Kellen sketched a salute and pelted off again, as fast as his feet could take him.
THANKS to Vestakia and Kellen, the Elves had gotten some advance warning, but the camp was large, and there hadn’t been time to spread warning throughout the entire camp before the first attackers appeared.
Coldwarg attacked the sentries, appearing out of the snow like ghosts.
This time they were accompanied by Shadowed Elves.
Showing no concern for their own survival, the Shadowed Elves ran directly toward the center of the camp, side by side with their four-footed allies.
Not all of them reached the camp. Those already beneath the trees Jermayan could not reach, but those still on open ground were easy prey for his magic.
But those who did get into the camp caused damage enough. They were armed with bows, not swords—the terrible poisoned arrows that the Elves had learned to fear in their last battle—and with worse than that; sacks of small fragile spheres filled with acid. They threw them with deadly accuracy, and as the spheres shattered, the thick syrupy liquid inside burned through anything it touched.
But because they were fragile, the spheres were vulnerable targets as well. The Elven archers quickly learned to aim, not at the Shadowed Elves, but at the sacks that they carried, shattering the contents with a volley of arrows and leaving the acid-soaked carrier screaming in agony upon the ground for a few brief minutes until a merciful sword stroke ended his life.
There was no order of battle, no organization. Kellen had not even managed to reach his troop again before he found himself facing a slavering coldwarg over the body of a dead Knight The monster’s jaws dripped blood and saliva. It gazed at Kellen with glowing yellow eyes for a timeless moment, growled, and sprang.
Kellen stepped forward, into its leap, bringing up his sword like a boar-spear. The weight of the coldwarg knocked him flat, but the beast was dead before they both hit the ground, impaled through the chest. He rolled out from under it, wrenching his blade free as he did, and went looking for fresh targets.
He smelled smoke. Some of the tents were burning, and the reek sent a wave of panic through him.
Then discipline took hold of him. Stop. Think.
Kellen took a deep breath and stood where he was. There was nothing to gain by running around like a chicken trying to avoid the barnyard axe. He must use his gifts.
The Shadowed Elves weren’t stupid. Alien to everything the Elves knew, but not stupid. Even with the coldwarg to help them, they were outnumbered here, and had thrown over their main advantages of absolute darkness and confined spaces to make this attack. The Elves would kill them all and they must know it. Yet they had attacked anyway.
Why?
They are creatures of the Shadow. The Shadow fights a war of the spirit. What is the greatest blow it could strike against the Elves this night?
Suddenly he knew.
This is a feint. The Shadowed Elves mean to distract us from discovering their true target until it is too late.
And he knew—with a sudden awful certainty—what it was.
He ran toward his tent.
There were Shadowed Elves and coldwarg along the way that he could have killed. He did not stop.
He found Isinwen near his tent. The rest of his troop was scattered, attacking the attackers, but he sensed them nearby.
“Ciltesse?” Kellen demanded.
Isinwen shook his head.
Kellen had ordered Ciltesse to spread the alarm. He might be anywhere. There was no time to wait for him.
“Gather the troop. Get to the horses. We ride at once. Stop for nothing.”
“Alakomentai!” Isinwen said. He turned away, running toward the others to pass the word.
Kellen moved through the chaos of the camp, giving the same order over and over.
He blessed the Gods of the Wild Magic, blessed Leaf and Star, blessed all the trust he’d earned in the sennights passed—his men abandoned the camp and the battle and followed him. By the time he reached the horse-lines, Isinwen and the others who had gotten there first had retrieved their mounts and saddled them.
Kellen vaulted onto Mindaerel’s back and set her off as fast as he dared, away from the camp and back into the forest. Through deep snow, at night, in the woods … there were a thousand ways for a horse, even an Elven destrier, to break a leg on uncertain footing.
But some of them must get through. And that meant they all needed to know why.
“This attack is a trap to occupy us,” Kellen called back over his shoulder. “They strike at Ysterialpoerin! I think they mean to burn it.”
