by Roland Green
The day the last refugees squeezed themselves into the tunnel to the forest, Tarothin came to Pirvan with a frown on his face. The Red Robe seemed to wear moroseness like a cloak these days. It certainly fit his gaunt frame better than any of the warm garments Haimya had made for him over the years. But this was more than Pirvan had seen.
“I fear Wilthur the Brown has not finished with us.”
This seemed likely enough. The nightmares and the ghosts of his slain no longer troubled Pirvan much, but he had small patience with being told what he already knew. He said so plainly.
Tarothin shook his head. “I believe he has withheld his major spells for two reasons. One, he exhausted himself emptying the old well. That had to have been brutal work, mixing all three colors of magic. Such sorceries are even more wearying to the spellcaster than spells of only one shade.”
That Pirvan knew to be true. The conflict between white, black, and red could be overcome by a mage with sufficient power and a sufficient lack of scruples. A dire tension remained, which had to be constantly fought lest it sunder the spell—and probably the mage—in midcasting.
“The other is that I think someone—perhaps our friend Zephros—has command of the besiegers. He may be waiting for reinforcements so that he can exploit any opening Wilthur’s magic may give him. Or he may fear that Wilthur will reduce Belkuthas to blackened rubble. That would make Zephros’s name stink even worse and for far longer than our corpses.”
“Your good cheer knows no bounds,” Pirvan said. “When did you last eat?”
“My good cheer, you could bound in a thimble,” Tarothin said. “My appetite, you could pass through the eye of a needle.”
Gildas Aurhinius wadded up the parchment of Carolius Migmar’s latest letter and threw it at the door. He had moved his quarters into a rough stone building, and the parchment struck the wood just as it opened to admit Nemyotes.
“What does Migmar think he is doing?” Aurhinius exclaimed.
“I become more and more persuaded that not as much thinking is being done in this campaign as has been the case with past ones.”
Aurhinius glared. “Do you include me in that remark?”
“Well, my lord, you did say that you would give much to find a way of lifting the siege of Belkuthas. But what have we done here?”
“Not enough, I admit. But from this letter, Migmar will throw an iron wall around Belkuthas within the month. Thousands of sell-swords, siege engines, the gods only know what magic if the kingpriest turns a blind eye—enough to finish the work.”
“Perhaps, if you are not there.”
“And if I were? Migmar has years of rank over me, apart from favor in Istar. Also my orders are to remain here, to hold the Silvanesti in the front.”
“We are a long way from the nearest elf, if the reports are true. The desert riders will leave us alone if we return the favor, and the cliff-dwellers have not come out of their holes in living memory. As for orders—did you not once speak of establishing a line of outposts, between this camp and Belkuthas? Would not that be work so important that you had to command it yourself, and report to Migmar afterward? I acknowledge that Carolius Migmar will still have command when you are together. But much may happen when you are at Belkuthas, things that cannot happen when you are here.”
“You speak of what could well end our service, or even our lives, Nemyotes.”
“I know that, my lord.”
Aurhinius laughed softly. “And to think I was being so careful to remain loyal, for the sake of you and others who might fall with me. Who else thinks as you do?”
“A good many captains. Enough that the camp will be safe if you march west.”
“Then I shall do so. Nemyotes, arrange matters for that purpose, and also bring me writing material. No, forget that. This must remain a surprise, even to Migmar and our kin.”
“I would say, especially to Migmar.”
“Don’t cut them that way, you dolt! If the horses don’t charge aright, they won’t hit the sentries! Who do you think you are?”
Horimpsot Elderdrake glared at his companion. It was plainly a glare on his face, even in the darkness and under the dirt of many days in the forest. It was fortunate that kender grow no facial hair, or both of them could have had beards well down toward their chests. The hair on their heads was frightful enough.
“I am someone who has learned much about horses. And you are making too much noise.”
It said much about the changed relationship between the two kender that Imsaffor Whistletrot was silent. He remained silent, as did the night, until all the tethers were cut. Then the two kender stationed themselves behind the horses, and went to work with hoopak and whippit to make as much noise as possible.
Suddenly breaking the silence of the night, the moans and whistles were enough to frighten spirits, let alone horses half starved for many days. As fast as their strength allowed, they bolted.
The sentries in their path did not stand their ground. They ran off in all directions so quickly that Elderdrake feared some of them would fall and hurt themselves. He and Whistletrot wanted Zephros’s blood as much as ever, but they had scruples about shedding anyone else’s.
They had even less wish to hurt horses. When they followed the trail of the mounts, over ground trampled by hooves and feet and littered with discarded weapons and equipment, they were alert for any fallen animals.
They found only one, but the gray mare was in dire case. She had fallen into a ditch and badly broken one leg. They looked, they frowned, they climbed down, and they tried to both calm the horse and heave her to her feet at the same time.
This understandably did not improve the mare’s disposition. They had just leapt out of the ditch to avoid the mare’s third attempt to bite them, when a soft voice spoke behind them.
“I always knew kender were thickheaded and stubborn, Tharash. If we leave them, they will be here until the day dawns or the enemy comes upon them.”
