Tanequil

by Terry Brooks

  When they reached the heights, Pied paused. The front stretched along the plateau that comprised the Prekkendorran for more than two miles east and west through a series of broad flats segmented by twisting passes and ravines. At present, and for much of the past twenty years, the Free-born had occupied a pair of high bluffs bracketing a deep, wide pass that angled north all the way to the other side of the plateau before turning down through the foothills beyond. Elves occupied the smaller bluff on the west; a mix of Bordermen, Dwarves, and Trolls, the larger one on the east. By placing archers and slingmen on either side of the gap, where it narrowed, they were able to ward against penetration. The Federation’s only choice was to come at the allies from the front or sides and to do so from a highly vulnerable position.

  The Federation had penetrated deep into the flats early on in the war, but once the allies had found the bluffs on which to set their defenses, the attack had stalled. Because the Federation was the invading force, the allies could afford to sit back and wait. It was the invader who must come to them, and by now they had constructed defenses of stone and timber that were believed to be sufficiently strong that it would cost the lives of thousands of men to achieve a breakthrough. It was generally agreed by both sides that another way must be found, and as yet it had not.

  Pied studied the Federation lines, situated on the flats not half a mile away. A mass of dark figures crowded behind fortifications similar to their own. In the two months he had been on the front, they had not emerged from behind those walls. The most excitement he had experienced was the result of a pair of rather haphazard airship attacks on the Dwarf lines a mile farther down the front, which had been quickly driven back.

  Were there more Federation soldiers at those walls than there had been a week ago? A mottled stain of black-and-silver uniforms spread away behind those fortifications for better than a mile, clusters of men settled about cooking fires and stacks of weapons. There was no drilling or training in evidence, no suggestion of an impending attack. Everything looked as it always looked.

  But that didn’t mean it was.

  He shook his head. He didn’t like anything he was seeing on either side of the front. He had been a soldier all his life, and he had learned to trust his instincts. They were screaming at him, telling him that the possibility of disaster was enormous and close at hand.

  “Drum, I can’t let him do this,” he said quietly.

  “The King?” His aide shook his head. “You can’t stop him, Captain. You’ve already tried, and he won’t listen. If you can’t tell him something he doesn’t already know, you’ll just make him more determined.”

  Pied walked on, saying nothing. There had to be a way to stall, something he could say or do to win a reprieve. He had always been able to out-think Kellen; he ought to be able to do so now.

  Ahead, the airfield came into view, settled in a swale at the center of the encampment east, close to the draw that separated the allied armies. There was noticeable activity, even from a distance. Ships were being readied for liftoff, crews scurrying across the decks and atop the rigging, tightening draws and loosening sails. Railguns were already fitted in place, and missiles were stacked in boxes beside them. Two dozen airships were set to fly, the larger part of the fleet, the best of the warships it comprised. The King was determined that the attack would succeed, holding nothing back against the possibility that it wouldn’t.

  As he descended from the higher flat, Pied caught sight of the King grouped with his airship commanders in a tight circle by the flagship Ellenroh, talking. The discussion appeared heated, but all the heat was coming from the King. His Captains were doing little more than listening.

  Then Pied caught sight of Kiris and Wencling, standing off to one side of their father, and his heart sank. The King had decided to take his sons with him, after all. In spite of Pied’s reservations. In spite of his advice. His nephews were looking at their feet, trying not to draw attention to themselves, staring ill at ease and out of place, and he guessed they didn’t like the idea of being there any better than he did.

  Taking a deep breath, he walked across the airfield and up to the King.

  “Captain,” the King greeted on catching sight of him. He would never use Pied’s name or refer to their familiar relationship in a situation like this. “We are ready to depart. No word, I gather, from your scouts? No? Then we have no further reason to delay.”

  “My lord, I wish you would reconsider,” Pied said quickly. “I would feel better for your safety if we waited just one more day. My scouts should return—”

  “My safety is in good hands with these men,” the King interrupted, an edge to his voice. “I thought we had settled this earlier, Captain. Was there something I said that wasn’t clear to you?”

