He would have no more than a few seconds, once he was over the rim, before the beasts warned the camp. But that would be all he needed.

Luck was with him. The animals held their peace, and he found a firm rest for one foot, so that he could use both arms and one leg for the final leap to level ground. Muscles bowstring-taut, he gathered himself and made that leap.

For a moment he was in midair. For another moment, he was sure he was falling. No warrior’s oaths could keep from his mind the thought of the drop below, onto rocks that could pierce, crush, and shatter a man all at the same time.

Then he was tumbling on gravel—and a booted foot stamped down where his throat had been seconds before.…

From the Creators of the
DRAGONLANCE® Saga
WARRIORS

Knights of the Crown

Roland Green

Maquesta Kar-Thon

Tina Daniell

Knights of the Sword

Roland Green

Theros Ironfeld

Don Perrin

Knights of the Rose

Roland Green

Lord Soth

Edo van Belkom

KNIGHTS OF THE ROSE
DRAGONLANCE® The Warriors • Volume V
©1996 TSR, Inc.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

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All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

Cover art by: Jeff Easley

eISBN: 978-0-7869-6340-9
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v3.1

Prologue

The onshore breeze made the breakers foam high over the bar, but the slim-hulled green ship with the three red sails easily rode over them. For one moment, her prow was pointed at the blue sky; for the next, her rudder was clear of the water.

Momentum, and skilled hands on the sheets and tiller, carried her through. Soon she was tacking out into the calm, deep water beyond the bar. The three sails became five—two square ones on each of the two foremost masts, and a triangular one in solitary splendor on the third.

Watching the ship from the balcony of her villa, Lady Eskaia told herself it was only the breeze that made her eyes water. She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. Doubtless her maid would have preferred her to use a silk handkerchief, “as befits your station, my lady.”

What did a maid—who had never seen the open sea before she entered Eskaia’s service—know about her mistress’s true station? Eskaia was the daughter of a man who had sailed in his own ships when he was young, when the fortune of House Encuintras was yet building. She was the mother of two sailors—a son, apprenticed aboard that slim ship bound seaward, and a daughter, whose gift for archery had won her a spot in the armed guard of a merchantman of House Bulus.

Eskaia was also the wife of Jemar the Fair, a chief among the sea barbarians, adept as a merchant, shipmaster, warrior, counselor, lover—

Eskaia closed her eyes. She would not call herself “widow.” To her, Jemar lived yet, even though it had been years since as much as a bit of wreckage from Windsword had washed ashore. Law, men—even the gods might call her widow, but she would not take the name, any more than she would allow Jemar’s chamber to go unattended or dismiss his old manservants.

Doubtless his body was gone, and he would sire no more children for her. But his spirit remained close, and would until she came to him, and they once more journeyed together, as they had during the seventeen years they shared their lives.

This was not an orthodox belief, and Eskaia therefore kept it to herself. Who could say where the kingpriest had eyes and ears these days?

After meeting Jemar, she had learned to fight. Little comes to those not ready to fight, even if they do so with pen or tongue instead of steel. So she had given notice to the world, the kingpriest, and even the gods that it took more than Jemar’s temporary absence to end her fighting days.

By now, five wind-fattened sails were rapidly carrying the ship out to sea. Torvik would have finished the work of setting the sails and be at his next task, probably seeing that the ballast had not shifted in the passage over the bar. Kilmygos was a careful captain as well as a shrewd trader; he would be a good teacher for any youth with a gift for the sea.

Eskaia stepped forward on the villa’s balcony, until she could see from one end of the harbor to the other; likewise the town nestled beside it and the terraced hills above. A gust of wind moaned around her; she drew the walrus-ivory combs from her hair and let it fly free. It was still long, past the middle of her back, and more black than silver. She was proud of it even now, when there were no fingers running through it abed at night.

The town was called Vuinlod and almost deserved the name of city. Indeed, it had nestled by this harbor in northern Solamnia since before the land bore that name. In a chronicle from the time of Vinas Solamnus himself, there was mention of his armies buying fish and enlisting fishermen from a village on this very harbor. One could not match the description with any other harbor on the north coast of what in due course became Solamnia.

Vuinlod had had every sort of craftsman needed to keep ships and houses in order. Rarely did Lady Eskaia send outside town for anything to keep afloat the ships she had inherited from Jemar, which she would one day pass on to Torvik and her other children.

At the same time, Vuinlod was small enough and far enough from any of the teeming cities of Istar’s domain that a stranger was quickly noticed, and quickly thereafter asked his business. As well it should be. Eskaia wished to live out her years untroubled by minions of the kingpriest, whose reach grew longer each year despite occasional victories for justice. After all, the kingpriest had no cause to think well of Lady Eskaia, once of House Encuintras, in Istar.

It might have gone very ill with her after Josclyn Encuintras died: much of the power of his merchant house died with him. But within months of Josclyn’s death, the old kingpriest also died, and his successor was a man with more justice in his soul, or perhaps only more sloth in his body. Certainly he did not promote injustice as zealously as his predecessor.

So, while Eskaia and the other heirs of Josclyn Encuintras fought a discreet but ruthless campaign for their shares, the menace of the kingpriest seemed to recede. The Servants of Silence remained outlawed, or at least silent; few in Istar and fewer elsewhere thought it was good to guard virtue with bands of assassins. The priests of Zeboim did not under the new kingpriest regain the position they had lost under the old one. (They were too few, in any case; perhaps half of the Istarian servants of the terrible sea goddess had died in a certain battle off the northern shore.)

Yet if the new kingpriest did not wield his power as a weapon against his enemies, there were more than a few grudge-holding servants of the old kingpriest. Also, there were many in Istar who sought ways of serving the kingpriest, whether he wished to be served or not, in the hope of future favor.

Last and perhaps worst were those in Istar and in many other lands who thought virtue, whatever it might be, lay more in humans than in other folk. Each of these—who to Eskaia’s mind truly deserved the name “barbarian”—hated one nonhuman race more than the others. None were prepared to live in peace with nonhumans if they could hope for victory over them in war.

Vuinlod harbored few such barbarians, the gods be thanked. That was another virtue of the town. This tolerance had drawn kender, dwarves, and Qualinesti elves and half-elves to settle in Vuinlod. More than any human, these settlers were vigilant against hostile visitors.

Now, if certain of Eskaia’s friends could be persuaded to be less lost in their own concerns, or to pursue their business from Vuinlod instead of from deep within Istar’s borders—

“My lady,” came the voice of the undermaid. “Your bath is ready.”

“Thank you,” Eskaia said. “Have writing materials and a cup of wine brought to the chamber.”

It was the chief maid who spoke—or rather, whined. The gods had made her voice that way; the whine was not her fault. But it was Eskaia’s fate to listen to it daily, or else turn her and her numerous family out to starve in the street.

“My lady, we cannot send in a scribe while you bathe. It is not—”

“Proper?” Eskaia finished. “But how is it improper if I write the letter myself?”

Neither maid said anything. She hoped their silence would last, and that the older was too surprised and the younger too naive to wonder why a lady would insist that no eyes but hers see a letter.

The chair creaked under Sir Marod of Ellersford as he shifted his weight. He had always been tall and lean, and was still less stooped than most men of seventy. His leanness, however, had departed not long after the riding accident that permanently stiffened one knee and weakened one ankle.

Or at least that was the story he had put about. He had done this with less than an easy conscience; a Knight of Solamnia was oathbound not to lie. A Knight of the Rose was bound yet more strictly; a knight Sir Marod’s age most of all. Except that those who conceived the Oath in the days of Vinas Solamnus had not anticipated that a knight like Sir Marod would need to deceive enemies from within the very ranks of the knights.

Sir Marod wished he could be certain whether the man before him was a friend to be trusted, an enemy to be deceived, or merely a neutral party in whose presence to be discreet, without actually lying. He had prayed for knowledge, but received none. Now he prayed only that if Sir Lewin of Trenfar was an enemy, the gods would send the older knight the strength to bear learning of his pupil’s betrayal.

“A man has lived too long if he buries his sons,” was a saying in some lands. Sir Marod thought it could be translated: “A knight has lived too long when he sees dishonor among his pupils.”

Sir Lewin frowned, and the older knight realized he had given the appearance, or worse, of not listening. His position could survive stiffness of joints, but not stiffness of wits.

“Your pardon, Sir Lewin,” the elder knight said. “I was trying to calculate how far our friend Sir Pirvan and his company will have come by now.”

“Within reach of the desert barbarians, unless they have been delayed by weather or accident,” Sir Lewin replied. “I find myself forced to wonder if we are not sending good people into a bad business—and therefore needless danger.”

“How so?” Sir Marod asked.

Sir Lewin frowned again. Two frowns in such a short time meant that the younger knight had some weighty matter on his mind. Moreover, it was most likely to be something that even Marod would consider worth sober discussion.

Sir Lewin’s loyalty and honor might be somewhat in question. His intelligence was not. If he was a friend, he deserved respect and answers; if a foe, he still deserved respect, if not answers.

“I suppose it is a question of what legal claims Istar has on the Silvanesti,” Lewin said. He raised a hand as Marod opened his mouth. “Please, hear me out. I know that the language of the treaties and compacts is reasonably explicit as to the amount of taxes Istar may collect in Silvanesti. At least compared to what is written down about collecting taxes from the kender.”

Both knights smiled. Few human authorities ever worried about collecting anything from kender that the kender did not offer freely. Most did not even mention kender in their tax laws. Those who did usually wrote down, for the discouragement of overzealous petty officials, advice that could be summarized: Don’t even think about taxing kender. It only wastes your time and annoys the kender.

“So we are agreed that the Silvanesti elves are not kender, neither in fact nor in law,” Marod said. “I suppose your concern turns on what they are.”

Lewin flushed as though he were still a young Knight of the Crown, reproached by the elder he most respected. Marod vowed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but knew it would be a futile vow, short of cutting his vocal cords, if Lewin continued to ramble.

Whatever was unsettling him to this extent must at least seem cataclysmic.

“The Silvanesti are obligated to render certain payments,” Lewin went on, assuming his lecture-hall tone. “They are to be collected internally and handed over to Istarian officials at four points on the agreed-on borders.

