Alliances

Above this end of the lake a sizable cloud of vapor had collected. It writhed as if stirred by contrary winds, yet the air was perfectly still.

“Do you see it?” Alhana cried.

“The fog, lady?” asked Chathendor, confused.

“Yes! It looks like a dragon!”

Kerian squinted, staring hard. “It does?”

“Its jaws are opening!”

The cloud dissolved, ribbons of mist snaking apart. Alhana turned sharply to her companions, but they reported seeing only an amorphous bank of fog. Chathendor murmured, “You are very tired, lady. You haven’t rested properly since leaving Bianost.”

Kerian was not so dismissive. “It may have been a vision, an omen meant for your eyes only.”

“An omen of what?”

Kerian could not guess, but once the mist had thinned, she saw an odd yellow gleam over the lake. Alhana saw it as well, but neither of them could say what it was. Only Chathendor, whose aged eyes were too weak to pick it out, realized what it was.

“The Tower of the Sun,” he whispered.

Formerly the seat of the Speaker of the Sun and the center of every Qualinesti’s life and heart, the great monument was awash in the foul waters of Nalis Aren, the sunburst glory of its golden peak reduced to a faint ocher smudge.

Trying to dispel the murk before their eyes and in their hearts, Alhana called for torches. Branches were hacked from the skeletal trees. Kerian feared they would prove rotten, but it was not so. The wood was dry and very hard, almost petrified. It burned readily, with a flame so pale it was nearly white, and gave off little smoke.

Two riders went ahead, carrying torches. Almost immediately their light fell on Porthios, standing in the middle of the road. All of them flinched in surprise, and Kerian looked as though she had a choice obscenity for him, but she glanced at Alhana and stifled it.

“We cannot continue on this road,” he told them. “The bridge that once spanned the White-Rage is destroyed.”

The White-Rage River flowed north out of Nalis Aren. They could not continue their course unless they could cross it. Locating a ford suitable for the wagons would require a long journey north.

In the bleak silence, Porthios said, “Another bridge still stands.”

Kerian slapped her thigh with one hand. “Why didn’t you just say so? How much farther north?”

“Not far, but the only way to get there is His ragged robe swung like a tattered banner as he pointed up the hillside. The way was not only steep, but the ground was torn up and strewn with boulders, making for a difficult climb.

Once more the map was called for. Studying it, they determined that the bridge Porthios had found was reached by Birch Trail, a narrow track that more or less paralleled Silveran’s Way.

Hardly had they decided to ascend to Birch Trail when a rider came galloping recklessly down the broken road. He clattered to halt before Samar.

“My lord! The enemy is behind us!” he cried. “Less than an hour away!”

“In what strength?” Kerian demanded.

The Silvanesti guard didn’t like answering a question from a Kagonesti, but Samar impatiently told him to get on with it.

“Five hundred horse and a thousand infantry.”

Alhana quickly sent Samar off to organize their defenses. He and Kerian galloped away together, trading rapid-fire thoughts on how best to meet the threat. The two of them recently had discovered common ground: neither approved Porthios’s plan to attack Mereklar.

Once the two warriors were out of sight, Alhana realized Porthios had come to stand by her left stirrup.

“We must protect the weapons cache,” she said.

“You must keep out of the way. Let the warriors defend the arms.”

Lifting her chin, she replied, “I choose my place, and my place is with my people.”

Urging her mount forward, she moved into the whirlwind of activity filling the road. Kerian had gotten all the townsfolk who weren’t actually driving wagons to clear off the conveyances and arm themselves. The first cart was beginning the climb up the hillside. Its driver stood on the box, reins in hand, and whistled and shouted to his horses. They started up gamely, but within a few yards, slipped on the thick, loose surface. The cart skidded sideways and overturned. Wrapped bundles of spears and swords spilled out.

Porthios directed the reloading of the cart. Once it was done, he told the driver to cut loose his team.

“What?” the driver and Kerian demanded together.

“With this uncertain surface, elves will fare better than horses. The carts must be dragged up by hand.”

“That’s madness!” exclaimed Kerian.

“Yes. Proceed.”

The elves proceeded. Once the horses were cut loose, two elves grabbed the traces and two more got behind to push. Straining, they hauled the cart up eight feet. The wheels sank into the loose ground, but by heaving and rocking, the elves advanced the cart to a level spot above Silveran’s Way.

Those watching cheered until Porthios snapped, “Why are you standing? There’s work to do!”