Alliances

Beyond the wasteland of squatters’ shanties a considerable battle was indeed taking place. Gathan Grayden’s soldiers, some on foot and some mounted, were milling around their leader’s fluttering standard. No one on the stockade could identify his foe through rising clouds of ash and dirt, but Nalaryn offered a bleak and logical opinion. The rats who’d fled Olin’s town had carried word of his downfall in all directions. The newcomers were probably troops of another bandit lord who sought to grab Olin’s former territory.

“This may be a well-chewed bone, but they’ll fight like rabid dogs to possess it,” he said.

Kerian watched as lancers in bright breastplates charged through Grayden’s disordered ranks. His attention had been focused entirely on the town. He had not expected an attack from elsewhere. The mercenaries formed squares to hold off the cavalry, but they were isolated from each other and unable to do anything but fight to stay alive.

Before the sun set, the battle was over. Grayden himself, surrounded by his best retainers, abandoned the field. His men he left to the mercies of the victor, and like Olin’s mercenaries before them, the bandits broke and scattered. The last Kerian saw of Gathan Grayden was his standard, borne away by a warrior on a black horse.

The townsfolk, watching the melee through gaps in the logs at ground level, set up a cheer when Grayden’s soldiers fled. Kerian silenced them with a thunderous command. The cure might prove worse than the disease.

A block of mounted warriors trotted toward the stockade. The Kagonesti nocked arrows and awaited the order to loose. The approaching column numbered perhaps three hundred.

It was either fight or surrender, and for her part, Kerian had no intention of allowing herself to be chained again. Better to die right here and now.

She gripped her captured sword tightly. Only a modest archer, she left that art to those far more capable. Soon there would be plenty of fighting to go around.

The mounted column halted at the edge of the burned-out section of shanties. A smaller contingent of two score riders came on.

Still peering through the gap between the timbers, Kerian muttered, “I wonder if the Scarecrow has a secret weapon.”

“Only my mind, and my vision.”

He was not two feet behind her, looking out over the notched parapet with customary nonchalance. One day he was going to stop an arrow. She said as much.

“But not today. Can you not see? Those are elves.”

Had he showered the assembled defenders with steel, he could not have astonished them more. Kerian rose partway from her crouch, looking over the top of the timber bulwark. The riders’ armor was commonplace half-plate; their helmets open-faced. Mercenaries from Beacon to Rymdar wore the same harness. Neither did their horses’ trapping reveal any distinctive elven style. What did Porthios see?

The contingent halted just within bowshot. A cloud slid across the sinking sun, and when its shadow covered the field, Kerian finally saw the riders’ insignia. Their bright breastplates bore a symbol inlaid in silver. In full light the contrast was too poor to see at a distance.

The symbol was a star, the eight-pointed star of Silvanesti.

At the forefront, the ranks parted, and three riders emerged, leaving the others behind. The riders on each end were male, one in a commander’s helmet and mantle, the other a well-dressed noble. Riding between them, mounted on a white mare, was a female elf of great beauty. Her riding clothes were jasperine, a fine white cloth woven with gold and red highlights. She put back her hood, revealing black hair.

Kerian stared. The rider looked like… but it couldn’t be. It was too unlikely.

The elderly noble accompanying her hailed them. Atop the log wall, no one breathed, much less answered.

“Great Lord, will you speak?” whispered Nalaryn. There was no reply. For the first time, the unfailingly confident, supremely smug Porthios was speechless. When Kerian saw his state, she knew her guess about the woman’s identity was correct. His eyes were wide. His bony shoulders trembled.

“I cannot!” Hoarse, agonized, the words fell from his lips like blood from a fresh wound. He made choking sounds. “I cannot!”

Everyone was staring, especially the local elves. What new threat could so unnerve the bold savior of Bianost?

Then, astonishingly, Porthios turned and scrambled down the ladder. He stumbled at the bottom, almost falling on his face, regained his balance, and whirled away, parting the amazed townsfolk like a plow turning fresh soil.

Outside the stockade, the noble called out again. Kerian sheathed her sword and headed for the ladder.

Nalaryn stayed her with a hand on her arm. “Are they friends?” he asked.

“They are gifts from the gods!”

She went to the sally port door cut into the stockade gate. Some of the Bianost elves, not understanding the situation, protested. She offered only brief reassurance before flinging open the door and stepping outside.