“However, these past ten years, the Silvanesti have withdrawn more and more from contact with humans. This withdrawal has included abandoning the border tax posts, in plain violation of the laws. Payments, when made at all, are simply left by night. If the Istarians notice them before the outlaws do, so much the better. If not—”

“Yes,” Marod said, trying to keep from his voice the slightest note of impatience. “We are agreed on that. Also that the taxes are somewhat in arrears.”

“The Istarian Treasury claims arrearages of nearly three million silver towers. This is apart from what is owed to the kingpriest’s purse.”

“What is considered to be owed to the kingpriest,” Marod reproved gently. “Remember the reasons the Silvanesti gave for withdrawing from dealings with humans. The kingpriest’s leadership in the hostility to nonhumans was one.”

“The obligation is still part of the law.”

“The obligation to the kingpriest may be paid in kind or service, as well as coin,” Marod pointed out. “I admit that it would be easier to calculate if it were required in coin. But the Silvanesti have the right to do otherwise, and it is the kingpriest’s obligation to accept such payments if offered.”

“We are beginning to sound like law counselors arguing a dubious case,” Lewin said irritably.

Marod decided not to remind the other that it was he who had first raised the legal questions. “Are you suggesting a solution to the problem that has not occurred to anyone else? If you have such a thing, Oath, Measure, the gods, and common sense demand that you speak at once.”

Lewin took a deep breath. “I am suggesting that the Silvanesti have grievously broken the law. As long as they honored it, Istar abided by its agreement to have all taxes collected by public officers and to send no tax collectors into Silvanesti itself.

“By riding south to investigate the rumors of ‘tax soldiers’ gathering on the borders, is Pirvan interfering with Istar’s right to collect its own? Is he not in fact taking the side of the thief against the property owner? Is this the proper course for the Knights of Solamnia?”

Marod thought briefly that he had wished too hard for Lewin to speak swiftly. As a masterpiece of reducing to simple slogans complex issues with justice delicately balanced on either side, Lewin’s speech was worthy of a street-corner rabble-rouser.

It was tempting to say as much, and ask if inciting riot was a proper course for a Knight of Solamnia. However, there was a great deal in the Measure about resisting temptation in all dealings, whether with kings or with gully dwarves.

Also, Marod had no intention of turning Lewin into an enemy before the younger man made himself one.

“You are not, I trust, suggesting that the knights ride with the mercenary ‘tax soldiers?’ I admit that we have fought Istar’s battles against barbarians before, but the Silvanesti are not barbarians. Ask any man who has tried to pry them out of their native forest in the face of their woodscraft and archery. If you can find one alive, that is.”

Lewin shook his head. “The mercenaries certainly will need discipline, and I suppose the knights could provide it. But Istar also has men of its regular host on the border, under Gildas Aurhinius.”

Lewin said the name of the Istarian general as though it would be news to Marod. The older knight only nodded.

“So I have heard. A good man, although some call his post on the borders a demotion.”

“It might well be one,” Lewin said. “And suppose it is, for his failure in Waydol’s War?”

“If so, it would be a very belated punishment from the lords of Istar, seeing how long it has been since that minotaur’s body slipped into the sea. Long enough for him to have reached home by now, I suspect.”

Lewin could not conceal what was doubtless impatience with an old man’s ramblings—or, perhaps, eagerness rising from suspicions that Sir Marod would soon yield both wits and power to the advance of time.…

Be sure the owlbear is dead before you string his claws on your belt, young hunter.

“All this could well be true,” Marod said briskly. “But Sir Pirvan is nearly the best man we have for learning what is true and what is not. Even his contending with Aurhinius in Waydol’s War gives him a particular knowledge of the man.”

“It also gives Aurhinius cause to hate Sir Pirvan,” Lewin said. He seemed almost pleading. “Whatever Sir Pirvan may learn, will he and his companions live to tell us?”

You do not know the half of what Pirvan and Haimya have survived, Marod considered. Not to mention their companions, in this case including Knight of the Sword Sir Darin—the minotaur’s heir and as stout a fighter as ever swore the Oath—and a double handful of other seasoned warriors.

“I cannot urge the Grand Master to embattle the knights on behalf of Istar’s tax-gathering expedition,” Marod said briskly. “But you may well be right, that we need two parties watching what goes on in Silvanesti.

“Pirvan and his companions are riding in from the north, across the desert. It might be wise for you to lead a band, equally well chosen and fitted to fight or spy, in from the south or west.”

“Landing on the coast would have us lost in days and arrow-riddled within weeks, without learning any secrets, elven or Istarian,” Lewin said. “Your pardon if this seems a lack of courage, but I think our aim is to have one or even both parties return with what they have learned.”

“Exactly so.”

“Then I can ride to Bloten Keep with a few companions, take on more volunteers and supplies there by your command, and march onward into Silvanesti. That far south, the mountains offer ways other than the defended passes.”

Known only to local guides, thought Marod, most of whom were half-elven and wholly on the side of the Silvanesti, of course. But learning that would be a part of Lewin’s education, even if it was hardly knowledge required by the Oath and Measure.

“I can order up men, mounts, and supplies in ample quantities without question,” Marod said, rising cautiously and wincing as his weight came on the bad leg. “Let me know by nightfall what you will require, and you can be on the road at dawn of the day after tomorrow.”

“You are generous, Sir Marod. I only hope I can repay this in some way.”

“Add to your own reputation and brighten the honor of the knights, and that will be enough.” They gripped hands, and Lewin was gone.

Even better, thought Marod, prove that I did not misjudge you many years ago, and that you have not gone over to those who see the Silvanesti as sheep to be sheared.

Sir Marod knew that he was fighting that rearguard battle against the years that every man, knight or no, eventually loses. But he wanted to close his eyes for the last time without too many thoughts of how great a fool he had been.

Lady Eskaia’s soap was perfumed; her bathwater was not. The house could still afford the best soap; it could not afford perfume by the jug.

The mirror above the bath—one of Jemar’s surprise gifts to her—showed a woman who could have claimed many fewer years than her actual forty. The silver in her hair was coming in with such dignity that she allowed it free rein, but otherwise the years and five children had taken only a light toll on her.

Eskaia twisted a knob; the soapy water gurgled down the drain, and an amazing amount of muzzy-headedness seemed to go with it. She pulled the chain and let sun-warmed rainwater wash her clean, combing her fingers through her long hair to be sure the water reached her scalp.

At last she was clean and the tub refilled. She wrapped her hair in one towel, dried her hands and forearms on another, and pulled the bath tray toward her. It held a pen in a gilded holder, a crystal pot of ink, and several sheets of the lightest parchment.

Eskaia dipped the pen and began to write.

Dear Friends,

It is too long since I have written, and without the excuse of any grief or trouble that has left me no time to write. We are all well. Indeed, I just saw Torvik sail off on what I believe is his tenth voyage. Soon there will be a seasoned sailor where once stood the boy I remember falling asleep on Haimya’s lap.

I will force the affairs of House Jemar to let me write more often. However, I despair of ever finding time to travel all the way to Tirabot, particularly with the children whom you have not seen in, I think, some three years.

I hope the knights and your manor will prove more lenient. I would much like to see Gerik and my namesake before he vanishes into the maw of the knights and she chooses husband or sword—or, if she is as lucky as her mother, both. Also, there is Rubina, whom I doubt I would recognize now—I remember what the years between seven and ten did to my own children.

Eskaia blinked away tears; one thing those years had done was take her son Roskas. The trees around his grave were tall enough to shade it now, but the memory of the day they brought him from the pond was still painful, like an old wound scarred over on the outside but unhealed within.

Now would come the harder part of the letter, not to mention the words more dangerous for strange eyes to see.

I would also like to speak to you privately of how matters fare in Istar. Istar may only call itself the world, but when Istar sneezes, very surely the world reaches for a handkerchief.

Is it true that the present kingpriest is himself honorable and virtuous, but hemmed round by the servants of his predecessor? One preserves silence, even in a letter, about some matters. But nonhuman folk who have found safer homes in Vuinlod than elsewhere say that hatred of nonhumans yet grows with each passing month.

Is that the reason behind this rumor of a campaign in Silvanesti, or do the elves really owe Istar more than the lords of the Mighty City can afford to ignore? Here in Vuinlod we seem to be both far from truth and far from danger.

Indeed, it has been so long since we needed defense against pirates from the sea or bandits from the land that the watch is all middle-aged folk, some fat and lazy, and few of them finished fighters. In even a short time, Pirvan, Haimya, or Darin—even Gerik or Eskaia—could teach them much that they have either forgotten or never learned.

Eskaia looked back at the last three paragraphs and sighed. She wished that she could be more explicit, that she could say, “Bare is a brotherless back, and with you here in Vuinlod, we could guard each other’s.”

But the old sea barbarian saying was only half of the truth. Pirvan and Haimya did not need much guarding by her, but they did need to be farther from Istar, from its intrigues and ambitious lords, and from kingpriests who might not do evil themselves but could not restrain it in others.

They needed this. One day the Swordsheath Scroll would not be enough to keep the peace between Istar and Solamnia. Istar would, in time, issue a dishonorable command, and the knights would have to either refuse and ignite conflict, or yield, lose honor, and find that all of Istar’s enemies were theirs.

Pirvan would have enough trouble in the first case, he and any knight within reach of Istar’s army. Tirabot was a fortified manor, not a keep; it would not take siege engines to break in and reduce it to ghost-haunted ruins, like the old castle.

In the second case, Pirvan would be a walking dead man. Even a command from the knights would not turn him to dishonor or evil. Then he would have blood enemies among his own comrades.

Haimya and Darin would never desert him; likewise Gerik. The four would be doomed. But Eskaia, Rubina, the household—they deserved a hope of safety.

But how did one tell a Knight of Solamnia to turn his back on his enemies even long enough for that?

One did not tell; one hinted—and prayed.

Eskaia read the letter again. She had done enough hinting, and she would pray later, at night, in her chambers. For now—

She rang the bell for the maids, and called, “I need wax and a message pouch.”

Then she wrote hastily:

If you cannot find the time to indulge your curiosity about Vuinlod, I may yet make time to indulge mine about Tirabot. May it and you fare well in the gods’ keeping until that time comes.

Eskaia

She had just time to blot and fold the parchments before the maids stampeded in.

