as not particularly threatening: eagles and horses were both things the alfaljodthi knew well, and if you combined them, the result might be a monster, but it wasn’t a particularly threatening one.
“They can drop rocks,” Drotha suggested, getting to his feet and stretching. “Then they wouldn’t know they’d killed someone.”
“Drop rocks?” Pelere demanded, turning toward Drotha. “What in the name of the Great Herdsman are you going on about now?”
Drotha stretched again, elaborately, reminding Runacar of nothing so much as a particularly malicious cat. “Drop. Rocks. Why is that so hard to comprehend, turnip-eater? You pick up a rock. You fly up into the sky. You drop the rock. Anything underneath it goes ‘splat.’”
“How long could you keep doing that?” Runacar asked curiously.
“Until I got tired, I suppose,” Drotha said. “Or bored.”
Which would take less than a candlemark, Runacar thought to himself. But Gryphons are more patient. And a rock doesn’t need to hit anything to force the Lightborn to hold Shield against it.
Even if the rocks hit no one—which would please the Gryphons—they would still be annoying (at the very least), and it would remind the defenders that worse than stones might fall from the sky. Because most of all, Runacar wanted his enemies to worry. To give up the Shore as lost. To flee to the only place of safety and shelter remaining: Areve.
When the time came, he was going to enjoy smashing Areve.
* * *
He outlined his plan to Riann—fly over Daroldan Great Keep, far beyond arrow-range, carrying a rock, which did not need to be any larger than a knight’s helm, and then drop the rock on the castel. It would make a booming noise, possibly damage what it hit, and even perhaps scare the livestock sheltered within the castel. And the Lightborn would have to Shield against the falling rocks, and that might keep them occupied enough that they would set no more fires.
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