Unconsciously, he shifted Mindaerel’s path to the left, and realized he’d sensed an obstacle beneath the snow. “Behind me, and follow like my shadow!” he ordered, and shifted to battle-sight. By this time, he had learned to rely upon it as he did his muscles; it was less like shifting to a different way of seeing, and more like focusing on something you wanted to see clearly.
There. The path to take—the clear path, the safe path—burned a bright clear blue against the snow, often narrow, always twisting. He set Mindaerel upon it, urging the mare to her fastest speed. He felt the body beneath him gather, and her speed redouble.
An ordinary horse would not have run so for her rider. A horse’s night-sight was not good, and where a horse could not see, it would not go. But Mindaerel was an Elven destrier. She would answer her rider’s commands until her heart broke. She ran through what to her must be utter darkness, trusting absolutely to Kellen’s touch to guide her. Behind him, the Elven Knights in his command followed in a single file, all riding at breakneck speed in Mindaerel’s hoofprints.
Back in Armethalieh, Kellen had never believed in the Light. Idalia had called it “bloodless,” and it was—even more unconnected to the reality of daily life than the study of the High Magick. Jermayan and the other Elves swore by Leaf and Star—and Kellen had fallen into the same habit—but he wasn’t at all sure what that meant.
As for the Gods of the Wild Magic … well, Kellen believed in the Wild Magic, because he worked with it daily. He had no doubt that it had a purpose outside itself. Maybe that was what the Gods of the Wild Magic were, but they didn’t seem to be anything you could talk to directly.
Right now he wished they were. He’d ask anyone—the Gods of Leaf and Star, of the Wild Magic, the Great Herdsman of the Centaurs, the Huntsman of the Mountainfolk, Vestakia’s Good Goddess—for help in reaching the Shadowed Elves before they did whatever they intended to do. He was certain now that they’d left for Ysterialpoerin before the second group had struck at the camp, and if Sentarshadeen was the head and the crown of the Elven cities, Ysterialpoerin was surely its heart. To attack it, to burn it as the whole might of Andoreniel’s army stood by, oblivious …
Would be precisely the sort of thing Shadow Mountain would love best. It’s why they never did it before, They were waiting for an audience. They want us to see how helpless we are, and despair. They want to break our hearts and our spirits.
He strained his senses as Mindaerel raced over the snow. He had gone now beyond hope, beyond prayer. He willed their victory, because they dared not fail.
He could sense Ysterialpoerin ahead. Its boundaries were as clear to his Knight-Mage senses as if they were lines upon a map. He could see its Elven sentries, and knew that they saw nothing—not the Shadowed Elves, not the Elves racing toward them.
But he could sense the Shadowed Elves.
He urged Mindaerel onward. In the darkness, he dared not take his hands from the reins to unlimber his bow, for his hands were her eyes. He was by far the poorest shot in the entire camp—except perhaps for Vestakia—but a bow had more range than a sword, and even if he didn’t hit any of the Shadowed Elves, he could at least get their attention.
Once they were in range.
At last his battle-sight told him that they were.
And the shining azure path—the path of safety for a running horse—widened out, ringing the city with a
band of manicured protection. In that moment Kellen blessed the Elves’ attention to perfection, for now the path was smooth enough that not one destrier would put a foot wrong between here and the city.
“Go!” Kellen said, motioning the others up as he reached for his bow.
He knew if he looked with his eyes he would see only darkness. He knew the Elves’ night-sight was better than his, but he wasn’t sure how much even they could see, here under the overshadowing trees.
Balancing on Mindaerel’s back, he strung his bow and nocked an arrow. Without thought, he drew and fired.
Without waiting to see whether he’d hit the target he fired again; neither as fast nor as sure as the Elves, but by his arrows the enemy knew it had been discovered.
All around him now, the Elven bows were singing. Kellen flung his own aside and drew his sword.
The Shadowed Elves could have run—or tried to. But as always, the sight of true Elves seemed to wake some madness in them. They turned and the eight warriors among them began launching arrows of their own. Kellen could see the green fire of the poison upon their arrowheads.
Their bows did not have the range of the Elven war-bows, but the Elves were easily within range of their arrows now. Their only defense was to ride the Shadowed Elves down before they could launch too many of their deadly poisoned shafts, hoping none of the darts struck true, and everyone riding with Kellen knew it. The Shadowed Elves’ only defense was to cut them down at a distance; they knew that, too.