Chapter 1

His name was Hawkbrother, and he was the fourth son of Redthorn, chief of the Gryphon clan of the desert barbarians. In Redthorn’s time, at least, the many barbarian clans had called themselves the Free Riders, even when the wells ran low and they had to lead their horses to be sure of having them alive when the winter rains came.

In living memory, no other chief’s son—and indeed no other Gryphon warrior—had borne the name Hawkbrother, and with reason. There was a Hawk clan among the Free Riders, and their relations with the Gryphons stopped just short of blood feud. Hawkbrother himself had slain three of the other clan’s fighters in the four years since he had donned the warrior’s cloak and belt.

In the Gryphon clan, no warrior cared to bear a name that might weaken him in battle against the Hawks. Indeed, there were no Hawksisters remembered among the women, either; such a name might make a Gryphon woman feel more friendly toward a Hawk than she ought to.

But on the day Hawkbrother was born, a pair of blue-crested falcons hatched out their eggs in a clump of black-spike, not two hundred paces from the Gryphon camp. When the Gryphons had made camp so that Redthorn’s wife and several other women could bear their babes at rest, it was a wonder the falcons hadn’t fled, leaving their eggs. The hatching and the birth coming on the same day made tongues clatter like dry branches in the firewind.

They stopped clattering only after Skytoucher, the wise woman, came to Redthorn and commanded him to name the boy Hawkbrother.

“Why should I do such a thing?” he replied.

He received the answer he had expected. “Because I command it.”

He also knew that this was not the only answer he would receive. It was a game with Skytoucher, to string out a man (or woman; she could treat both with equal disdain) with a series of questions until she finally gave an answer that made sense to ordinary folk.

“Why do you command it?”

Skytoucher looked less amused than usual by the word game. “I command it because I have had a vision.”

That chilled Redthorn, though it was a hot day—even for high dunes country. Skytoucher had visions (or at least spoke of them) so seldom that young folk with quick tongues and slow wits had been heard to say she could hardly be called a wise woman at all.

The older folk knew better. They remembered how Skytoucher was the only woman in the history of the Gryphon clan to be warrior maid, mother to warriors, speaker for the council of women, and finally, pupil of the Gryphon’s seer until he died and she stepped into his place. All this she had done in less than sixty years, which was a ripe age for a Free Rider, but not a vast one. There were also the feats of climbing that had given her the name she now bore.

“May you speak of this vision, at least to me?”

“Perhaps.”

“I am the chief of the Gryphons, Skytoucher. In their eyes and the eyes of the gods, I bear a great burden. If my knowing of your vision can save as much as a single babe of our people, speaking is your duty before the people and the gods.”

As Redthorn told his son many years afterward, “I nearly stamped my foot as you did when you were little, for I did not see it as my duty to remind Skytoucher of things that she already knew as well as I.”

But Skytoucher had not refused. She nodded and said, “Very well. We need a chief’s son with such a name of power. In time, danger will come to all the Free Riders, and if the Hawk Spirit is pleased, we may well face it side by side with the Hawk Clan.”

“Do you know when this danger will come, and from where?”

“It has begun already, in the Mighty City. When it will come forth, I do not know. But we must be watchful.”

Again, Redthorn added later, speaking to a son whose chest and thighs wore still the soot and ashes of the manhood rites, “I was not sure then and I am not sure now of this matter of names of power. After all, did not mighty Quicksword take the name ‘Gryphons’ for his new clan to keep the beasts away from our horses? And have you ever seen a gryphon turn aside from one of our horses, any more than from another clan’s?”

Still, even if names of power could not blunt a gryphon’s instincts or appetite, they were not to be dismissed entirely. So the babe was given the name Hawkbrother, and in due time became child, youth, and finally man and warrior.

He was the youngest son, which quickened both his wits and his warrior’s skills, for his elders were sure the gods had sent him for them to bully. The years gave him strength so that in time the bullying ceased, but he still knew full well that he was both last and least.

He also knew that his father was too old and too fond of peace in his family and clan to disturb this pattern. Hence, when word came of strangers riding into the desert, Hawkbrother was sent with a band of warriors in the direction where he was least likely to encounter the strangers and win either the honor of their friendship or the glory of victory over them.

Redthorn had spoken firmly to all four sons about their not seeking battle with folk who meant no harm. The Free Riders had different words for stranger and enemy; those who did not, they called barbarians.

At the same time, these strangers were coming out of Istar. Perhaps not from the Mighty City itself, like the mercenaries camping along the fringes of the desert since the spring blooms showed their first colors, but Hawkbrother was the last man among the Gryphons who was likely to forget Skytoucher’s vision.

He was so deeply musing on how to tell friend from foe that when his mount pulled up suddenly, he nearly lost his seat. Either no one noticed, or all were being polite. He was able to smooth out his blanket, then follow where One-Ear’s muscle-corded arm was pointing.

Tiny and dark, discernible only to the keen eyes of a Free Rider, a caravan was creeping over the brow of a distant hill. Hawkbrother looked at the westering sun, and then at the white moon already creeping over the opposite horizon.

He pointed backward and down. Twenty Gryphon warriors dismounted, turned in their tracks, and led their horses down into a hollow.

One-Ear came up to his leader, for whom he had stood witness in the manhood oaths and ordeals, even though he had been preparing for his own when Hawkbrother was born.

“Water and feed the horses?”

“Yes. We will camp here for the night. The only watering place these folk can reach before dark is Dead Ogre Canyon, and any of us can walk there without working up a thirst.”

“What if they go on?”

“I have yet to hear of Istarians traveling by night in our lands.”

“Much may happen without young men hearing of it.”

Hawkbrother tried to glare and succeeded only in grinning. “Old men, too,” he said, then studied the distant figures.

“I admit they seem to know what they are about, better than those sell-swords Istar is sending to amuse the Silvanesti archers. But unless they ride desert-bred mounts, they cannot travel by night without losing folk to falls. They would also leave a trail a Free Rider babe could follow.

“Last of all, the next water is farther than they could travel even if they rode until dawn. If we followed their trail, we might reach them before the carrion birds did. Or we might not.”

“Unless they carry water as we do,” One-Ear interjected.

Hawkbrother frowned. He knew he was being tested, felt that this game should have ended years ago, and doubted that this was the time for it.

None of this would stop One-Ear. Nothing would, save death.

“Well, if these folk are riding desert-bred mounts and know our water ways, it would be good to meet them as soon as possible. They will be strong, either as friend or foe.

“Let us two keep watch, while others see to our mounts. If these folks pass by Dead Ogre Canyon, there will be time to overtake them in the dark. We have some of the best trackers among the Gryphons with us, to say nothing of those skilled at slipping into an enemy’s camp.”

Hawkbrother did not say he was among those skilled men. It was proper for warriors to sing pride songs after the victory, but this night might not even see battle, let alone victory.

Sir Pirvan of Tirabot and all of his band were mounted on desert-bred horses. They also led pack mules, loaded with their tents, bedding, cooking gear, spare weapons, and, besides their personal waterskins, enough water for twice their number. Even Redthorn or Skytoucher would have looked with approval at how they arrayed themselves for the desert.

This did not, however, speed their progress. To begin with, the desert was broad, and those who bred horses for traveling it sought endurance and hardihood, not speed. When they succeeded, the results were not cheap (at least to those who had little money and even less bargaining skill). Pirvan’s purse was not bottomless.

Also, his orders did not tell him where to go. He was to use his best judgment as to where to find answers to the questions Sir Marod and the Grand Master were asking about the Istarian tax soldiers marching on Silvanesti.

His best judgment had so far led him south, skirting the worst of the desert to the east on the way to the borderlands between Istar and Silvanesti. This destination was the size of a none-too-small province; he had to reach it with horses and men still fit for hard work.

Finally, there was the problem of Pirvan’s two largest companions. He would not gladly have left Grimsoar One-Eye behind, when the man asked to go. Not even the best healing could make Grimsoar fit to breathe salt air again for months at a time, but the hot air of the desert or the dry air of the mountains could do no harm and might do some good. And when his breath came easily, Grimsoar was hardly less formidable in fight or frolic than he had been in the days when he and Pirvan were fellow thieves together in Istar the Mighty.

Pirvan had been commanded to take with him Sir Darin Waydolson, Knight of the Sword. He would have done so without command. Indeed, he would have more gladly walked from Istar to Dargaard Keep and back in his bare feet than left the young knight behind. He had sponsored Sir Darin after the death of the minotaur Waydol, Darin’s foster father; he knew the qualities of the man.

Pirvan also knew that his own teaching had little to do with those qualities, and Waydol’s teaching much.

Grimsoar was leaner than he had been during his years of striding a deck, but no shorter. Darin was the size of a full-grown minotaur, as if Waydol had, by some whim of the gods, been his father by blood as well as by nurture.

Desert-bred horses average about fourteen hands high. They had found one that topped fifteen, for Darin. They had tried to find a second, for Grimsoar. No such beast was to be found, nor any that could safely be worked on by magic to increase its strength.

“My spells have little power over beasts,” their Red Robe companion, Tarothin, had said. “Nor is this for want of learning or effort. Even if I did command the proper spells, they have a way of making the enspelled beasts drop dead suddenly, usually when you are three days’ walk from water, or worse, riding for your life.”

Regardless, it would be good to be past the desert portion of their journey before the high summer heat struck. It would be still better to be all the way to the borderlands before anyone in Istar learned of their intent.

“Never mind,” Darin said, at last. “If Grimsoar is fit to walk as much as one day in three, he and I can share the same mount.”

Serafina, Grimsoar’s young wife, threw Darin a look that would have gelded him if it had been steel. “He is fit for this journey at all only because he wishes it and I will not hold him back. As for walking all the way to Silvanesti—”

“Very well,” Darin said. “Then Grimsoar can have the big roan gelding. I will load all of my gear save my sword and dagger on a mule. Then I can go afoot.”

Pirvan had many years ago given over being astounded by anything Darin could do or say. His mouth hung wide only briefly before he shook his head.

“We need not go that far. Let us find two horses of common size, so that Grimsoar can ride each one on alternate days. Then you can take the roan, put your gear on a mule as you suggested, and still ride.”

“There seems little need for me to burden a horse,” Darin said. “It is not as if I am slow afoot.”

Given that much of Darin’s immense height was in his legs, this was probably true. Pirvan had seen the man keep pace with a cantering horse for miles. However, a time might come when the band needed to gallop, and then a man afoot would have to be left behind.