  There was no mistaking the anger in his voice. He did not care to be challenged in front of his airship Captains and his sons and particularly not about the coming attack. He was telling Pied he had gone as far as he was going to be allowed to go, and that he had better not try to go farther.

  But Pied had no choice. Not if he was to keep his self-respect. “My lord, you made yourself perfectly clear. I respect your thinking. But I have been a soldier for a long time, and I have learned to trust my instincts. They tell me that something isn’t right about what we’re seeing—about the unexplained Rover departure and weakening of the Federation fleet. Nor do I feel right about the mobilization reported along the Federation front. I know it seems to be in response to the Rover departure, but I think it might be something else. If I could suggest an alternative plan, my lord, I would ask you to take an exploratory flight to see—”

  “Enough, Captain!” the King snapped, cutting him short. There was a hushed silence. The King was seething. “More than enough. You are Captain of the Home Guard. Limit yourself to that and leave the decision making to me!”

  “As Captain of the Home Guard, I am responsible for your safety and must do everything in my power to protect you!” Pied snapped back. “I can’t do that if you won’t let me!”

  The silence turned as frosty as midwinter in the Charnals. Pied caught a glimpse of the shocked faces of the King’s sons, who stared at him in disbelief—Kiris, tall and dark like his father, and Wencling, fair and small like his mother. No one talked that way to their father, certainly not outside the family and not in public. Pied had crossed the line, but his conscience refused to let him back down.

  Kellen Elessedil turned away. “Captains,” he addressed his airship commanders, “prepare to set out. Board everyone. Make certain they know what is expected of them.”

  He gestured to a messenger standing off to one side. “Carry the message I gave you to Commanders Droshen and Wick. Go quickly and tell them to take whatever precautions they feel necessary in case of a counterattack. Make certain they know that I have already left.”

  When everyone was gone but his sons, he turned back to Pied. “You have abused your position as Captain of the Home Guard. As a consequence, you will not be coming with me. I don’t trust you anymore. You’ve lost your nerve. I don’t want my life or the lives of my family and soldiers in your hands. You are relieved of your duties. My safety is no longer your responsibility. Perhaps others, more capable of understanding the nature of your office, will serve me better.”

  He paused. “Just because my wife still favors you, a kindness she would do well to reconsider, doesn’t give you the right to question me as you have just done—in front of my sons and my officers.”

  He turned to his sons, beckoned for them to follow, and stalked angrily toward the Ellenroh. Pied watched them go, stunned. He should say something more, he knew. He should make another attempt to stop him or maybe just try to explain himself better. But he couldn’t make himself move.

  He was still standing there when the airships lifted off like huge hunting birds and swung south toward the Federation lines.

  Drumundoon, who had waited patiently in the background until Pied’s attention had s
hifted away from the departing vessels, came up to him.

  “He will change his mind, Captain,” the aide said quietly. “He will realize he acted out of haste.”

  “Perhaps.” There was an awkward silence as they faced each other. “I couldn’t think of anything else to say, Drum. I just stood there and let him walk away from me.”

  His aide nodded and gave a faint smile. “Maybe there weren’t any words left to be said.”

  They walked back across the airfield and into the Elven encampment in silence. Now and again, Pied cast anxious glances toward the Federation lines, where the first torches were being lit with twilight’s approach. He could still see the Elven warships, dark smudges pinned against the sky. He searched for ground activity, but saw none. It was hard to tell, though, so far away and in poor light.

  His thoughts drifted. He had grown up with Kellen Elessedil, and there were few men or women who knew him better. He should have been able to devise a more effective approach to dissuading him from making an ill-advised attack. He should have been able to avoid angering him so. Somehow things had gotten out of hand, and he was still struggling with the fact of it. He could see the faces of Kiris and Wencling in his mind, looking shocked and afraid, as if seeing what he hadn’t seen, as if knowing secrets he should have known. He tried not to think what Arling would say once she discovered how badly he had let her down. If she would talk to him at all, he amended. She might not. She might dismiss him as swiftly as Kellen had.