They were twenty against eight, and the Shadowed Elves wore no armor. Speed and momentum won; when they closed the distance, it wasn’t even a battle.
In seconds the Shadowed Elf males were no more than heaps of rags upon the snow, struck down by Elven arrows, trampled by the horses’ hooves. Several of the Knights dismounted and ran forward, swords drawn, to make sure they were truly dead.
“Kellen!” Isinwen cried, pointing.
Kellen saw the four survivors—all females—running toward Ysterialpoerin. They ran in pairs, each pair carrying a large jug between them. Without hesitation, he urged Mindaerel after them.
Once he would have hesitated to attack them. It seemed like an eternity ago now. He took Mindaerel to the right as Isinwen swung left. His sword flashed out, and the nearest female’s head went flying. He spun Mindaerel, facing the other, and struck again. Beside him, as if he were Kellen’s reflection in a mirror, Isinwen did the same.
It was over. Kellen breathed a sigh of relief.
And then, slowly, Mindaerel sank to her knees in the snow. Kellen sprang from the saddle as the mare rolled to her side, her ribs heaving as she gasped for breath.
“Mindaerel!” he cried. She raised her head.
“Mindaerel. Lady—” Kellen choked, sinking to his knees beside her. Now that he looked, he could see the baleful green of poison, the Shadowed Elf arrows sunk into the muscle high upon her foreleg, just below the protection of her armor.
Yet during the fight, she had given no sign of her wounds. She had run on, fleet as the clouds before the Moon, had done everything he asked of her—
“Mindaerel—” he whimpered. Hearing her name, Mindaerel lay her head down in the snow again, stretching her neck out toward him. Kellen reached out to touch her muzzle. But before he could complete the gesture, she gave a great sigh.
And stopped.
She was gone.
A moan escaped him as his throat closed.
“We hail the bravery of a great warrior,” Isinwen said quietly, dismounting to stand behind Kellen. “May she run forever through the Fields of Vardirvoshan.”
Kellen bowed his head, feeling his eyes fill with tears. He’d lost … a comrade, a friend … one who hadn’t, perhaps, truly understood the battle or the need to fight it, but who had given up everything she had to it. Out of love. He stroked her muzzle, but it was a pointless gesture; the flesh was already cooling beneath his fingers, for Mindaerel was truly gone. Perhaps her spirit was running free through the Fields of Vardirvoshan where she had been foaled. He hoped so.
He took a deep breath, and got to his feet. The task was not yet complete. He knew what the Shadowed Elves intended, but not how they were going to do it.
“Let’s see what was in those jugs.”
When they broke the wax seal and pried off the lids, they found that both jugs were filled with oil and dozens of rings of a strange whitish material. Four of the male Shadowed Elf dead were carrying a second set of bows—larger and heavier than their usual ones—and quivers of iron arrows with oddly shaped tips. Kellen used one of these to hook one of the white-metal rings out of one of the pots of oil—cautiously, as he trusted nothing to do with the Shadowed Elves.
He held it up, puzzled, as the Elves gathered warily around. As the oil dripped from the ring, it began to smoke, then to burn, glowing brightly, and the shaft of the arrow began to glow red-hot.
Startled, Kellen dropped the arrow into the snow, but to his dismay, the snow did not quench the ring’s fire. If anything, it burned more brightly, melting down through the snow and the ice beneath, and curls of smoke began to rise from the buried leaves. Kellen scrabbled through the snow until he found the arrow shafts—it was hot even through his gauntlets—and plunged the ring swiftly back into the oil. The ring sizzled and smoked, the oil simmering with its heat, and he shook the arrow gently, wincing at the heat, until the ring dropped off. He quickly tossed the arrow aside, and to his relief, it cooled in the snow like ordinary metal.
“The metal burns like one of Jermayan’s fire-spells,” Sihemand said, sounding troubled.