He said as much to Darin, who flushed like a boy and looked at Pirvan’s wife, Lady Haimya, as if in appeal. She shook her head.

“The will to sacrifice oneself is a two-edged weapon,” Haimya added. “It needs careful handling.”

“I submit to your judgment, Sir Pirvan, Lady Haimya,” Darin said.

Will he ever address us without our titles? Pirvan asked himself. Perhaps the day after we find him roistering in a house of amusement.

Darin did ride, but not every day. The strength he thus saved, he used to do more than his share of the camp chores. This sat well with Serafina, who was half her husband’s age and had been groom of her father’s large livery stable when she found herself wed to a lung-fevered sea captain. She had been less than pleased with his going on this quest at all, and was grateful to Darin for the time given her to nurse Grimsoar.

Darin’s labors were less pleasing to Pirvan and Haimya’s daughter, Eskaia, named after Jemar’s widow. She was seventeen, had been steward of Tirabot Manor in all but name for three years, and had expected to hold the same place on this, her long-awaited first quest in the company of her parents.

The sun was a swollen sphere of fire on the dust-hazed horizon when One-Ear turned to Hawkbrother.

“They are halting on the rim of Dead Ogre Canyon,” he said. “Perhaps you were right.”

“Perhaps I was, in part. But they may be desert-wise after all, as you say. There are places where the canyon wall lets one go down for water, leaving the mounts and camp up above. That is what I would do, were I they.”

One-Ear nodded. The Free Riders were not great archers, good bow wood being scarce over much of their lands, but every war band had a few. Even without a bow, a man on the rim of a canyon had the edge over a man on the bottom.

“If they stay on the rim, no large band can scout them out before darkness,” One-Ear said. He began undoing his belt, the first step toward stripping to his loincloth and knife.

Hawkbrother put a hand on the older warrior’s shoulder. “Be not so hasty, my friend. I need my most trusted man to remain within hearing distance of the canyon’s rim. That man, too, should have, within hearing distance, a band of men he trusts.

“I will carry my whistle,” the chief’s son added. “I hope age has not addled your memory so that you forget all our old calls?”

One-Ear grabbed one of Hawkbrother’s braids and pretended to bite off the opposite ear. “Insult those who really are too old to challenge you, worm! With the rest of us, waste no time or breath.”

Hawkbrother recognized in One-Ear’s tone reluctant agreement to his proposal. Now it was his turn to undo his belt.

The canyon stretched away for miles in either direction. The far ends of the vista were veiled in twilight and mist. Pirvan contemplated the hues of the rock in the canyon walls: ocher and red, saffron and an unnaturally dark blue that was almost black, and a dozen others.

To his right, wood scraped on rock. A sledge loaded with filled waterskins rose over the rim of the canyon. Serafina whispered something to her lead mule, and the four stopped hauling. Pirvan raised both hands, the signal to the watering party below that the sledge was safely up.

It had been simple enough to decide not to enter the canyon, where shade, shelter, and easy water beckoned people into what could easily become a deathtrap. It had been only a trifle less simple to devise safe ways of watering the party.

The disassembled sledge packed for use in the mountains was unpacked and assembled. A stout harness hitched it to four mules. Four men carried it down to the nearest spring; others carried all the empty waterskins. As fast as the skins were filled, they were lashed to the sledge. Then came Serafina’s shrewd cajoling (and an occasional crack of the whip), and the strength of the mules did the rest.

Darin commanded the sentries, Gerik the watering party, and Grimsoar and Eskaia those setting up the tents. Tarothin kept a magical vigil, in so far as his strength allowed—although he had the look of a man who should not have been out of bed at all.

Pirvan and Haimya found themselves almost idle. As his lady sat down on the rock beside him, Pirvan slipped an arm around her.

“Shall we go seek if the spring broadens into a pool somewhere down-canyon?” he said, grinning.

Haimya pulled his arm tighter about her waist and squeezed his hand, then rested her head on his shoulder. She could do that easily and gracefully, even though she was barely a finger’s breadth shorter than her husband.

“I thank you for the thought, but I am too old for that,” she said.

“Hardly, and not at all too old to inspire it. When I dream of swimming under the sun or the stars, I dream of—”

“Yes?”

“You.”

“Flatterer.”

“Only clear-sighted.”

Haimya turned her head to kiss Pirvan lightly on the cheek and ear, then settled back into his embrace.

In truth, Haimya did not look old enough to have a son ready for training with the Knights of Solamnia and a daughter who could wed lawfully. Indeed, they had already received three veiled offers of honorable marriage for Eskaia, not to mention some unveiled and less honorable offers, which Eskaia had so far dealt with herself, without involving her parents in blood feuds.

Pirvan would not see fifty again, and Haimya was only four years younger. This first quest as a family might well be their last, even if they all survived. Rubina, their daughter who had just turned ten, might quest with her brother and sister, but not with her parents, though she had wailed like a dragon with a toothache at being left behind.

And before long, Sir Marod’s orders to search the highways and byways of Krynn would go to younger men. Gerik could be one of those, if he could make up his mind whether or not to enter training for the knights. Meanwhile, there was Darin, as firm in honor as he was in muscle, and as fertile in invention as he was terrible in battle.

Waydol had raised his heir well, and the knights would reap the harvest of the minotaur’s good work.

“Last load’s coming up!” Gerik called from below.

Pirvan gave the hand signal acknowledging the message, then added the one for silence—repeated three times for emphasis. Gerik replied with his own acknowledgment, and Pirvan said no more. His son was sometimes more eager than wise, no rare thing at nineteen, and likely to be cured by both time and Darin’s example.

Then the sledge came grating into view, and hard on its heels the watering party, with Gerik even pushing a little to speed matters—until Serafina gave him a glare that would have frozen tarberry tea steaming from the kettle.

Pirvan looked at Serafina’s tally board. All the water sacks were filled, and they would have time at dawn to refill any emptied tonight. For one more day, they had repelled the assaults of the desert’s arsenal of heat and thirst.

Enough more days of this, and they would be in the borderlands, fit to meet living foes. Pirvan expected to find that almost restful.

Hawkbrother was close enough to the strangers’ camp to watch the end of their water-gathering. That and much else he saw proved that they were desert-wise. How had this come about?

Few outside the Free Riders knew desert-wisdom. The plainsmen were accustomed to more water and grazing; their crops grew taller and their herds fatter. They could venture onto the sand, and sometimes return if they were brave and lucky, but not always.

The dwarves in the mountains to the west sometimes came to the very edge of the sand, seeking metal ores for their forges. More often than not, the Free Riders traded with them, dried meat for finished metal, thornberries for dwarf spirits, and so on. The dwarves and Free Riders had no quarrel with each other, and most commonly kept the peace.

The Silvanesti elves were not so well disposed toward the Free Riders, or anyone else, including their Qualinesti and Kagonesti brethren. They were also a long way from the sand. Distance kept the peace between the elven realm and the Free Riders, when willpower would not.

The Free Riders encountered most other folk as sun-mummified bodies or bird-picked, sun-bleached bones on the sand. So it had been with most Istarians, except for a few bold traders (and the tales ran that some of those had desert blood from far-traveling warriors, or the occasional maiden carried off when she ventured too close to the towns). Certainly it had so far been that way with the Istarian tax soldiers.

So what were these folk?

If Hawkbrother had been a wagering man (a nineteen-year-old fourth son had little with which to wager), he would have said that some of these folk were Knights of Solamnia. The Free Riders had had little to do with the knights, save when, generations past, the knights fought “barbarians” for Istar’s gold and glory. Many knights or their bones became decorations to distant sand dunes.

But these knights had come at the head of a good company. There were several women among them, all at least comely and one, the youngest, a rare beauty. They also had a score at least of grooms and guards, all of whom carried steel openly and looked as if they could use it.

Entering this camp on his belly, like a slinkersnake, would be a notable feat. So notable, indeed, that if he brought back nothing to prove it, even his being the chief’s son would not save him from being named a boaster.

That might end in the shedding of blood, which the Gryphons would better save for greater battles to come.

So he would be sure to bring home something that would end all doubts. The fairest of the women? No, her menfolk would surely pursue until she was safe and Hawkbrother’s blood was on their steel.

They had unsaddled and unloaded their animals, but much of their gear was piled close to where the hobbled beasts noisily fed. They had also surrounded the animals and indeed the whole camp with sentries, commanded for now by a giant who was likely one of the knights.

To a Free Rider, all of this was a challenge, not a barrier. Hawkbrother would be in, load an animal with what he could gather up, and ride for his life before the sentries knew what was afoot.

Hawkbrother looked at the sky. Night was swallowing the last of the sunset, and the stars and the moons marched across the zenith and onward to roof the desert. Then he looked back, toward where One-Ear would be crouching, four hundred paces away.

Good. The older warrior could not be seen by anyone whose eyes had not learned the desert. But Hawkbrother could see him plainly enough. The chief’s son slid down behind the boulder hiding him from the strangers, and raised his left arm.

In the fading light, the jewel on the wide arm ring winked three times—two long, one short. A long moment, and the reply came—the same signal, then two short flashes.

One-Ear knew what Hawkbrother planned, accepted it, and would be ready. There would be no need to use the jewels again, or the whistle at all.

Apart from the speaking jewel bracelet and the whistle, which could mimic the calls of scores of desert animals and birds, Hawkbrother was clad and armed lightly. He wore a loincloth and a headband, with the Gryphon sign dyed into the leather, a weighted sash, and a dwarven-made dagger in the Solamnic style.

He had not, however, even thought his death song, let alone sung it. He had no intention of dying tonight.

For that matter, Hawkbrother’s voice was such that anyone who heard him singing would seek his life, to return a decent and wholesome silence to the desert night.

Chapter 2

Pirvan had intended to make camp so that the people and the mounts were hard beside each other, inside a single ring of sentries. But, close to the canyon rim, there was no level spot large enough.

The knight chose the next best solution—one spot for the people, another for the animals, and the animals closer to the canyon rim than the people. This put the people, sentries and sleepers alike, between the animals and the desert. Raiders might get in, but they would be hard put to get out safely.

“Of course, they might think to drive the animals over the edge of the cliff to make us stay here, until their friends came,” Gerik said.