  “Captain,” Drumundoon said suddenly, taking his arm.

  A man was racing toward them from across the flats, one of his Home Guard. The man’s name escaped him, though he knew it as well as his own. He struggled to remember it and failed.

  “Phaile,” Drum whispered, as if reading his mind.

  Phaile reached them in a rush and saluted. “Acrolace has returned, Captain!” he exclaimed. His breath came in short, labored gasps. “She’s badly injured! She says you are to come right away!”

  They broke into a run, Phaile leading the way. Pied didn’t bother questioning the man; Acrolace was the one he needed to see.

  But the urgency of the summons frightened him.

  They reached a cluster of Elves close to the edge of the bluff, just above the front of the Elven defensive line. Acrolace lay on the ground, the silver-and-black Federation tunic she had donned as a disguise stained and torn, her left arm ripped open all the way from shoulder to elbow. She was pale from loss of blood and rigid with pain. Her green eyes found his as he knelt beside her, and her fingers fastened on his wrist.

  He bent close to hear her, his eyes never leaving hers. “What happened, Acrolace?” he whispered. “Where’s Parn?”

  She shook her head. “Dead.” She swallowed thickly. “They have an airship . . .” She coughed, and blood bubbled on her lips. “Under heavy guard, no one allowed close. But . . . we got near enough . . .”

  She trailed off, her eyes closing against pain or memory, he couldn’t tell which. When she opened them again, he squeezed her hand. “What did you see?”

  “A weapon mounted on the deck. Big. Something new.” She inhaled sharply. “They’re waiting for us, Captain. They know . . . we’re coming. We heard them . . . say so.”

  She gave a long, slow sigh, and her hand released its grip on his. A weapon, he repeated silently.

  “She’s unconscious,” one of the Healers said. “Better so.”

  Pied looked around quickly, trying not to panic. “Phaile,” he said, spotting his Home Guard messenger. “Find Commander Fraxon. Tell him I said to expect a Federation attack. Tell him it will be massive, a push to break all the way through our lines. Tell him it will come at any time and to have his Elven Hunters ready. Hurry!”

  He stood up. “Drum, call up all elements of the Home Guard and place them on the airfield. They are to hold it at all costs. All costs, Drum. Until I tell them to stand down.”

  His aide nodded, his long face as pale as Acrolace’s. “Where will you be? What will you do?”

  Pied was already hurrying away, his determination etched on his lean features. “I’m going after the King,” he called over his shoulder. “This time he will have to listen to me!”

  TWENTY

  Pied Sanderling sprinted the length of the Elven encampment, bumping aside anyone who got in his way, knocking over equipment and stores, leaving in his wake a string of angry shouts and curses. His mind was already far ahead of his body, thinking of what he must do and how he must do it, aware of how futile his efforts were likely to be. A terrible certainty gripped him. He was going to be too late. No matter how quick he was, he wasn’t going to be quick enough. The disaster he had feared had come to pass, and all the failed warnings in the world would not be enough to persuade him it was not his fault.

  Run faster!

  He reached the airfield winded and flushed, and as he tore down the embankment toward the airships, he searched frantically for someone he recognized among the few who hadn’t gone with Kellen Elessedil. He found only a lone commander of a railgun sloop, a grizzled veteran named Markenstall. He barely knew the man, knew more of his reputation than of him. A brave man, dependable in a fight, a solid presence in the pilot box—that would suffice.

  “Captain!” he shouted, rushing up to the older man. “Is your sloop fitted and ready?” He glanced at her name, carved into the stern. Asashiel.

  Markenstall stared at him with a mix of surprise and doubt. Gray whiskers stuck out from the sides of his jaw, deep lines furrowed his weathered face, and his ears were tattered and scarred. He had the look of a man who had been in more than a few fights.

