Heirs of Prophecy

by Lisa Smedman

  He circled back over the town, taking stock. The wooden watchtowers that lined Rauthauvyr’s Road held soldiers whose shields bore Lord Ilmeth’s crest, and the gates across the road had not been forced. The wooden palisade that surrounded the town’s most important buildings was likewise untouched. Even the cottages in the forest surrounding Essembra appeared unharmed, with lights glowing cheerily in their windows. Lord Ilmeth was still in control of Essembra—or so it seemed. Had he actually welcomed the Red Plumes to his town?

  If so, they weren’t his only guests. Circling wider over the forest, Leifander saw movement beneath the trees and was just able to make out the round, forest-brown tents of his people. For a moment he debated landing and asking the elves what was happening, but then, from the direction of town, he heard a high-pitched cry. It was the shriek of a griffon. Were the windriders there, too?

  Wheeling, he flew toward the center of town and saw that he had been right. A griffon was indeed tethered, all by itself, in a corral near the center of town. The other windriders’ steeds were nowhere in sight.

  Leifander landed on the roof of the town’s highest building, the House of Gond. Hopping along its soft lead gutter, he peered down from the temple’s two-story height, past the heavy iron battlements that supported its walls. Smoke and the occasional bright red cinder drifted from the building’s numerous chimneys. The blacksmith priests of Gond must have been working through the night, forging the weapons of war.

  He saw more humans—residents of Essembra—on the streets below. Many of them had swords at their hips, having no doubt been pressed into service with the militia. There were also knights in full armor and a handful of elves. Some were forest elves, padding along in bare feet with bows in hand; others had the haughty bearing and pale skin of Silver elves and were clad in chain mail and helms. All seemed to be moving in the same direction, toward the sprawling, multi-hailed building known as Ilmeth’s Manor.

  The massive iron doors at the front of the manor were open to the street. Elves and humans hurried up the front stairs and into its lantern-lit interior. Leifander hopped off the temple roof and flapped his way to the manor, landing atop one of the massive wooden pillars that fronted the building. By twisting his neck, he was able to peer under the rooftop and get a look inside the doors. What he saw there nearly froze his blood.

  The hall had been trimmed with all of the trappings of war, including battle standards and ceremonial lances. It was filled with human soldiers—both Lord Ilmeth’s and the Red Plumes. The latter stood across the room from where the elves had assembled, no doubt warily keeping their distance. Flanking a table at the far end of the room was a group of high-ranking elves and Red Plumes officers, standing so close to one another they were almost rubbing shoulders. Worse still was the sight of Lord Ilmeth and half a dozen members of the Elven Council—including Lord Kierin—standing around a table with none other than Maalthiir, first lord of Hillsfar.

  Leifander nearly gagged at the sight of the man. Short and stocky, Maalthiir had dark red hair shaved close to his scalp and eyebrows that joined above his nose in a V-shape, giving him a perpetual scowl. His jaw was square and blocky, his nose a mere stub. Had Leifander not known better, he would have guessed the man to have some orc blood in him. Perhaps that guess was correct. Self-loathing could explain the disdain Maalthiir felt for any but “trueblood” humans.

  With barely suppressed hatred, Leifander stared at the man whose edicts had caused Chandrell’s death. The man’s hands might appear clean, but they were stained with the blood of countless innocent elves.

  Regardless of this terrible fact, Maalthiir seemed welcome in Lord Ilmeth’s manor. He stood quietly with the group at the table, watching as each person in turn took up a quill and signed a piece of parchment that had been spread on the table-top. He smiled pleasantly as he took the pen from Lord Kierin’s hand—an elf’s hand—to sign the document himself.

  The ceremony reached its conclusion, and Lord Ilmeth picked up the parchment and held it out before him. The assembled crowd immediately fell into a respectful hush, broken only by the faint clink of armor as soldiers shifted for a better look.

  “By this document,” Lord Ilmeth’s voice rang out, “Lord Maalthiir of Hillsfar pledges his soldiers—ten thousand swords—to the elven cause.”

