Alliances

Slightly below her was a bowl-shaped ravine containing a small pool of stagnant water. The firm trail the elves had scouted circled the rim of the bowl. Arrayed around the pool were several hundred bandit soldiers. Many brandished torches and all wielded pikes, but it wasn’t Silvanesti cavalry they faced. A swarm of pale, half-naked bodies moved slowly yet inevitably forward. Scores of corpses littered the ground around the bandits’ circle, some newly killed and bloody, others undead who’d perished at last after killing a victim. Horses whinnied and struck out with their hooves, terrified. Some of them had blundered into the mire on the other side of the path and were slowly sinking to their doom. They struggled, teeth bared, but the bog had an unbreakable grip. Alongside the dying animals were the banners and helmets of their riders. When a horse got stuck, its rider tried to get off and was dragged down. The weight of their armor sank them fast.

An undead attacker, missing an arm, its face and chest mutilated by sword cuts and arrows, would sidle forward or sideways, trying to unite in deadly embrace with a living victim. If it succeeded, it dragged its prey away from the rest and fell on him with grasping hands. The victim screamed for help, but none dared leave the circle’s minimal protection. If Gathan Grayden didn’t arrive soon, his vanguard would not survive the night.

Kerian slid backward. As she twisted round to stand, she. beheld a pallid human looming over her. She drew in her breath sharply. Mud filled the man’s mouth and matted his red beard. Both eyes were coated, but he turned unerringly toward Kerian as she rolled aside. Her hand fell on her sword hilt, but she did not draw. The undead man had not attacked, even when she was lying vulnerable on the ground. She stood and slipped by him, careful to keep an eye on him. He pivoted, keeping his face toward her, but did not attack.

Hytanthas rode up with the horses.

“Let’s go, Commander! More are coming!”

Dozens of dead humans trailed after Hytanthas. Kerian got the stirrup and swung aboard. “Why don’t they attack us?” she wondered as they turned their horses away from the terrible scene.

“We’re not human.”

Kerian regarded him in surprise. He was probably right. Whatever motivated the revenants, they seemed driven to slay only their own kind. Living creatures like Kerian, Hytanthas, and the horses attracted them, but the death they sought could not be had with members of a different race.

The two elves galloped away. Two of the undead humans did not move as Hytanthas’s horse thundered forward. Kerian heard him murmur, “Forgive me,” as he trampled the unfeeling creatures into the muck.

* * * * *

Holding a long pole, Porthios waded into the river. He pushed aside thick lily pads and prodded the dark water, searching for sinkholes or deep mud. Behind him was a two-wheeled cart drawn by Kerian’s self-appointed troop, the four Bianost elves who had vanquished the giant serpent. As Porthios found firm ground, he pointed to the spot and the elves dragged the cart there. Every ten yards, they pounded a stake into the riverbed on each side of the cart, marking the path the caravan would follow.

The water quickly rose to hip height. It was shockingly cold and chilled Porthios to the bone. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, but as with all his other bodily ills, he ignored it, pushing forward methodically.

They were more than halfway across when Porthios trod on slick stones that rolled beneath his foot. He fell sideways, hitting the water with a splash. One of the Bianost elves let go the trace pole and dove after him.

On shore, Alhana and Chathendor saw Porthios fall and the Qualinesti go after him. Seconds later, the chamberlain found Alhana’s elegant fur robe thrust into his face.

Scrabbling to catch it, he exclaimed, “Lady! You can’t! You mustn’t!”

But she was gone. Alhana waded into the river, keeping to the path marked between the poles. When she reached the rear of the cart, she eased herself around it. The three Qualinesti were clinging to the trace poles, their frightened gazes scanning the river.

“Lady, take care! There’s an undertow!” cried one elf.

Here the surface of the river was free of lily pads and slow moving, but a swift current tugged at her legs, trying to pull her off balance. For the river crossing, she had donned Qualinesti-style leggings and she blessed the freedom of movement they allowed even as she shucked off her thigh-length tunic. Tossing it onto the cart, she shivered violently as the air hit her sodden underclothes.

The three Qualinesti urged her not to leave the anchor of the cart. “Obey Lady Kerianseray and Lord Samar,” she said and dove into the black water.