He barely even whispered. Sound carried far in the windless desert night. Doubtless anyone within miles had seen them, but there was no need to cry their presence all night, like a seller of hot nuts in the streets of Istar.

Both knights and Tarothin nodded approvingly at Gerik’s words. Pirvan’s son had all the wits needed to make a good knight, as well as the skill in arms. He even had the firm notions of honor.

All he lacked was the wish.

“True,” Darin said. “But we have left the beasts hobbled or tethered. Cutting that many leather thongs would attract the sentries. The desert folk are shrewd and cunning, but they are not shadow mastiffs.”

A gloom passed across Tarothin’s face. It was not the square face of old times, nor was it set on the same broad, level shoulders that had allowed the wizard to keep order in his father’s inn as a young man. Tarothin had seen more years than Pirvan, and weathered them less well. The wounds from working potent spells—whether his native magely magic or the clerical spells he’d learned for healing—left no scars showing outside; all the hurts lay within. But they were real enough, and took something out of a wizard that no healer could put back.

Pirvan recognized that look. “Let’s go see if any of the beasts need your services, my friend,” he said, taking Tarothin by the arm. It was not the best pretext, as the Red Robe’s healing spells were potent only for humans.

“The horses and mules looked healthier than most of us,” Tarothin muttered, but followed Pirvan’s lead. In moments, they were out of easy hearing of the others.

“I feel magic close at hand,” the Red Robe said.

“What kind?”

“It’s so weak that I can barely sense it at all, let alone tell what kind.”

Pirvan declined to rejoice. Though weak spells could mean a weak mage, unable to harm a fly even if he wished it, they could also be the probings of someone exceedingly skilled and quite deadly. The shadow mastiffs that Darin had mentioned could be utterly silent as they followed a trail—then give voice as they leapt to surround the prey and rip its throat out.

Pirvan felt sweat prickle around his own throat. The sensation made him still more uneasy. This was hardly the first time he had made himself and Haimya into bait to draw an enemy from his lair, even into a trap.

But it was the first time Gerik and Eskaia had been part of the bait.

One more change, to add to all the others that come with being a father, he thought, even for parents of children in whom anyone can take pride? What was it like for those who must endure all the changes and yet see their children falter and fail?

So far, the True Gods had kept Pirvan from finding out. He hoped and prayed they would continue to do so.

Meanwhile, there was the mysterious weak magic Tarothin had discovered, the kind of problem Pirvan and Tarothin had solved more times than they could count on both hands.

A falling star flashed across the sky, for a moment outshining even the brightest of the fixed stars. Pirvan studied the constellations. All were in their places; no disorders in the heavens portended disorders on Krynn. Lunitari was also well risen; the red moon would strengthen a Red Robe like Tarothin.

“Can you listen—forgive me if that’s not the best word—for the source of the magic?” Pirvan asked. “Can you try to locate it?”

Tarothin’s wrinkled face acquired yet more furrows as he frowned. He ran his fingers over his bare and parchment-hued scalp, as if hunting for the hair the years had taken.

“I can try, but not without danger or with certainty of success.” Tarothin had grown more modest about his powers of late, but they were not declining. The Red Robe would be the first to tell Pirvan, if it were so. “Danger, if the source is living, detects me, and strikes back—by magic or by common means. Failure, if the source no longer lives or is not in a single place.”

“Old magic?” The chill of the desert night seemed to strike deeper into Pirvan. He reined in his imagination.

Tarothin nodded. “No one knows what lies beneath this desert now. Oh, we know who lived here in the ages before it was desert—mostly elves and ogres. But even the elves know little of the magic of their distant ancestors. Only the gods know who wrought what, how long ago, and how much might have outlasted the living spellcasters.”

The chill would not ease, but Pirvan chose to ignore it. “The Desert—the Free Riders—”

Tarothin laughed softly. “You’re doing better each day.”

“I should hope so,” Pirvan said testily. “The last thing I want is to be mistaken for an Istarian who repeats the kingpriests’ lies about ‘the lesser folk.’ ”

“Especially to be mistaken by one of those folk,” Tarothin added.

Pirvan gave something between a sigh and a grunt of impatience. “Those who roam the desert survive well enough.”

“We hear only of those who do survive,” Tarothin said. “Who knows what might befall whole tribes, of whom word never reaches the outside world? Perhaps the Silvanesti know, but they might as well be on Nuitari for all they tell humans these days.”

“All of which is why we are blistering our aging arses riding across this trash heap of the gods,” a voice rumbled from just behind Pirvan. He turned to see Grimsoar, and put a finger to his lips.

Pirvan’s old comrade muttered something in the tongue of the sea barbarians, and frowned before going on more quietly. “All right, all right. But we are here, and Tarothin is only pointing out new problems that the rest of us might never have worried about if he’d kept quiet. What can he do to get us safely out of the desert, besides what he’s said?”

“Nothing,” Tarothin said with a grin.

Grimsoar started a roar of laughter, then strangled it at birth, and clapped Tarothin on the shoulder so hard that the wizard staggered. “Still honest as ever, friend Red Robe. Well, I’ll sleep no worse tonight for this mystery magic, at least, even if you can’t tell me the wizard’s name, color, teacher, and what his staff looks like.”

“If I could do that from what I have sensed,” Tarothin said, “I could probably fly us to the borderlands. Being what I am—well, it grows late. I will keep vigil for a trifle longer, then bind my staff with a light spell to make it wake me if danger threatens. Best put the sentries in pairs, too, if you have not already done so.”

“The day I need a Red Robe to tell me how to guard a camp—” Grimsoar began.

“ ‘—is the day Serafina bears three sons at one birth,’ ” Tarothin and Pirvan finished for him.

“Don’t say that too often,” the wizard added. “Words like that have a way of turning around when you least expect it and biting you like a serpent.”

“For serpents I have a good stick,” Grimsoar said. He turned, and threw a final word over his shoulder. “Also for wizards who give unasked-for advice.”

Then he vanished toward the camp. After seeing that Tarothin wished to keep vigil alone, Pirvan followed him.

Gildas Aurhinius, Captain of Hosts in the service of Istar, awoke from a dream in which a sand dune had fallen upon him. He could feel the hot sand immobilizing his limbs, squeezing his chest, fighting its way into his nose and mouth to stop his breath—

Then he was awake enough to realize that he’d become tangled in the blankets piled on his cot. The desert night was chill. There were more blankets than he’d pulled over himself when he lay down. His servants were as determined as ever to take care of him according to their wishes rather than his own.

Ah, the omnipotence of a senior commander in the field, Aurhinius thought.

Then he realized that he had been awakened by more than blankets. From the camp outside came shouts, curses, more than an occasional obscenity, the braying of asses and mules, and the neighing of horses.

Since he first put on the captain’s belt at the age of eighteen, Aurhinius had slept clothed while in the field, with weapons in reach. He still did, although his belt was a good deal longer, his clothing much finer, and his weapons as decorative as they were useful.

He had his feet on the gravel floor of the tent when the flap burst open.

“Ah, Nemyotes. I would have sent for you to explain this uproar.”

Aurhinius’s secretary nodded. “I would have been here sooner, but en route I gathered that explanation. It is merely another band of tax soldiers joining us. Some of them had been long without wine and stole it from other bands better provided.”

Aurhinius rinsed his mouth from the water jug, then spat on the floor. He wished he could have spat in the face of the captains who had so mishandled their men.

“The watch commander asked that his men be allowed to remain on duty even after the change of watch. That will give us twice as many reliable men.”

“Did he perhaps ask this after a hint or two that this would please me?”

“I said nothing that a reasonable man could call a hint. Both captains are simply clearheaded men who know what to do when faced with such disorder.”

“And green dragons sell their eggs in the public market of Silversmith Square on the third day of every month,” Aurhinius said.

Nemyotes had the grace to flush. Aurhinius laughed. “You did well. Just remember in the future not to waste my time explaining that you did not do what you plainly did.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Aurhinius donned the rest of what would make him look like a general commanding armies and not a sleepy fat old man roused from his bed. Boots, back and breastplate (straps tightened with Nemyote’s help), helmet tied under his chin with that touching if impractical gold and silver clasp that was a love-gift from Synia—

As Aurhinius buckled on his scabbarded sword and slid his boot dagger into its sheath, trumpets blared outside. He started, then recognized the ceremonial guard-mounting calls. The new soldiers arriving for guard duty were doing so with as much formality as if they were changing the guard outside the kingpriest’s gates.

Not to mention as much noise. That should certainly draw the attention of even the most thoroughly soused sell-sword. Once you had such a man’s attention, you had begun the process of restoring him to discipline.

The trumpets blew one final flourish, a bit ragged as a few of the trumpeters ran out of breath. Then the drums took their place, beating out a steady, slow march—the one used when the regular foot of Istar was advancing into battle.

“The captain of the relief is a clearheaded fellow, even if you say so,” Aurhinius said. Nemyotes covered his embarrassment this time by helping his commander buckle on his white-bordered red cloak of rank.

“Now, let us go out and see what these fellows are about,” Aurhinius said.

Nemyotes opened the tent flap and stepped aside as the sentries beyond the opening slammed their spear butts on the gravel or raised their swords to the vertical in the salute of honor.

As Aurhinius stepped out of the tent, a high-pitched scream rose above the drums. It sounded like a woman’s cry, and Aurhinius grimaced.

“If the new men brought camp followers, in violation of my express orders—”

“That didn’t sound like a woman,” Nemyotes said. He swallowed. “If I were guessing—”

“We all are. Better guess than stand gaping.”

“A kender. A kender is hurt.”

Aurhinius would have kept all the “lesser breeds” away from the camps of both his men and the sell-swords, for their own protection if nothing else. But try to use gentle persuasion on a kender! Not in living memory had it succeeded, which made kender all the harder to deal with when some wine-swollen, hate-ridden fool saw a kender as sword meat.

Aurhinius briefly considered what might happen to his dignity if he thrust himself into the middle of this. He also considered what might happen to his aging stomach if he forced himself to stand outside the brawl, waiting for others to tell him what was going on. His stomach was barely equal to field rations; it would never survive such an ordeal.

Aurhinius did allow Nemyotes to take the lead, and refrained from drawing his sword. Otherwise they moved out at a trot that threatened to become a run at any moment.