  “Madness!” Leifander cawed, but his protest was lost in the cheer that echoed through the hall. Had the High Council lost their minds? How could they trust these humans?

  Judging from the wary looks on some of the elves’ faces, Leifander was not the only one with doubts. Lord Kierin turned to Maalthiir and placed both hands over his heart, bowing low. Maalthiir, a smug look on his face, clasped the windrider’s shoulders in what had to be a false show of friendship.

  It seemed to satisfy the assembled elves, however. Heads began to nod and a murmur of approval filled the room. Leifander knew what they must have been thinking. If so mighty a hero as Lord Kierin could bow to Maalthiir, the human must have renounced his evil ways.

  Leifander, however, saw something they did not: the frozen smile on Lord Kierin’s normally scowling face. He realized, with a sudden terrible clarity, that there could only be one explanation. Leifander had betrayed Lord Kierin’s true name to that wizard, Drakkar. He, in turn, must have confided it to someone, who in turn conveyed the information to Maalthiir. The lord of Hillsfar had used that secret in a foul manner, to bend Lord Kierin to his will.

  Nearly ill with guilt, Leifander vowed he would make Maalthiir pay for this evil deed—that he would, at the very least, kill the man and set Lord Kierin free. But how? It would be suicide to attack Maalthiir in a hall filled with Red Plumes. He decided instead to wait until the man was alone—or nearly so, with as few of his guards around him as possible—then he would strike.

  In the hall below, the assembly was already breaking up.

  “We march in the morning!” Lord Ilmeth shouted. “Pray to your gods for victory on the morrow!”

  Leifander drew back from the edge of the rooftop as the soldiers began spilling out down the stairs, into the street. Among the elves, he saw a face he recognized. Surely Doriantha, of all elves, did not support this alliance? He leaned out and cawed softly down to her. She started, then glanced up and gave her head the slightest of shakes. At the same time, her fingers moved, conveying a swift and silent message: “Meet. Tent. Forest.”

  She stopped signing and hurried down the street. An instant later, Maalthiir emerged from the manor and strode down the stairs, flanked by his officers. Leifander crouched atop the column, hoping he hadn’t been seen. He watched Maalthiir climb into a carriage. After a moment it rumbled up the street.

  Springing into flight, Leifander followed the carriage. As he’d suspected, it drove out through the town’s northern gate and rumbled toward the Red Plumes’s camp.

  Doriantha had left the walled portion of Essembra, and was walking toward the tents of the forest elves. She was careful not to glance up at the sky, even though she must have been curious as to whether or not Leifander was following her. Leifander wheeled in a circle, uncertain. Should he meet her at her tent first? If he did, he might miss a chance at Maalthiir.

  Climbing higher into the sky, he circled over the Red Plume camp, watching, until the carriage at last drew up in front of a large tent hung with red pennants. Maalthiir stepped out of the carriage and strode inside.

  Gliding through the humid night air high above the camp, Leifander thought. Maalthiir’s tent was guarded not only by the Red Plumes who stood at attention outside but also, almost certainly, with magical wards that would announce an enemy’s approach in an instant. How then, to get inside?

  Leifander dipped into a faint current of air that ruffled his feathers, and he let it blow him along for a moment or two, savoring its coolness. If only he could render himself invisible, he might have a chance, but that was not in the repertoire of spells granted by the Lady of Air and Wind. No, the spells she blessed the faithful with
dealt with the creatures of wing and feather or with harnessing the power of the stormy winds.

  That was it. The winds …

  Leifander began to pray. From his beak came the harsh cawing of a crow, but in his mind he heard his prayer as distinct words.

  “Winged Mother, come to my aid. Transform my body into one of your gentle breezes. Turn feather, flesh, and bone to air!”

  It started at his wingtips. His long black flight feathers disappeared. Losing stability, he tumbled, but the progression swiftly continued. He felt his legs disappear, then the rest of his wings, then his beak, then his hips, breast, throat and …

  His body was gone, and yet his momentum through the sky continued. He slowed gradually, until he was no more than a breath of breeze in the sky. He had no weight, but somehow he still had a sense of up and down. He had no eyes or ears, but he could still see and hear. There, on the ground that drifted lazily below him, were the tents of the Red Plumes. And there, in the sky just above and behind, was the hurtling streak of a tressym, flying hard.