The kender turned to see Tharash and another elf, a woman in a robe that was either dark-colored or even filthier than they. “If you want to help the mare, let me see what can be done,” the woman said. She lifted her robe, revealing well-formed legs, and leapt down into the ditch.
Tharash handed her a staff that the kender recognized as bearing the signs of Mishakal. They also recognized her as someone who had come with Lauthin.
“Elansa came out with Lauthin’s men. Said they needed a healer,” Tharash added. “She’s good-hearted and strong.”
From his tone, the kender judged that the elven healer had been good-hearted enough to share Tharash’s bed—if they could find such a thing in the forest. He thought yearningly of having Hallie Pinesweet out here with him.
Elansa’s hands and staff moved over the mare’s leg. At last she whispered, “Find cloth and sticks. We shall need to splint the leg, if she is to walk safely away from here.”
They settled for two sticks and one of Tharash’s sheathed knives, tied in place with strips of cloth torn one apiece from everybody’s garments. It was a ragged party that finally trailed the mare away from a camp where either none had heard their noise or all were too afraid to come out and learn what made it.
“I’m going inside in a few days,” Tharash said. “I can take you lads—ah, gentlemen—with me, if you wish.”
“I hate dwarf tunnels,” Whistletrot said.
“Odd, seeing as how you fit in them better than I do,” the elven ranger said. “But no matter. If you want to stay out here until you have Zephros’s head, I will help all I can. For the gods’ sake and your friends,’ though, take a bath. Your clothes must already stand up by themselves, and soon sentries will be able to nose you out from upwind!”
Then the two light-treading elves were gone.
Carolius Migmar heard the rumble and squeal of wagons climbing a slope, the crack of whips, and the shouts of teamsters. He would go out to inspect the arriving siege train in a few moments, but he would not hasten und
uly.
He also had to ponder whether to reply to Zephros’s letter—which should not have been written in the first place. Admitting dealings with Wilthur the Brown was a sufficient addition to Zephros’s crimes to give him a death sentence. Also, the letter revealed something that might still have been a secret to some of their enemies, if the letter had been read by unfriendly eyes. Still, a Red Robe of Tarothin’s skill would have already discovered Wilthur’s presence and even countered some of his spells.
Migmar decided that for now there would be no reply to the letter—which, he hoped, would make further discourse unneeded when he reached Zephros’s camp. The less recognition he could give the self-styled high captain, the better.
As for helping Wilthur the Brown back into the graces of the kingpriest, or even the Towers of High Sorcery—Migmar would rather become a eunuch!
A pity that, in this campaign, kingpriest, virtuous soldiers of Istar, and the Knights of Solamnia formed three factions like the sides of a triangle, rather than a single straight line facing their common enemies. Victory at Belkuthas, Migmar hoped, might help build that line.
Then the question of the “lesser races” would cease to excite such passions. Confronted with the union of such human powers, they would find reason to yield with honor, and with just treatment they would not again be a source of danger or even dissension.
To his own mind, Migmar had always been a soldier who worked to make his profession unnecessary. Victory at Belkuthas might be a fair step in that direction.
It would also be an easier step than many realized, including Wilthur the Brown. What need was there for sorcery when the siege engines were assembled? Indeed, what need for a fight when the defenders of the citadel would likely see the wisdom of yielding honorably to overwhelming force?
It was time to go out and inspect the newly arrived wagons carrying the ironmongery and tools for the siege train. Not only would this flatter the sappers, it would also be wise to see how robust the wagons were.
This was a land of many rocks and slopes and few broad roads. That had not mattered before, when Migmar’s three thousand men (picked sell-swords and a thousand of the regular host of Istar) carried everything they needed on their backs, their saddles, or their pack animals. Even the host’s meat rations walked.
Heavily laden wagons, on the other hand, required roads and time. There might be skirmishing as deluded folk tried to halt the siege train with petty ambushes. Even so, the summer was not half gone, and Belkuthas would not endure once the siege train was at work.
There was ample time.
Migmar drew on his cloak, set his helmet straight upon his balding head, and marched out to welcome his most important reinforcements.
Tharash was following his own advice given to the kender half a moon before—taking a bath before he grew too noisome for civilized company—when Sirbones entered the chamber.
“Alas, that you are not Elansa,” Tharash said. He pretended to squint nearsightedly at the priest of Mishakal. “No, too old, too wrinkled, and much too bald. Also wearing far more clothes than Elansa would, if she came to a man in his bath.”
“I am not here to feed your dreams, Tharash,” Sirbones said.
“Do you even feed yourself?” Tharash said. The priest shrugged. “Well, do so. Otherwise you and Tarothin will both be dead of hunger before the siege is done. It is not as if you take food from starving children by eating enough to keep your spirits and flesh together! Not when I remember the weight of venison I just helped haul through the tunnels. My shoulders still ache from that journey.”
Sirbones now neither moved nor spoke. “Out with it, Sirbones,” Tharash said. “I honor you more than most humans, but that does not make me ready to have my time wasted.” He stepped out of the bath and wrapped himself in a towel. “Speak before I am clothed, or be silent.”
