Alliances

At Alhana’s request, Chathendor had done a head count as they rested. Slightly fewer than two thousand elves, Qualinesti and Silvanesti, had departed Bianost, with about four hundred horses and thirty tons of armaments and supplies. The head count revealed only eight hundred and some odd elves remained, with a hundred fifty horses and twenty-seven tons of weapons. The balance had been lost or left behind.

Casualties had fallen heavily on the Qualinesti volunteers from Bianost. Half had perished or been wounded thus far. With Theryontas slain, leadership of the volunteers had fallen to Vanolin and Geranthas. As the leading edge of the caravan neared the fog-shrouded Cleft and the angle of descent eased, the two Bianost elves came to talk with Alhana.

“Lady, we offered ourselves to fight for the freedom of our people, but so far all we’ve done is run away,” Geranthas said.

Vanolin nodded vigorously. “Why didn’t we disperse in the woodland, dividing the swords and such, each of us to raise new companies of fighters?”

Kerian slowed her pace to match Alhana’s, eager to hear the answer. Alhana glanced at her then took a deep breath before replying. “If we had stayed in settled country, Gathan Grayden would have found us, boxed us in, and slaughtered us all. The days of surprise are over. Every garrison in Qualinesti will be on the alert. There will be no more easy victories.”

“Then why are we here? Orexas has doubled the danger we face!”

Once more Alhana paused before speaking, weighing her words carefully. “We need allies. Nalaryn and his clan have gone into the mountains to find some. Until they rejoin us, we must elude the bandits and survive.”

The Bianost elves were baffled. What allies in the mountains? Did Alhana mean dwarves from Thorbardin?

“She means griffons. Those that dwell wild in the mountains,” said Porthios.

He had appeared in the mist below them. He held up a gloved hand. “We must proceed in silence now.” Bits of smelly vapor drifted over them. Several coughs were quickly smothered.

Kerian could hardly believe he intended to lead them through the Cleft. No one in current memory had entered it and returned to tell of what was found there. It was dank, poisonous, and cursed. There was bound to be a price for entering it. Certainly, they had little choice now, but Porthios should never have brought them to this pass. His cavalier acceptance of the risk for himself was one thing, but he was gambling with all their lives. Gilthas would not have done this. He would have found a way that didn’t endanger his people. Strange, whenever Kerian felt death coming closer, her thoughts invariably turned to her husband.

At Kerian’s insistence, the royal guards braced their bows, alert for whatever might come, and a band of twelve spear-armed Qualinesti was called forward. They would probe the boggy ground and test the footing. Although they looked unhappy, they didn’t challenge Porthios’s plan to enter the Cleft. Chathendor and the wounded Samar were as skeptical as they, but likewise raised no word of protest. Only Alhana seemed perfectly confident.

“Orexas will lead us through,” she told the nervous Qualinesti behind her. “Put your trust in him.”

Pale from her concussion, she moved forward without hesitation. Where she would go, Samar always would follow, and Chathendor had no intention of being left behind. If they were not completely reassured, the Bianost elves were moving.

Kerian’s precautions regarding the boggy ground proved well founded. One of the probing elves lost his spear when the moss he tested gave way. In moments, his eight-foot weapon was swallowed by a sinkhole. Everyone took note. The line of elves narrowed.

Porthios came to what looked like a length of decayed log. He stepped over it. The elf behind him prodded the log. It held, so he stepped on it. Immediately, it slid sideways, taking his foot out from under him. Those behind raised a smothered alarm when they saw him fall. The “log” on which he’d trod grew larger and larger as more of it emerged from the bog.

It was a serpent, but what a serpent! A four-foot wide triangular head, supported by a body thick as a large oak, reared up. Two yellow-green eyes stared at the horrified elves. As the serpent writhed, coils broke the surface all around them. It was a hundred feet long!

Bowstrings snapped. Half the arrows skipped off the monster’s heavy scales, but some punched through. The serpent stretched its mouth in a screeching hiss. Fangs as long as an elf’s arm glistened in the poisonous air, and a black tongue flickered out.

In the scramble to get away from the creature, several elves left the known path. They promptly came to grief as the mire trapped their feet. The serpent, arrows protruding all along its body, glided forward rapidly. With a lightning-fast movement, its head shot forward and seized an elf, sinking its terrible fangs into his ribs. Venom worked swiftly. When the serpent’s jaws opened seconds later, the elf was dead.