Alliances

The stranger came forward until he stood by her horse’s nose. He patted the animal then tilted his head to look up at her. She frowned at the mask he wore, wondering what this odd creature was playing at. His accent told her he was Qualinesti, although it was possible that could be faked.

“All fires begin with a single spark,” he said. “Besides, a rebellion must have steel as well as arms, and there’s a treasure hidden in this town. Olin hasn’t been able to find it. I can.”

“What kind of treasure?”

He didn’t answer but looked beyond her as new shouting welled from the center of town. The swell of noise rolled over them like a great wave. The riot in the slave market was spreading. If the town rose up, the bandits were doomed. Many in Samustal hated Lord Olin’s rule.

“The town may be sacked before Samuval comes, Great Lord. If there is treasure, we’d better act swiftly,” Nalaryn said. He went to stand at his leader’s right shoulder. They waited in silence for Kerian’s answer. It wasn’t long in coming.

“I’ll fight for you on two conditions.” Her chin lifted. “I command your army, such as it is. I answer only to you.”

Nalaryn raised an eyebrow but made no objection. The masked elf nodded solemnly.

“Second,” Kerian said, “I must know your identity. If I’m to follow you and believe in your cause, I have to know who you are. After all, this could be some strange Nerakan plot to undermine resistance in Qualinesti.”

For a long moment, he stood motionless, pondering, then spoke quietly to Nalaryn. The Kagonesti chief moved away to the gate and turned his back. When he was gone, the masked elf came to stand only inches from her horse’s side.

Very softly he said, “On the scaffold, you revealed yourself to me, so I will do the same. But believe me when I tell you that if you betray this confidence to anyone, you will die.”

Threats did not usually impress her, but something in his voice, and in the eyes that bored into her own, told her he was in deadly earnest. She nodded once. She would keep the secret of his identity.

He put a finger below the bottom edge of his mask. A heartbeat passed, and another, then he lifted the cloth up to his forehead.

Kerianseray, battle-hardened Lioness of legend, recoiled in horror. The mask came back down.

“I was once Porthios, Speaker of the Sun,” he said. “Now my fate is yours, and yours is mine.”

Chapter 7

Fighting raged in the streets of Samustal all day and into the night. The small band of elves moved through the town, striking anywhere the bandits managed to rally. Despite the intense fighting, not a single Kagonesti was injured. Kerian received a few cuts and bruises—nothing compared to what she’d already been through—and Porthios, unarmed and unafraid, did not get a scratch. He walked through furious skirmishes like a shadow, seemingly impervious to harm.

Despite the elves’ spectacular showing, the victory really belonged to the oppressed people of Bianost, who rose up when trouble erupted. Armed with sticks, tools, whatever came to hand, they threw themselves on their oppressors. Weapons weighed down by the bodies of courageous attackers, the bandits were overcome as waves of angry townsfolk flooded over them.

The cost to the elves was terrible, but they took on Olin’s mercenary legion and destroyed it. The last bandits abandoned the town before dawn, piling into carts or riding any four-legged animal they could steal. As they fled, they were pelted with rotten fruit, stones, and the jeers of the townsfolk.

Porthios, the Lioness, and the Kagonesti band went to the mayor’s palace. The bulk of Olin’s troops were gone, slain in the rioting. His personal guard still stood watch at the mayor’s residence, but they had abandoned the outer porticos to cluster together by the main door, trapped by the riot. Porthios led his band directly to the palace’s front steps. The elves marched in close order, wearing mantles and helmets taken from fallen bandits. Arrows found vital organs, mauls cracked skulls, and the guards fell. Then the way was clear.

The Lioness dueled with a bandit officer until a helpful archer put an arrow through his throat. Porthios stood apart, watching her wade through the fracas.

When she rejoined him, bloody and panting, Porthios remarked, “You’re not the fighter I expected, though you have the reputation of being quite a slayer.”

“I wasn’t born in a palace. I never had fencing lessons,” she retorted, sheathing her captured blade. “I have killed many enemies. It isn’t style that matters, only winning.”

Porthios couldn’t argue with that. One shouldn’t expect style or finesse from a peasant, no matter how experienced.

He led the way inside. Ignoring his followers’ objections, he threw open the mansion’s double doors. Three crossbow bolts thudded into the panels next to his head. Unimpressed, he shouted, “Olin Man-Daleth! Come out and face justice!”