Alliances

Alhana moaned. Porthios dropped to his knees. “Alhana! Alhana, can you hear me?” he shouted.

“They can hear you in Schallsea,” she muttered, both hands coming up to cover her ears.

Porthios smiled. None could see it, and the unaccustomed movement hurt the ravaged skin of his face, but he smiled nonetheless. He had no idea what price the god might exact for Alhana’s life. At that moment he did not care.

The Lioness and a dozen guards crashed through the underbrush. A limping Samar followed close behind.

“What is it?” Kerian cried, brandishing a sword. “We heard you shouting!”

Porthios regarded her blandly. “I was merely speaking to the Great Lady.”

They looked at him as if he’d gone mad. Alhana sat up. Voices exclaimed in amazement and Kerian cried, “Alhana, can you hear me?”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” she replied crossly. “My head feels as though it may split down the center, but there’s nothing wrong with my ears.”

“Do you remember what happened?” Kerian asked.

“An arrow hit my horse. I fell?”

“You were dying, aunt!”

“Evidently her head is harder than we realized,” said Porthios.

Kerian knelt and gently probed the back of Alhana’s head. She found no blood, but Alhana winced sharply as Kerian touched the site of the wound. No longer life-threatening, it was still extremely tender. From the way Alhana held her left arm, it was obvious she had a variety of other bruises from her fall.

Everyone stared at Porthios, wondering what to make of the amazing development. Alhana opened her mouth to question him but realized it wasn’t the time or place. Instead, she allowed Samar to help her stand, and the two injured elves leaned on each other.

“We’ve lingered long enough here,” Porthios said. “The bandits will be back, and with reliable troops this time. We must get everything up to Birch Trail before morning.”

Kerian scratched through her cropped hair. She was exhausted, having lain awake waiting for word that Alhana had succumbed to her injury. Instead, Alhana was alert and standing, albeit shakily. How had Porthios accomplished such a miracle? Certainly he was clever and fearless. Did he have magical skill as well?

“What are you waiting for?” Porthios asked testily.

“Inspiration,” was her equally grumpy reply.

She left to rouse the Bianost volunteers and the Kagonesti. Samar and Alhana, still leaning on each other, went to marshal the guards. The mounted Silvanesti were withdrawn to the stalled caravan, leaving only a half dozen riders behind to keep watch on the climbing elves. Far down the road was a faint, ruddy glow, as of massed campfires.

The two human captives were a burden the elves could ill afford during the coming climb. Wycul and his injured comrade were bound and gagged, taken to a point several hundred yards away, and tied securely to two different trees.

In accordance with Kerian’s earlier command, the wagons remaining on the road had been unloaded. Their wood was cannibalized for makeshift litters and the remaining detritus hurled down the hillside to conceal it as much as possible. Their loads were divided into lots and bundled onto the backs of elves. Everyone carried a portion, even the elderly Chathendor. Only Porthios and the wounded in their litters went unburdened. Torches were forbidden. The elves had to rely on their fabled night vision to complete their tasks and make the ascent. In the murky night of Nalis Aren, more than a few wished their eyesight were as preternatural as other races believed.

Worse was the lot of Alhana’s mounted guards. Their horses simply could not make the ascent. After several falls, Porthios yielded to Alhana’s calm insistence that the war-horses were too useful to be left behind with the draft animals. He ordered a small band of riders to lead the horses away and find a safer way up. The remaining dismounted fighters would stay by Alhana.

Alhana made the ascent in a litter of spear poles and blankets carried up the hillside by four strong warriors. She was none too steady on her feet and was forced to admit she would only slow them down should she try to climb on her own.

Porthios led the way. All through the night, the elves climbed, narrow lines of straining bodies snaking up the hillside. Laden with the bundles of arms, and bearing the litters of wounded elves, their progress was slow. By the time dawn cast its pitiful light on the hillside, the bottommost climbers were only yards above Silveran’s Way.

Kerian was taking a breather against a boulder when word came up from the lowest level. Movement had been seen eastward on the road. With Nalaryn gripping her hand and acting as counterbalance, she leaned far out from the hillside and looked. The sun wasn’t yet up, but there was light enough to show her a dark mass moving along Silveran’s Way. She had no trouble identifying packed ranks of human soldiers, clad in burnished armor. The bandit horde was coming. Of the few warriors Samar had left to guard the road, there was no sign. They must have been overwhelmed.