Hawkbrother was nineteen, an age at which a warrior is often ready to die rather than admit that something is beyond his or her power. However, he was wiser than his years. On his father’s side he was descended from seven chiefs, on his mother’s from four, and none of the eleven had left behind the reputation of a witling.

The Gryphons lived near lands ruled by dwarves, Silvanesti elves, Istarians, hostile clans, and the sand spirits that reigned over the deep desert, no matter what city-bred clerics might say. Given their neighbors, Gryphons could not afford to be led by fools, or breed such among even their youngest warriors.

It took Hawkbrother only a short while before he saw that there was no easy approach to the animals. The sentries were too well placed and too alert. All that had kept them from detecting him so far was the lack of wind. On a night so still that a grain of sand fell straight from one’s hand to the ground, scents did not carry readily.

Hawkbrother briefly considered retreating to One-Ear’s position, and returning with at least one companion. That, however, would take time. More briefly, he considered making a gap in the sentry line. As a chief’s son, he would not sully his hands by killing the innocent with a garrote, but he had other equally sure methods of silencing folk who happened to be in the wrong place. But a kill, silent or not, would sooner or later be detected. Then even those who had been friendly or neutral before would owe Hawkbrother, son of Redthorn, a blood debt.

He also considered slipping in among the tents and learning of these intruders from what he found there. However, he would then have to make his escape on foot from a perhaps alerted enemy. He shuddered briefly at the idea of trying to outrun that long-limbed giant, who could probably run down an antelope on most ground.

This left only one way in among the animals, and that was the most perilous. He would have to slide down into the canyon, crawl like a fly along the wall, and come up among the animals from the unguarded canyon side. And he would have to do all this silently, or far enough from alert ears for rattling stones and bruising falls not to raise the alarm.

Hawkbrother decided that tonight would give him the reputation of either a shrewd and courageous warrior, or else a hotheaded fool.

If he thought too long about the odds in favor of either outcome, he realized, he might lose his nerve or at least go fumble-fingered into the canyon. Then he would have no reputation at all, a dead man being neither coward nor hero.

Hawkbrother studied the moonlit canyon rim until he found what seemed to be a promising gap in the rock. It was also far enough from the sentry circle that if he was wrong, he could try again.

Belly as close to the ground as a snake’s, knees and elbows moving with the precision of a well-greased mill, Hawkbrother crept toward the canyon rim.

As Gildas Aurhinius strode toward the scene of the riot (or whatever name the law counselors might later give it), he knew that he could not really cut an imposing figure for long, moving at this pace. Too many years of good living had taken their toll—and for the last ten of those years he had been drinking more than a wise man should.

What was wisdom, though, against the frustration of doing justice to all folk and saving your men in the bargain, only to be sent farther and farther from Istar with each new command? It had been three years before Aurhinius realized how the rest of his life would be shaped by Waydol’s War. He’d taken wounds in the field that hurt less than that realization. For wounds of the body, there were healers. For wounds of the spirit, there was only wine.

Nemyotes was in glaring contrast to his commander. The secretary was short and small-boned, but he had the lean fitness of a hunting dog, as well as the cropped hair, permanent tan, and scars of a seasoned fighter. His armor no longer fit him like a man’s gear on a boy; he could afford to have it made to order.

I wrought better than I knew, the day I saved him from drowning on the north shore, Aurhinius thought, not for the first time. I gave Istar a notable soldier and, the True Gods willing, the kingpriests a formidable foe.

By now the commander and his secretary had acquired a respectable escort. A score of soldiers formed a square around them, hemming them in so closely that Aurhinius could barely see what lay ahead. He was about to protest this delicacy when Nemyotes pushed his way through the rank, shouldering aside two soldiers each twice his size. The square halted, the soldiers opened out—holding their weapons at the ready, Aurhinius noticed—and the commander was allowed to contemplate the scene.

Two kender stood over the corpse of a third—it had to be a corpse, with such wounds. Kender were tenacious of life, but even they were beyond healing when cloven from shoulder to belly with a sword or axe. Beyond the kender stood a line of Aurhinius’s soldiers, and beyond them he saw the shaggy hair and leather-helmeted heads of the cutpurses and burglars who had been renamed sell-swords and sent to collect taxes from the Silvanesti.

“Who is senior here among the tax soldiers?” Aurhinius snapped. It hurt his tongue like the edge of a broken tooth to use formal titles under these circumstances, but one might as well begin with politeness.

“I am,” said a voice that was hauntingly familiar. Then a tall man in richly decorated armor pushed through both ranks to face Aurhinius.

Aurhinius at once knew why the voice had been familiar.

“Captain Zephros. I see you have risen in the service of—Istar, since we last met.”

The last time they had met, Zephros slaughtered a Black Robe wizard, fearful that she was trying to enspell Aurhinius. With her died much knowledge that might have served Istar well. Aurhinius had dismissed Zephros from his service, hoping the dismissal would end his career in the hosts of Istar, and prayed that at least their paths would never cross again.

The hopes had been in vain and the prayers had gone unanswered, or so it seemed.

“It seems so,” Zephros replied. “Or I would not have come here as commander of this new band of tax soldiers. Is this the sort of order kept in your camps, my lord?”

“This camp is not mine, as you well know,” Aurhinius snapped. “Its discipline is a matter for its own captains. But incidents such as this are a matter for all who have come on this campaign. They can make us unwanted enemies.”

“Kender are friends to no human,” Zephros said. Aurhinius thought he saw the kenders’ fingers twitch, and noticed that they were both armed.

Justice, in this case, would probably be letting them carve on Zephros until he was in the same state as their friend, thought Aurhinius. So, forget about justice; consider how to keep order.

“Kender,” Aurhinius said. “What have you to say for yourself and your friend?”

One of the kender (he wore a blue-embroidered vest, which was all that set him apart from his comrade) nodded. “Edelthirb was trying to do a hurt man a favor. He’d fallen and was going to be trampled—”

“Edelthirb or the man?” Aurhinius asked. He also prayed silently to every god whom he could name in one breath that for once a kender would speak briefly and to the point.

That prayer at least was answered. It seemed that Edelthirb had tried to pull an unconscious man clear of the riot. (The kender offered no opinions on the cause of the riot; Aurhinius did not ask.) Possibly he had looked as if he was “handling” the man, turning out his pockets and pouches for the odd valuable or curiosity.

Then along came Zephros, who drew his sword—a desert-style scimitar, with a heavy curved slashing blade—and cut Edelthirb down. The kender’s death cry awoke the unconscious man, who had run off and hidden himself in the tent city of the sell-swords.

“Wonderful,” Aurhinius said. “Zephros, is this true?”

He had been prepared for a blustering denial that any kender could count fingers in front of his face, let alone identify a swordsman. Instead, Zephros nodded.

“It wasn’t handling, it was plain theft. Anybody who thinks the two aren’t the same knows nothing about kender. And theft is a crime that I can punish with summary justice, even death, under the warrant given me and the other tax officers.”

Aurhinius immediately rejected the simplest solution, which would have been to serve Zephros as he had served the kender. But the warrants did give the commanders of the sell-swords unusual discretion in discipline—probably the only way such a flock of cutthroats and wastrels could be kept in any sort of order.

Zephros had at least a respectable portion of a case. More than enough to make his summary execution out of the question.

“That warrant applies only to people under your command,” Aurhinius said.

“Or defending them.”

“Have you identified the man who was being handled?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know he was under your command, or anybody else’s? He may have been a bigger thief than any kender, for all we know.”

“Are you saying the kender was under your authority, Lord Aurhinius?”

Nemyotes laughed so loudly that everyone, including the kender, stared at him. “Friend Zephros, have you ever tried to claim authority over kender?” That drew laughter, even from the kender.

“No, but it might be worth trying, with the help of this.” Zephros patted the hilt of his scimitar. Aurhinius noticed for the first time that it still had drying kender blood on it.

He took a deep breath.

“Zephros, turn your band over to your second and consider yourself confined to your tent. Nemyotes, I want you to collect Zephros’s scimitar, Edelthirb’s body, and any witnesses, especially the alleged victim of the handling.”

“Alleged!” Zephros erupted. “It was happening there in plain sight, common theft—”

“Silence!” Aurhinius bellowed. He succeeded in silencing more than Zephros. For a moment it seemed as if the whole desert was listening for his next words.

He chose them carefully. “By the laws of Istar, theft and handling are not the same. Handling is not a capital offense, even in the field in wartime. Wanton killing, however, can be. You are—”

“All this fuss for a cursed kender?” Zephros snarled.

Nemyotes quickly put himself between the captain and the kender. They looked more than ready to fly at one another.

“Zephros, one more word out of you and you will be arrested and held in chains if necessary. I have not ordered that as yet because I trust your honor as a captain in the service of the Mighty City. Do not give me reason to think otherwise.”

“Lord Aurhinius—”

“That is two words, Zephros. My patience grows thin. Also, remember that challenging a superior to a duel of honor in the field, in wartime, means dismissal from the host of Istar.”

The look on Zephros’s face made it plain that Aurhinius had guessed right about his intentions. Then he saluted, turned, and stamped off in what Aurhinius hoped was the direction of his tent.

By now there was a wide circle around Aurhinius, Nemyotes, and the three kender, two living and one dead. The secretary bent slightly at the knees, all he needed to do to bring his eyes level with the kenders’, who were both tall for their race.

Then he spoke, for nearly a minute, without Aurhinius recognizing any word except his own name and “Istar.” The kender did not seem much happier when Nemyotes was finished, but at least they no longer had their hands on their daggers.

A bearer party pushed through the circle of soldiers with a litter, and held the litter while the two kender laid their dead comrade on it. Aurhinius nodded, and the solemn procession turned about and marched off toward the commanders’ tents.

“What did you tell them in—I assume that was kender speech?”

“Yes.”

“I never knew you had learned it.”

“I wish no one knew that even now. With folk like Zephros about, it’s a valuable secret. But I wanted to make sure they didn’t do anything foolish. At least until they are sure that they will not have justice.”

Aurhinius lowered his voice, so that only Nemyotes could hear. “Young man, do I sense a threat in those words?”

“Oh, not at all, my lord. I would not think of such a thing.”

You would not, thought Aurhinius, but what about the kender?

Standing around on the bloody sand, however, would bring no swift answer to that or any other question. Aurhinius raised his hand and signaled the escort to form up again, for the return to his tent.