“There’s no magic to it. Not that I can sense, anyway,” Kellen said, puzzled. But it would have burned as well as a fire spell Oh, yes. Those metal rings, launched into the trees and houses of Ysterialpoerin, would have burned the forest and anything else they touched, no matter how much water the Elves had thrown on the blaze.
“Declare yourselves,” came a voice out of the darkness.
A little late, are’t you? Kellen thought uncharitably.
“Kellen Knight-Mage,” he said, turning in the direction of the voice. He racked his brain. He knew there were proper forms for this sort of thing, but he didn’t know them!
“Alakomentai to Adaerion, komentai to Redhelwar, Army’s General, hand of Andoreniel, by the grace of Leaf and Star ruler over the Nine Cities,” Isinwen supplied smoothly, not missing a beat. “We come in a good hour, for as you see by the blood on our swords, there are those who wish ill to Ysterialpoerin, heart of the land, and to Kindolhinadetil, Voice of Andoreniel, and Neishandellazel, his Lady.” Isinwen’s voice took on the force and melodious tone of one making a speech. “These who would harm the forest came in the night, bringing fire to the trees out of season, and in a way not willed by the great balance that governs all things. Yet we came before them, as the wind comes before the storm, and so the forest stands strong by the will of Leaf and Star, and all who would harm her lie dead by the will of Kellen Knight-Mage and the ways of the Wild Magic.”
That should shut him up, Kellen thought, impressed.
Unfortunately, there was very little that could truly silence an Elf.
“I See you, Kellen Knight-Mage,” the sentry said, bowing, a great deal less impressed than Kellen was.
“I See you, Ysterialpoerin’s guardian,” Kellen said, bowing in return. Damn it all, this was no time for Elven formality!
But it appeared that the sentry was bound and determined to hold to convention. Kellen felt like a wild thing lunging against a tether; he desperately wanted to get back to the camp and bring these strange new Shadowed Elf weapons with them. But despite his feeling of urgency, he knew that offending the Elves of Ysterialpoerin would only make trouble for him later. He had to hold on to their respect. He took a deep breath and restrained his impatience.
“Perhaps you will allow me to carry your word to Kindolhinadetil,” said the sentry, “that he may know what aid and honor will best sustain you in the completion of yo
ur task.”
Now what was he to say?
Once more Isinwen saved him. “Compared to Kindolhinadetil’s burdens, Ysterialpoerin’s guardian, our own are light indeed, and we would be greatly honored not to add to them by more than the word of what has transpired here this night. And we are but come upon the wing. Our duty to Redhelwar, Army’s General, calls to us like hind to hart in spring, and our hearts leap to obey.”
“Let it be so, then.” The sentry bowed again, deeply, and seemed to vanish without moving, but by now Kellen was practically used to that.
“We need to take the strange weapons,” Kellen said. “Handle the jugs carefully. They can’t be allowed to spill. Leave everything else. I’ll tell Adaerion what happened here.”
And let someone else worry about it for a change.
Before they left, however, the Elves arranged the Shadowed Elf dead neatly in the snow. It was not only a mark of respect, but would make handling the bodies easier later, since they’d certainly freeze solid in the night. Kellen took the opportunity to look around for other traps, but saw none, and sensed no further danger to the city.
At least not tonight.
He walked back and collected his bow from where he’d thrown it, slinging it over his shoulder, and as he did he saw the faint trail of blood in the snow from Mindaerel’s wounds.
If he’d known Mindaerel had been hit, would he have stopped, tried to heal her? Could he have saved her life if he had? Even as he asked himself the questions, Kellen knew the answer was “no.” No, he wouldn’t have stopped, couldn’t have stopped, not until the Shadowed Elves were all dead.
And by then it would have been too late.
“It would honor me did you choose to ride with me,” Isinwen said, trotting up beside Kellen on Cheska.
“Thanks,” Kellen said. He took Isinwen’s hand, and pulled himself into the saddle behind him.
They rode back toward the camp—more slowly now, following their own hoofprints in the snow. The horses were tired, and Kellen sensed no need for haste. The fight back at the camp was certainly over by now. And if they’d stayed to fight it, Ysterialpoerin would already be burning.
The Obsidian Mountain Trilogy Page 134