Sirbones sat down on the edge of the bath. It rocked and nearly spilled him, as well as the cooling water, on the floor.
“Lauthin is beginning to think,” the priest said.
“What has he been doing all the while before?” Tharash said, “besides insulting my lord and lady beyond measure, playing despot over his own followers, and withholding strength from battle so that innocent men died?”
“He has said a good deal, in plain words,” Sirbones said.
“So,” Tharash said, pulling out a comb. Elves did not often go bald by nature, but he suspected that he would be nearly as bare-skulled as an aged dwarf by the time he had taken all the snarls from his gray locks.
It took Tharash as long as he had expected to finish his hair, and longer than he had expected for Sirbones to finish quoting Lauthin. The ranger had to admit that Lauthin seemed to have a glimmering of wisdom brightening the hitherto dark expanse of his narrow mind. However, none of what Tharash expected was in the words.
“What do you expect?” Sirbones asked. He seemed truly curious.
“A formal apology to my lady, my lord, and their daughter. A further apology to all the other captains here. Forgiveness of all those elves who marched out into the forest. Restitution from his own purse to the kin of those who died because he held his strength back from battle.”
“Dream, Tharash.”
The ranger’s anger flared. “That is little enough, from one who has been sitting on his bony arse while I drag mine, not much better-fleshed, through the forest. From one who thinks Solinari shines out of his—”
“I understand, Tharash. But it will take time before Lauthin says much more than he has already.”
“Very well. Let him hesitate until newly planted saplings are stout trees. We are both elves. We have time.”
“You are both old elves,” Sirbones said. “And we are all, young and old, in the middle of a war.”
“So?”
“Can we not have peace among ourselves, if only to better face our enemies?”
“Folk like Lauthin are the enemy, Sirbones. Even when they are not in arms against us.”
The fireball was just large enough to draw Zephros’s undivided attention to the door of his tent, but not to be seen outside. With his foot, Zephros pushed aside filth on the floor. Unsteadily, he stood to greet Wilthur.
“I have heard of no reply from Migmar.”
“There has been none.” Zephros was pleasantly surprised to find that he could speak clearly. “But there is another message. Aurhinius is coming.”
“To take command?”
“Only if he reaches us before Migmar, and that he probably cannot do.”
“Then what is to be feared from him?” asked the mage in his steel and brick rasp. “You seem downcast at his coming.”
“He is old, shrewd, and no friend to the kingpriest, to evil wizardry—”
“I am not evil!”
“How you see yourself is one thing, how Aurhinius will see you is a second, and what he will do when he comes is a third. Let me tell you about the ways of old intriguers like Aurhinius, even when they do not command.” Zephros had not found a chance to talk to anyone for so long in nearly a month. He went on so long, he suspected any common listener would have been bored to rudeness long before he was done.
Wilthur, however, did not know war, soldiering, or Aurhinius, and therefore did not know the menace they faced. “It seems best that we strike before Aurhinius arrives.”
“Without Migmar?”
“Do you want the glory of victory?” Wilthur countered.
“To the Abyss with the glory! I want—” What Zephros really wanted was to erase the stain of the name “deserter” or “mutineer,” and then never put on armor again. But Wilthur was the last person on Krynn he would honor with that confession.
“Well?”
“You are asking that I turn you loose on Belkuthas? Against its two wizards—at least two?”
“You inherited my loyalty from Luferinus. Did you inherit also his fears of me, so that you will quiver and quail when I propose—?”
“Luferinus was a
brave man! You put the fear into him, you brown-robed windbag! That is the only way you know to deal with others!”
“Fear is the gods’ gift, like everything else, Zephros. It is through fear that I will enter the divided mind of one within Belkuthas. Divide his mind further, and what he will do will divide the folk of Belkuthas one against another, so that we shall be able to walk in long before Migmar or Aurhinius are within a day’s march.”
“Such sublime confidence!” Zephros wondered if Wilthur would throw a larger fireball for such a sneer, and hardly cared.
“You will learn that it is not unjustified,” Wilthur said. He marched out with as much dignity as was allowed by his increasingly rank robe and still more emaciated frame.
Rynthala had watched from the walls as Belot mounted Amrisha and the great wings lifted them both from the courtyard. They vanished swiftly into the clouds—this night had been especially chosen for its darkness.
Rynthala frowned and considered inspecting the sentries.
Air boomed, then whispered. Amrisha plunged out of the clouds, gliding so fast that Rynthala feared the pegasus was flying away. Then the great wings flared wide again, breaking the plunge just above the level of the walls.
The pegasus circled the castle twice while Rynthala ran down the stairs from the wall. Pegasus and rider landed in a flurry of dust as Rynthala reached ground.
She ran toward them. “That was asking much of Amrisha, to put that kind of a strain on her wings the first flight!”
She expected Belot to flare back at her, as he had several times since he recovered his health. Instead, she saw what might almost have been a shy smile.
“I confess. This is not the first flight. Closer to the fourth.”