It was even possible that once he had given the remaining necessary orders for investigating the kender’s death, and if the incident had subdued would-be rioters for the night, he might actually get a few hours’ sleep before dawn.

It was easy for one as skilled in desert-craft as Hawkbrother to crawl over the canyon rim. It was not as easy to find a way along the near-vertical slope below, and it proved impossible to traverse the way in silence.

Hawkbrother himself made no noise save for his breathing and the drops of sweat that fell from him in spite of the chill of the night. But rock chips and even pebbles insisted on coming loose and plummeting down into the darkness. Hawkbrother’s keen hearing let him follow their faint clicks and clatters all the way down. He could only pray to the Father of Good (whom other humans called Paladine) and the Son of War (known elsewhere as Kiri-Jolith) that none of the ears above him were as sharp as his.

Hawkbrother was a more skilled climber than most of the desert folk; climbing had, at times, been the only way of escaping his brothers. The traverse of the canyon wall in the dark stillness taxed his skills to the utmost, and demanded his full attention.

It was his nose that finally told him he was close to the animals, even before his ears heard the faint stamping of hooves on sand, the creak of tethers, and the faint whuffles and snorts. He smelled and listened to determine if the animals had caught his scent or sound, or were uneasy for any other reason.

He would have no more than a few seconds, once he was over the rim, before the beasts warned the camp. But that would be all he needed.

Luck was with him. The animals held their peace, and he found a firm rest for one foot, so that he could use both arms and one leg for the final leap to level ground. Muscles bowstring-taut, he gathered himself and made that leap.

For a moment he was in midair. For another moment, he was sure he was falling. No warrior’s oaths could keep from his mind the thought of the drop below, onto rocks that could pierce, crush, and shatter a man all at the same time.

Then he was tumbling on gravel—and a booted foot stamped down where his throat had been seconds before.

Hawkbrother’s instincts guided him. He rolled, in the direction of the foot, and rammed hard against a pair of legs. He clutched them as he rolled again, jerking the person off balance. The legs’ owner fell atop Hawkbrother, and he butted him under the jaw with his head, punched him in the stomach, and generally tried to silence him without permanent damage.

Somewhere in the middle of this silent grapple (in which the other was refusing to lie down and become courteously senseless), Hawkbrother realized he was fighting a woman. No city-bred maiden, either, but a woman as stout-thewed and determined as a warrior maid of the Gryphons.

Hawkbrother was relieved to be fighting a worthy opponent. There was no honor in fighting women as helpless as children. But the most helpless woman could still scream, and this one would if she could not win free of Hawkbrother by her own strength and skill.

Hawkbrother held his opponent with one hand while he worked his dagger sheath free and reversed it, holding the sheathed blade with the intent of striking with the weighted hilt. The woman would awaken with a thundering headache, but she would awaken, and there would be no blood feud between him and—

Hawkbrother soared into the air as if the woman had been playing kickball with him. It was a moment before he realized he was being pulled rather than pushed into the air. Something had him by the braids and his dagger arm and lifted him into the air as easily as he could lift a month-old puppy.

He dangled, the grip on his braids just beginning to hurt. Footsteps came behind him. Then a savage blow to his lower back made pain sing (or rather shriek) all up and down his spine, and all through his middle, from back to front.

He heard something that might have been an obscenity, in a woman’s voice, then another voice, a man’s this time, from closer at hand.

“Enough, Serafina. He is helpless. This must be settled in an honorable way.”

Hawkbrother twisted about, and found himself staring into a pair of wide blue eyes, on a level with his—when his feet were several hands off the ground. He thought briefly of striking the giant with the sheathed dagger he still held, but feared success more than failure.

The giant, after all, seemed to know enough of honor to at least speak the word plainly. The woman Serafina might know it also, but her bout with Hawkbrother seemed to have left her in no state of mind to show it.

“My name is Hawkbrother, son to Redthorn, chief of the Gryphon clan of the Free Riders,” the desert warrior said. “I swear by the True Gods and all the chiefs whose blood is in me, to accept your offer of an honorable settlement of our quarrel.”

Then he opened his hand, and his dagger thumped on the gravel.

Chapter 3

Pirvan and Haimya were close together under their blankets, and considering getting closer, when the shout of alarm roused the whole camp.

Pirvan’s rising lacked the dignity appropriate to a Knight of the Sword. He lurched rather than leapt upright, then caught a foot in the blankets and nearly sprawled on his face. He saved himself from a fall by clutching the tent pole, which promptly tore out of the ground, bringing the tent down atop both of them.

Haimya did not, on the whole, help matters by starting to giggle. She controlled herself before the giggles became open laughter, however.

Given that Pirvan had not yet removed his loincloth, he dressed and armed himself in the open. Haimya, being even less clad, remained under the tent as she passed garments and weapons out to him. Soon, she emerged in trousers and tunic, a shield slung across her back and sword and dagger in her belt.

Neither wasted time with footgear, but made their way swiftly toward the animals. They were not swift enough to reach the scene ahead of most of the rest of the camp, including Grimsoar One-Eye, who was holding Serafina in an embrace at once fierce and tender. It was as if he feared to have her snatched away the moment he loosened his grip, but also that her bones were of spun glass, easily crushed.

Tarothin held a lantern over his head, so that all its magical light was cast downward. He looked worse than could be explained by his suddenly being routed from bed.

In the center of the circle of light stood a young man, hardly more than a youth, wearing the loincloth and tattoos of a desert warrior. He was dusty, bruised, and grazed as if he had been climbing cliffs, or perhaps falling down them. A long sheathed dagger lay on the gravel at his feet.

He was not bound, but he was easily within Darin’s reach, which meant his chances of escape were hardly better than those of a prisoner locked in a cell.

Pirvan now looked at the people standing on the edge of the circle, and noted that Serafina was in much the same condition as the—visitor. Grimsoar’s face was twisted into a mask of fury that the knight had seldom seen in his old comrade.

“Torches,” Pirvan said.

Grimsoar glared. “And light up the camp for this little slug’s friends to come and rescue him?”

Haimya replied before Pirvan could recover from his surprise at Grimsoar’s defiance. “That was an order, not a suggestion, my friend. Now, may I see to Serafina’s hurts? At times like this a woman’s presence may do more—”

The desert warrior spat on the gravel and several hands slapped the hilts of weapons. “I did her no dishonor,” he said, in a voice that held as much menace as Grimsoar’s face. “It was a fair fight. Do not insult me by saying otherwise!” He spoke in the common tongue that had spread from Istar over the last few centuries, although with a strong accent in which Pirvan detecteed a trace of elven speech.

“You are our prisoner, and we can say what we—” Grimsoar began.

“Torches,” Pirvan repeated. “Also, silence. Sir Darin, kindly sit on the next person who speaks without permission.”

Darin was not quite as large as the minotaur who had raised him, but the late Waydol had been large even for that well-grown breed. At a mere six and a half feet, Darin was still capable of subduing anyone in the camp without using a weapon or working up a sweat.

Two guards ran up, having obeyed Pirvan’s first call for torches. Each had a bundle of them under one arm. A few moments of handing around torches and work with flint and steel, and a flickering yellow glow illuminated the scene.

Tarothin set down the magic lantern and looked ready to collapse on top of it. Serafina drew herself free of Grimsoar’s arms and went over to the Red Robe.

“Husband, let us help Tarothin to his tent. If he then finds that I need healing, I will not refuse it. But he must save his strength.”

Tarothin started to protest, but the other two each took one arm and pulled him to his feet; Grimsoar indeed nearly lifted the wizard free of the ground. They vanished toward the tents. Pirvan wondered if Serafina would wait until Tarothin was asleep before she wielded her tongue against her husband. This would not be their first quarrel arising from Grimsoar’s being overprotective.

His old friend had left it a bit late in life, Pirvan knew, to learn about women who insist on standing on their own feet—and kicking the shins of any man who disputes their right.

Pirvan turned to Hawkbrother. “Now, we have sworn honorable treatment—one knight’s oath binds all in a company—”

“Then you are Knights of Solamnia.”

“Knights of the Sword, both of us,” Pirvan said. “But hear me out before you speak again. You came among us like a thief or a cutthroat, and I wager that you had designs on our mounts.”

“Yes, but only to learn what business you had in the desert. And to remind you that this is the land of the Free Riders.”

“We need no such reminders, and we do need all our animals,” Pirvan said. “Therefore, we cannot simply let you run free. Neither, however, do we see any purpose in keeping you captive. No purpose, and indeed much danger. I would make a further wager, that you have comrades within bow shot, enough to give us a good fight if you seem to need rescuing.”

Hawkbrother merely nodded.

“Good. I propose a bout of honor, me against you. It will be here and now, by torchlight, until one of us cries ‘Hold!’ If you win—”

“Pirvan!” Haimya and Darin exclaimed together. It was a moment before the older knight realized that Darin had for the first time addressed him simply by his name.

“Excuse me,” Pirvan said. “I was not finished. Oath and Measure allow you to dispute me only when I am.”

Strictly speaking. Oath and Measure bound only Darin. Haimya was bound merely by twenty years’ love, which seldom kept her from speaking her mind.

This time, Pirvan was fortunate. Both allowed him to explain the terms of the fight.

“If you win, you go free with anything you have learned of us, as well as a message to your father. We may even add a horse, to assure your honor among your comrades.

“If I win, you remain with us, as an honored guest. You will have healing, food, drink, and shelter. I ask only that you lead us to your father, and persuade him to speak freely with us.

“You seek knowledge of those who march south to collect taxes in Silvanesti. So do we. When we have proved one to the other that we are honorable warriors, then perhaps we may quest for this knowledge together.”

Hawkbrother frowned. This gave Darin an opportunity.

“Is it not my place to fight Hawkbrother, Sir Pirvan?” he said. He was formal again, in both his manner of address and his tone of voice. “I was the first to swear honorable treatment for him. I was also the first to lay hands upon him.”

“In truth, Serafina, wife of the one-eyed man, was the first,” Hawkbrother said. “But I will fight her only if she wishes it.”

Pirvan smiled, not only at Hawkbrother’s courtesy but at Darin’s, in not mentioning Pirvan’s age. Had Pirvan wed young, he might have had a son Darin’s age.

