by David Adams
“Grosh much like Duke Fallo in Western City. He looks to gain and safety of own pack before good of all. If he join us, it be for some other purpose. Question is will he reveal reason in council or keep secret? I will fight Solek. Kabrinda will fight Solek. I will ask others to do same. But until we know intentions of each pack, you must be here as messenger from Queen. Lucien bound to reveal who you are to me, but we say nothing to anyone else until time is right.”
Once he had Alexis’ agreement, Durst asked that Krast be brought to them. When the Salesh scout entered, he remained standing at attention. Durst begged Alexis’ leave to speak to Krast in native goblin, which she readily gave, understanding Lucien could give her any particulars later if necessary.
“What were Grosh’s orders to you?” Durst asked Krast.
“To bring Lucien and Alexis to your camp, and then to guide you to council if you accept the invitation, or bring news of your denial back to Grosh.”
“So the location of the council is to be kept a secret from us?”
“That was Grosh’s wish. Your safety is assured by his blood pact with Lucien. I—”
“I am asked to place my trust, but it is not given to me in kind.”
“You have not given a blood oath.”
“And if I make one with you, will you reveal the location of the council?”
Krast shifted uneasily. “I am bound by my orders.”
Durst’s harsh stare lingered for a moment, then his visage softened. “You are loyal to your chief, a noble trait. When will we need to depart?”
“At sunrise, six days from now.”
“Then I must send my own messengers now to bring the other pack leaders here before then. Grosh will see that Ast is there? Over him I have no influence.”
“He will see to it,” Krast confirmed.
“Then I will invite Grek and Blage. Just as Alexis, you will be our guest until we depart. Lucien, you have earned a rest even if it is a short one. No duty for you until we go to council.”
“Thank you, my chief,” Lucien said, adding a formal bow.
“Enjoy the rest, all of you. It may be the last we have for some time.”
Chapter 4: Home
Demetrius regained consciousness after a long, drawn-out struggle, as if swimming against a strong current in a hazy dream. Slowly his surroundings came into focus: a soiled tent roof, the feel of a blanket lain over straw beneath him. He tried to move and regretted it immediately, the pain shooting through him. He attempted to call out, but his lungs strained to pull in enough air, and his throat was dry. Shadows played on the tent, leaves rustled by the wind filtering a noon sun. He remembered the wyverns but nothing after that. Exhausted, he sank back into blackness.
When he woke again it was night outside. A lantern had been lit inside the tent, and as he turned his head to gaze upon it he saw that Corson was there. He let out a shuddering breath, knowing that whatever else had transpired they had found a safe refuge, even if only for a time.
“Don’t try to move,” Corson said, coming to sit beside his makeshift bed. He held a bowl of water to Demetrius’ lips. “Drink slowly, and not too much.”
Demetrius did as he was told, the water cool and soothing, but still his body rebelled, a spasm of coughing shaking him. His ribs cried out in agony. When he had regained control, he managed a weak “Thank you,” and then asked, “How long?”
“Two days since the wyverns.”
Demetrius’ eyes widened in shock.
“You took quite a beating, and needed the rest. The worst danger is past now.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“Granos said there are medicines that might ease the pain once you regained consciousness, but they’ll keep you groggy. Either way you’ll be in bed for a while.”
Demetrius didn’t like the sound of that. Stubbornness won out over better judgment, and he tried to sit up. He instantly recognized his mistake and fell back to a prone position with a long sigh. “Since I’m stuck here, at least tell me what’s going on.”
“We’re in a small camp of about twenty soldiers of Corindor. They were drawn by the wyverns, and found us just in time to save our lives. Many of the soldiers are in small bands such as this one, fighting where they can but trying to stay hidden from Solek, since he and the Dead Legion like large targets. Further south they believe there might be larger encampments, and the civilians are there as well, assuming they have not been driven elsewhere by forced flight or need.”
“Who’s in charge?”
“Granos here, others elsewhere. Everything descended into confusion after the king fell, and news that the prince would not return made it worse. The people are sundered one from another, and there has been little communication between them. Granos is not really sure what we will find in the south. He can only speak to what was there months ago, and things change rapidly these days.”
“Have you spoken to him of our mission?”
“Yes, and for his part he will march with us, and will ask his men to do so as well, though he will not force them to go. He commands by their leave, not by any authority. And he will gather what support he can locally. I will go south and see what other help I can find. I leave in the morning.”
Demetrius mulled this over, his face a mixture of emotions, as if some internal debate raged. “Not much I can do to stop you.”
“Nor can you come along. Regain your strength. We’ll have need of it soon enough.”
Demetrius nodded, and found that even that hurt. “Any discussion about who will lead whatever army we can muster?”
“I thought you might.”
“Me? I am a member of the King’s Guard. A leader of field troops would be better suited to the task.”
“You’ve led field troops.”
“That was ages ago.”
“It may have to do. Most of the captains have fallen in battle with the Legion.”
“I should have fallen in battle,” Demetrius said, more loudly than he wanted. “At King Rodaan’s side.”