  “Answer me, Captain!” Pied shouted at him.

  The older man started sharply. “Ready and fitted as she can be, Captain Sanderling,” he growled.

  “Good. We’re taking her up. Cast off.”

  Markenstall hesitated. “Captain, I’m not authorized to—”

  “Listen carefully to me,” Pied interrupted. “The King flies into a trap. One of my Home Guard nearly lost her life getting that news to me; another lies dead somewhere beyond our lines. I’m not about to let that be for nothing! There isn’t time to seek authorization of any sort. If you want to save the King and those who went with him, we must leave at once!”

  He cast a quick glance south, where the sky had turned deep blue in the twilight haze and the airships his gaze had followed earlier had disappeared from view. The dusk was thickening, the last of the sunlight a dim glow below the horizon west, the first stars beginning to brighten in the sky north. East, the moon was a silvery crescent lifting out of the Lower Anar.

  His eyes flicked back to Markenstall. “Captain, please!”

  The veteran studied him a moment longer, then nodded. “Very well. Get aboard.” He turned to a pair of sailors sitting nearby. “Pon! Cresck! Off your duffs and get aboard! Take in the lines and anchors! Prepare to cast off!”

  The two crewmen and the grizzled Captain were skilled at making quick departures, and the Asashiel was airborne in minutes, swinging south with the wind, tacking swiftly out across the flats and beyond the Free-born lines. Pied stood in the pilot box with Markenstall while the crewmen manned the railguns to either side, breeches opened and loaded, triggers unlocked. No one mistook the foray for anything but what Pied was certain it was going to turn out to be.

  “Mind if I ask what it is you intend to do with a sloop and two railguns?” Markenstall asked once they were winging out over the desolate front, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

  Pied shook his head. “Whatever I can.”

  Ahead, the Federation lines were so dark they were virtually indistinguishable from the surrounding land. Pied thought he heard shouting, the sounds of sudden activity, but it was hard to tell with the rush of the wind and the whine of the rigging in his ears.

  Then lightning split the darkness, brilliant and piercing, the bolt a horizontal rope stretched low and taut against the horizon. The bolt struck something that exploded
instantly into a fiery ball, burning fragments pinwheeling into the darkness to fall like tiny firebrands to the earth. For just an instant, a cluster of airships was silhouetted against the brightness, masts and hulls stark and black.

  “Shades!” Markenstall hissed. “What was that?”

  Pied swiftly amended his earlier conclusion. It wasn’t lightning after all. Not riding that low and that straight.

  Then it flashed again, and there was another explosion, this one more violent than the first, and again the airships were revealed, scattering in all directions now, angling away from the fireball like frightened animals. An earth-shattering boom reverberated through the night, the shock waves so powerful that Pied could feel them even through the deck of the sloop.

  He knew then what it was. It was the weapon Acrolace and Parn had discovered in the Federation camp. The trap had been sprung; Kellen Elessedil’s airships were being destroyed, one by one. Pied was too late to give warning. He was too late to do anything but witness the consequences of the King’s ill-considered, rash behavior.

  “Faster, Captain,” he said, catching hold of Markenstall’s wiry arm. “We have to try to help.”

  It was a faint hope at best. There was little one airship could do to help another in the best of situations, which this most assuredly wasn’t, and his was likely the weakest airship aloft. But he had to get a closer look. He had to know what the Elves and their allies were up against. If the King didn’t get safely back, if none of them managed to get back . . .

  He forced the thought away, hating himself for allowing it to surface. But another firebolt erupted and another airship caught fire, the flames turning masts and rigging into torches that illuminated the whole of the night sky. Stricken, the airship wheeled away from the attack, trying to stay aloft, to seek cover. But there was no cover in the skies and no place to hide when you were burning. A second strike turned it into a massive fireball. It blazed brightly for a moment, then fell apart and disappeared into the dark.