  Larajin?

  The thought drifted into his mind, then was gone. The tressym shot past, a downbeat of its wings scattering Leifander like smoke when a wick is blown out.

  After a moment, he found cohesion again, and remembered his purpose. The tent—the big one, below. Maalthiir. But somehow, the passion that had enflamed him a few short moments ago was gone.

  Drifting toward the ground, he floated gently past one of the Red Plumes who stood at rigid attention outside the tent, then drifted for a moment in front of the tent flap, seeking an opening. The soldier whirled, suddenly alert, as the ties that held the flap shut fluttered with Leifander’s passing—and Leifander was inside.

  The interior of the tent was lit with a profusion of candles mounted in rows on black iron candelabras that had been driven into the earth. Thick rugs, once beautiful but now tracked with mud, were strewn haphazardly across the floor of the tent. Strongboxes had been stacked atop them to form a long, low table around which three of Maalthiir’s officers clustered. One of them was pouring red wine for the others.

  Maalthiir himself was seated in a folding chair with thick pads of leather cushioning its seat and arms, drinking from a gold goblet. He lowered it, and made a show of smacking his lips.

  “Sembian wine is sweet, but tomorrow you’ll see if Sembian blood is even sweeter, eh, General Guff?”

  The officer he’d addressed—a human with dark hair and a heavy growth of beard slashed by an scar that puckered forehead, eye, and cheek in a vertical line—chuckled. Lifting his own goblet, he drew his sword from its scabbard and poured wine along its gleaming blade.

  “To victory,” he toasted, then thrust the sword into the air.

  The other two officers—a bald fellow with a barrel chest, and a lean, fair-haired man with whipcord muscles—joined the toast.

  The bald officer rumbled a toast of his own. “To our allies.”

  The slender officer arched an eyebrow. “Which ones?” he asked. “I need to know whether to wish them victory or defeat.”

  Maalthiir guffawed at this apparent witticism while the two lesser officers roared with laughter, but Leifander could see nothing funny in the words. Neither could General Guff, it seemed. He growled low in his throat like a dog about to bare its fangs, and the other two officers immediately fell silent.

  Maalthiir continued chuckling, his wine slopping onto his fingers as he made a dismissive gesture. “Ah, Guff. Always so serious. Nadire was just making a joke.”

  “He should be wary of those who listen,” the general growled.

  Leifander, who had been gently drifting up to this point, shrank in upon himself like a sharply indrawn breath.

  “What do you mean?” Maalthiir asked, sitting forward suddenly in his chair and looking warily around. “Who’s listening?”

  Solemnly, Guff pointed at the ceiling of the tent. “The gods. Lord Tempus, specifically. His favor can be fickle.”

  “Ah.” Maalthiir relaxed back into his chair, transferred his goblet to his other hand, and flicked the spilled wine from his fingers. “Let us pray to him then, for success.” He raised his goblet. “May Tempus grant victory and defeat to the appropriate parties, so that our road-building venture maybe a success.”

  The two lesser officers chuckled along with their lord at these last few words, which must have been a shared joke of some kind. Guff, however, turned his sword point-uppermost and bowed his head in prayer, his eyes closed and forehead touching the blade. A dribble of the wine he’d poured on the sword trickled down the steel onto his face, making it look as though he had been baptized with blood. His lips moved in silent prayer.

  Leifander, as he drifted around the tent, noted the symbol of Tempus—a silver sword in flames on a blood-red field—on Guff’s surcoat. He was glad for the languor his spell had caused. Had he tried to assume material form and attack Maalthiir in his tent, Guff would have killed him in a trice with the war god’s powerful magic.

  Instead Leifander floated, watching and waiting. He took care not to come too close to any of the men, in case they were sensitive to the unseen. Instead he hovered above them, circling on the roiling currents of hot air thrown off by the multitude of candles. Once, he drifted too close to one of the candelabras and found that open flame still had the power to burn him, even in this form. With a silent hiss of pain, he pulled his body away, leaving the candles guttering in his wake.