Corson laughed bitterly and shook his head. “A noble death for you. And where would the rest of us be then? Would we have even the faint hope we have now, if you had not undertaken the task the king gave you?”
Demetrius did not reply.
“Don’t be too hasty to wish yourself dead. I know you feel useless now, a burden to others, but—”
“I didn’t—”
Corson held up a hand. “I know you too well for you to argue the point, or to believe you’ll admit I have the right of it. Rest now. Recover. Put your mind to use if your body has betrayed you. Gathering the fighting men and marching them to Veldoon is the easy task, hard as it has been. Turn your thoughts to what we do once there. I’m sure Solek will have a welcome prepared for us.”
* * *
They had forded the Little River, crossed into Delving, and traveled four more days before they found another person. They had gone to Humbold, finding it an abandoned ruin, then south along the Bay Road. Rowan’s uneasiness grew with each passing day. “We should not be able to pass so far along the road unchallenged or unseen,” he had said. “It bodes ill.”
Memories of the lost battle at Upper Cambry and the flight across the bay haunted them. They had been forced to depart swiftly for their journey north at the time, and only knew that the Delvish people they left behind had gained a reprieve from the assaults of the Legion. How long that reprieve had lasted, and what had happened to the people since were questions that pressed upon them more heavily with each passing hour.
They stumbled upon a hunting party about halfway between Humbold and Whiton. Four boys they were, armed as men but none more than fifteen. Regardless of the friendly colors worn by Rowan and Jazda, the boys tried to flee, but the riders quickly overtook a pair of them. It was to the credit of the other two that they had taken shelter only, and would likely have loosed their arrows had they not seen that the horsemen were indeed friends and meant no harm. Cautiously, they
left their hiding places and joined in the conversation.
The travelers learned soon enough that the Delvish had been scattered like leaves in a strong wind, taking what refuge they could near the swamps and wooded lands to the west. The Legion had wasted little time in regrouping and pressing forward for another assault after the battle at Upper Cambry, and the duchess had few options to consider when pondering how to respond.
“Do you know where the duchess is?” Rowan asked.
One of the younger boys had been doing most of the talking. He looked at his friends for confirmation before answering. “Not exactly, though she’s about, I hear. Some in our camp will know for sure.”
Both Rowan and Jazda were recognized at the small camp the boys called home, and were quickly assured of guidance to the duchess the next day. They stayed the night, and slept the sleep of the exhausted under a star-filled sky.
The next day broke chill, a misty rain hanging in the air. Without so much as a greeting, Jazda handed the reins of his horse to Tala. “I must find my own way now. I wish you well on your quest, but I am just a humble sea captain, and not made for such great deeds.”
Rowan could not help laughing. “We are no heroes from legend, Jazda, just simple folks like you.”
“Then fate has called you to live or die doing great things. My role in this adventure is done.”
“For now, perhaps,” said Tala. “There are battles yet to be fought.”
“And I will fight them if I must. But now what haunts me is neither Solek nor his minions, but a boy I once held dear, who walks the world as a pale shadow, as he does in my dreams.” He turned and walked away.
“Find peace,” Rowan said softly, a whispered wish.
Rowan and Tala set out with an older man named Sando as a guide, expecting the trip would be a short one. But the way was difficult, the horses had to be led, and the path was convoluted. It seemed they doubled back time and again, but they did not protest or question where they were led, and Sando appeared to know where he was at all times. If such a course was designed to keep the duchess safe from enemies, so be it.
By evening of the fifth day since their return to Delving, they found themselves sitting with the duchess in a ragged, makeshift tent—actually an old sail tied between trees to keep the rain off—and told her of all that had happened since they had last seen one another. She listened with grave interest, but the bright spark that had once been unmistakable in her eyes seemed dulled to the point of extinction, and she asked little beyond what they deemed necessary to tell her. When the tale was told she sat for a long time in a brooding silence, and when she finally spoke her tone was soft but the words were harsh. “So you would have us throw what little strength we have left against the very walls of Veldoon.”
“I would have us do what we must to survive,” said Rowan.
“We have survived…some of us.” The duchess’ expression went blank as she thought of other times and places.
Rowan looked at the soiled fabric above them, the straw bed, the uneaten meal—a few poor morsels on a dented metal plate.
The duchess came back to the present and saw the look on his face. “ ‘Survived’ you cannot argue. ‘Live’ is another question, perhaps. All about me has turned to ruin, and my woe is to see it, every day. To see my people suffer and die, to walk before them, their silent stares begging for food, for shelter, for peace. And I can grant them nothing! Nothing!”
“You can only give what is yours to give. If survival is all that there is to offer, then that. What we ask is difficult, and it promises more suffering and death. But it also offers hope. Once hope is gone, all is indeed lost.”
“Let me see this Sphere then, upon which you ask me to place my hope, and the lives of my people.”
Tala produced the cloaking bag. “It is best not to take it from the bag, lest Solek find it with a spell.” She handed the bag to the duchess.
Duchess Onsweys smiled faintly. “You ask me to risk much, and here, at least, I will risk a little. As long as his mind is not turned this way…” She removed the Sphere from the bag, letting it rest in her palm. With a thumb she slowly traced the outline of the missing piece. “Amazing that this could bring about his ruin, when all the armies of Arkania could not.”
“Together, they might,” Rowan said. “But neither alone is enough.”
“But we are so weak, and so few,” the duchess said, her voice no more than a sigh. She put the Sphere back in the bag and returned it to Tala.
Rowan waited a moment, then cleared his throat. “You have done all you could, m’lady. You are loved as duchess and leader, and the duke himself could have done no better in these dark days.”
The duchess looked at him, studying his tired, worn face. The icy stare she had fixed him with slowly melted. “I know you loved him, and you do not speak ill of him. But say not that his passing has meant little to the fortunes of Delving.”
“Forgive me, lady, if such you felt I was saying. I only wished to express that none could have led us to victory against the dark tide that has swept all of Arkania, and that we are few and weak, as you say. Are we getting stronger, or growing more numerous?”
“You know we are not.”
“Then we must risk much to have any hope of victory. If we have this one chance, we must take it.”
The duchess smiled softly. “Or die trying.”
“If that is our fate.”
“You should have been a diplomat, Rowan. Your words even stir my tired heart.”
Rowan looked away from her gaze, embarrassed.
“I don’t doubt you speak equally well with your sword,” the duchess assured him. “And if we are to march to war, I will need a captain.”
“Surely, there are others more suited. Sawdel—”
“Is dead, like so many others. No, if we are to do this, I name you, Rowan, to lead our army—if one will be able to call it that.”
He bowed in acquiescence, but his face was shadowed with doubt.
“Something more troubles you,” the duchess said.
Seeing Rowan hesitate, Tala spoke. “I have a fool’s errand of my own. I must return to my own people, to ask that they fight as well.”
“It has been long since elves have taken an interest in the affairs of men,” said the duchess. “Present company excepted.”
“And I fear it will remain so, even if we share your doom. Rowan had agreed to come with me, to speak for men and to try to convince my fath—my people, to help.”
“This is a worthy task, and one to be undertaken by someone of status. The leader of the Delvish army would seem a good choice.”
Rowan protested, “But there is much to do here, to prepare a march, to—”
The duchess stopped him. “I will not lead an army into battle, but I can see that one is prepared. My days have been filled with listening to grim reports from scouts and endless requests for things I cannot hope to give. If you name your lieutenants, I will set them to work.”
“I would only ask for those who lead men now.”
“They lead men and boys, and women as well. Many have learned to wield sword or bow in our need, and if we are going to strike at Solek, we will strike with all we have, though to him it may seem no more than the bite of a fly.
“The hour is late,” she said. “Think on this, and in the morning we will choose the day to march north. You will need to have your journey to the elven wood completed by then.”
“Thank you, m’lady.”
“The thanks go to both of you, and those who went with you, living or now deceased. You have kindled a flame of hope within me, although it is frail, likely to be quenched by the slightest breath of wind. If my words have been heavy, so has been my heart and the weariness I feel. Rest well, and I will try to be of better cheer with the dawn of a new day.”
They spent the next day making what plans they could for the mustering of a Delvish army. The people were scattered and could not be gathered until they were rea
dy to move north—if then—since Solek would likely strike at any massed group. Much as they wanted this time to be delayed, it was in fact what they were proposing to do, to march openly to war and draw the enemy into a prolonged battle, but if they did so before the appointed time they would not last long, allowing Solek to fight the Delvish alone.
The few leaders who could be reached and brought to the camp were all the evidence Rowan needed to see how dire the situation had become. They were all good men, courageous and willing enough, but young, asked to take on great responsibility before their time. He had said as much to the duchess after a meeting with three who were barely old enough to shave.
“So many have fallen, and these have had to grow up quickly,” the duchess told him. “There are others further south with a few more years under their belts, but not as many as we might wish.
Rowan’s authority was accepted with little protest beyond the occasional raised eyebrow. He was unknown to some, but the slight graying of his hair around his temples testified to his years, his sword had clearly seen much use, and the duchess’ orders were not usually questioned. Those who looked upon him saw something in his face that stirred them to action, and garnered their quick respect, as if he wore the battles with the Dark One’s minions like badges of honor. Rumors of his adventures soon spread throughout the camps, growing with each retelling, until many of the youngsters looked upon him with reverent awe.
When they had set things in motion as best they could, they took their leave of the duchess, Rowan promising to return within three weeks. “If it is longer than that, choose another to act in my place,” he told her.
They left the extra horse as a gift to the duchess, then wearily set out again, feeling the weight of the task ahead, and the subtle drag of having no place to call home, having gotten little rest, and having little hope of getting much in the near future. But there was no feeling of self-pity over such things, as all around them were the homeless and tired, and most looked only to the ground as the riders passed, so bereft of hope had they become.