  The slender officer—Nadire—had turned back to the makeshift table to pour himself more wine and happened to be looking in Leifander’s direction at the time. He frowned at the sudden breeze, but he returned his attention to the wine soon enough, and Leifander relaxed once more.

  When Guff was finished with his prayer, Maalthiir began discussing plans for the morning’s march. None of it was of interest to Leifander, save for the fact that Maalthiir would be returning to Hillsfar the next day, leaving General Guff to command the Red Plumes. The news gave Leifander cause for hope. With the bulk of his soldiers there, Maalthiir would take only a bodyguard back to Hillsfar with him. There might be a chance yet to—

  What was that Maalthiir had just said, in answer to one of Guff’s questions? Leifander’s attention, like what remained of his body, had been drifting. If he had heard correctly, Guff had asked a question about the poisonous mist that was blighting the forest and how his men might be protected against it. Maalthiir had told him not to worry.

  “It has served its purpose,” Maalthiir added. “I’ll have Drakkar dispel it.”

  Drakkar? The name caused Leifander to swirl in confusion. The evil wizard had given every impression that he was in the service of the mayor of Selgaunt, yet Maalthiir was speaking of him like an old and trusted friend. Was Drakkar one of the “allies” mentioned earlier?

  Nadire, meanwhile, opened one of the crates and rummaged inside it. He drew out a long tube of rolled parchment, then interrupted the discussion of tactics with a faint cough.

  “Excuse me, Lord Maalthiir, but has the terminus of the new road been fixed yet?”

  Maalthiir gave him an annoyed look. “You know as well as I that it hasn’t.”

  Nadire moved two of the candelabras closer to where Maalthiir sat, then opened the parchment—which turned out to be a map—and spread it at Maalthiir’s feet. Leifander, his curiosity piqued, drifted closer and recognized it as a map of the great forest by the names of the Dales that were written around the forest’s outskirts.

  “Will it be here?” Nadire asked, pointing at a spot at the western edge of the great forest.

  Leifander drifted closer. What was this road they were talking about? Were the humans of Hillsfar—supposed allies of the elves—actually talking about hacking yet another open wound through the ancient forest? Anger swirled within him.

  Maalthiir made no answer, only stared at Nadire with a strange expression on his face. Guff, having drained his goblet, squinted at the map.

  “You know as well as I do,
Nadire, that the best place for a port is—”

  The barrel-chested officer started to jab a thick finger into the map, but Nadire’s hand darted out fast as a striking snake, blocking him.

  Nadire’s attention wasn’t on the officer, however, but on the candelabras. His gaze darted from one to another—and suddenly fixed on the candles directly behind Leifander. Too late, Leifander realized that their flickering—and his own curiosity—had betrayed him. He swept to the side but wasn’t quick enough. Nadire spoke a word in an ancient human tongue, and a bolt of crackling energy flew from his outstretched fingertips.

  Leifander found himself in crow form once more, tumbling to the floor.

  “A spy!” Maalthiir shouted, leaping to his feet. “A gods-cursed Sembian spy!”

  In that same instant Guff whipped out his sword. The barrel-chested officer leaped between Leifander and Maalthiir, protecting his lord. Nadire, having expended one spell, began chanting the words of a second.

  Terrified though he was at having been discovered, Leifander still had one thing in his favor. Nadire had dispelled only one of the spells Leifander had cast upon himself. Still in crow form, he could at least beat a hasty retreat on the wing—if he lived long enough to get out of the tent.

  General Guff charged, sword whistling through the air, but somehow Leifander managed to dodge the slash, wheeling in a tight circle inside the tent. Nadire, trying to track him with one hand, held back his spell as Guff got in the way. Maalthiir continued shouting, urging his officers to capture the spy.

  Salvation came a heartbeat later, when one of the guards outside threw open the tent flap to look inside. Quick as a blink, Leifander shot through the opening, wings beating so furiously they felt like a hummingbird’s. He climbed with powerful strokes up into the sky—then dived to gain speed and present a more difficult target for Nadire’s spell.