“That is a separate matter,” Pirvan said. “I will claim the right of this bout, Darin, because it will be fairer to Hawkbrother. You are twice his size and doubtless nearly his equal in prowess with any weapon or even bare hands.

“If I fight him, it will be a man past his full strength fighting a man not yet come to his. My experience will be matched against his swiftness. All who watch will see something to remember all their days.”

Haimya’s look spoke eloquently of how entertaining she found the prospect of her husband’s risking and perhaps losing his life before her eyes. She seemed ready to hold her tongue, however—and holding honor as dear as any knight, would also stand with steel against any treachery.

“Let it be done, then,” Hawkbrother said. “My blood and oath upon it. Swords or knives?”

“Knives,” Pirvan said. “Otherwise you would be using a weapon strange to your hands, and that might force me to kill you to save myself.”

“Knives it will be,” Hawkbrother said. “But do not think to find me a green fledgling, either. You can hardly be worse than my brothers!”

Darin returned Hawkbrother’s dagger, and Pirvan drew his. The torchbearing guards shifted about, to form a square some forty paces on a side.

Before beginning his rounds to check the resolve of his troops, Pirvan lifted his weapon in salute to Hawkbrother, who returned the gesture with an easy grace.

There could be many worse opponents for one’s last fight, if this were to be it.

Sleep did not come to Gildas Aurhinius that night.

Many visitors did, however. He deemed it prudent not to have Nemyotes turn them away. Too many of his captains ignored the secretary’s scars and thought him a scribbling clerk playing at soldier. He was also from a family more outspoken than wise in its hostility to the kingpriest’s power. Only the mild disposition of the present kingpriest had kept some of Nemyote’s kin from arrest or exile.

Gildas Aurhinius wished to give his enemies a chance to strike at him themselves, rather than march the coward’s road against Nemyotes.

Those who came to Aurhinius during the night seemed divided into two factions. One was horror-struck at the temerity of insulting Zephros, a man chosen for his post by the vengeful and ambitious adherents of the late kingpriest. And all this on behalf of a dead kender!

Aurhinius was polite but firm with these, reminding them that the issue was not the vices of kender but the virtues of discipline. An army without it, or campaigning in the company of soldiers without it, was in danger from more than the enemy.

Did they wish him to turn a blind eye to brawls and disorders, until even their own women soldiers and female servants were not safe from the tax soldiers? (Captain Floria Desbarres had the grace to turn the same color as her hair when Aurhinius flung that challenge at her.)

The other faction, not much smaller than the first, came to praise Aurhinius and urge him to sterner measures. He spoke to these with more warmth, for they were of his own mind, but said much the same as to the others.

The fault of Zephros and others like him was not that they hated kender or loved—“certain factions” was what Aurhinius said, instead of “the kingpriest”—too much. It was that they did not understand the need for discipline, without which an army was a mob, and a mob this close to the desert was an array of dead men waiting for a place to fall down.

He would punish Zephros as much as the needs of discipline allowed, neither more nor less. They should take heed of this warning, and pass it on to their soldiers.

Neither faction left Aurhinius’s tent in any light spirits, which doubtless had something to do with the fact that it was now well on toward cockcrow. Also, the sky was growing clouded, with both moons and half the stars shrouded from sight.

Aurhinius had begun to longingly contemplate his cot when Nemyotes entered. The secretary wore a long clerk’s robe and a frown.

“Don’t tell me,” Aurhinius said. “You’ve come to tell me that I can’t arrest Zephros.”

“How did you guess, my lord?”

Aurhinius wished that he could doubt his ears. He did try to forestall the bad news by saying, “It is too late or too early for jests. Choose which one, then be silent.”

“Your pardon, my lord, but I do not jest. The warrant under which Zephros assembled his band and marched south is very specific. You do not have the right of high or middle justice over him or any of his sworn men, save in a case involving a crime against a man sworn into the regular service of the city.”

Aurhinius saw a leather pouch under Nemyotes’s arm. “Is that a copy of it?”

“Yes. It cost me—”

“Whatever you spent, take it from my strongbox. In the morning, please.”

The copy of Zephros’s Warrant of Captaincy over Tax Soldiers made quite as dismal reading as Aurhinius had feared. Nemyotes’s interpretation was correct, as it usually was. The man would have made a formidable law counselor.

“Very well,” Aurhinius said. He restrained an urge to tear the warrant into shreds. “I do not suppose that the kender Edelthirb was sworn into the regular service of Istar, by any interpretation?”

Nemyotes shook his head. “I inquired. He was not even listed as a servant to any of our sworn people.”

Aurhinius did not waste breath groaning. Truthfully, a kender was about as likely to be a registered servant in an Istarian army as Takhisis, the Dark Queen, was to be a virgin.

“Very well,” he said at last. “We must content ourselves with what we can do. Guard those two remaining kender as if they were high-ranking clerics.”

“We shall, when we find them,” Nemyotes said.

“When you—oh, to the Abyss with that!” Aurhinius snapped. “Also, if I cannot keep Zephros from moving about, I can at least keep watch on him. Guards will be posted where they can watch his tent at all times.”

“Ah—that may not be so easy,” Nemyotes said.

“The difficult I expect to be done. If you had said it was impossible—”

“It may be that, too, my lord. Zephros has pitched his camp well apart from the rest of us. All approaches are already watched by his sentries. They seem to be hand-picked men, and more seasoned soldiers than one would expect to find under such a captain.”

Not if the kingpriest helped him recruit them, Aurhinius thought. He wondered briefly if Zephros’s band was in truth the supposedly outlawed militia called the Servants of Silence, tricked out like an aging woman of pleasure in a fresh gown and new jewelry.

“Very well. Have a few trusted men ready to move, nonetheless. It looks to be coming on to storm. The best sentry in the world finds it hard to halt an intruder when rain or sand is blowing in his face.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Aurhinius nodded in dismissal. As Nemyotes left the tent, Aurhinius realized he was still nodding. Indeed, his head seemed too heavy for his neck. He pushed himself up and away from his camp desk, stumbled over the chair, but reached his cot before his legs gave way under him.

He did not awaken as Nemyotes reentered with two servants, to undress their commander and see him snugly abed.

Pirvan reckoned Hawkbrother had already tested the footing while standing captive under Darin’s gaze. It was what he would have done in the younger man’s place, and he would not assume that a desert chief’s son was any less shrewd that a Knight of the Sword.

From chronicles of battles the knights had fought for Istar against the “barbarians,” none of them had been despicable opponents. The knights had won, but they and Istar had paid a fair price in blood and treasure.

Tonight at least no one would be spending treasure, and neither side could readily lose honor—as the knights had sometimes done as Istar’s hirelings. Blood might be lost, but, the gods willing, not even much of that.

Pirvan made his rounds of the square, studying each man’s face as he passed. Good. No one looked to be harboring plans for treachery or folly. He hoped no one would dishonor him, even if he appeared in mortal danger.

More than his own honor was at stake here. The trust men placed in the Knights of Solamnia still stood between the kingpriest and absolute power. Any knight’s loss of honor weakened that barrier. If tonight ended with Haimya and the children weeping over his corpse, it would still be a fair price for keeping that barrier strong.

He gripped shoulders with Darin while standing on a patch of ground that felt like a hard crust over something softer below. They could even embrace now, he and the younger knight, without him standing on tiptoe or Darin stooping like a hunchback, although it had taken some years of practice.

Then Pirvan was face to face with his family. Their weeping over his body suddenly seemed not so small a price to pay, even for the honor of the knights or the downfall of the kingpriest.

He remembered a warning, from one of his oldest and shrewdest instructors.

When you are in love with honor or reputation, death may seem light. For you, perhaps it will be. Unless you’ve been an utter fool, you’ll be given to the skies or the earth, with Huma and the old heroes.

It is those you leave behind who will weep. To them, your death will be heavier than a mountain, and your honor may seem lighter than a feather when they think of how much they miss you.

Pay for honor in your own coin, not by borrowing from others.

If I die tonight, Pirvan thought, I will not join with Haimya when she is a grandmother. I will not see Gerik either a knight or embarked on some other honorable course of life. I will not see Eskaia growing into her full beauty, and wed to some man I am sure I will consider not at all worthy of her. I shall remember all of this, and not be careless of either life or honor.

Pirvan finished his round and stepped into the center of the square, not more than a bow’s length from Hawkbrother. The young warrior might have been cast in bronze.

“It is time, I think, friend,” Pirvan said.

“Time indeed, and friend if the gods will it,” Hawkbrother said.

No need to fear this one’s being foolish about life or honor, either, thought Pirvan. This is a son any father might be proud to claim.

Pirvan raised his voice. “Sir Darin, will you give us the command?”

For a moment Pirvan thought the younger knight would balk. Then he drew his sword, tossed it, caught it by the hilt, and held it upright.

In a great arc, Darin swept the blade downward, until the point touched the ground. As it did, he cried, in a great voice: “Begin!”

Two kender had been crouching behind a boulder, one peering out from either side. Now rain spattered the boulder, driven on a harsh wind that made them both wish to be in a forest or in some other civilized place. They scampered back to the rough shelter of another boulder that overhung a dry streambed.

They had had enough of camp, and it held nothing worth getting drenched for. Besides, there was no true friend in any human camp, and little in the way of dry clothes.

“We could build a fire,” one kender said. His name was Horimpsot Elderdrake, and in spite of his name, he was barely old enough to be traveling.

The other kender gave him a sour look. He was more than old enough to be traveling, and had indeed traveled more than most kender. One journey had taken him to the camp of a minotaur named Waydol, whom he had served loyally for the remainder of the minotaur’s life.

His name was Imsaffor Whistletrot.

“With what?” Whistletrot asked. “And how to light? And where to put it so that none of the humans see it before we’re warm?” All he got by way of an answer was a blank stare. “Oh,” Whistletrot added. “You are a wizard who can ignore all these questions?”

“Now you are being nastier than you ought to be,” Elderdrake complained. It was not quite a whine, and Whistletrot realized that perhaps he had gone a trifle far. Seeing a comrade killed in front of your eyes not halfway through your first journey was an experience the older kender had been spared, but Elderdrake had not. The young fellow had a right to be upset, as long as he didn’t do anything dangerous.

That covered more ground than usual, for a kender. Whistletrot was no more cautious than most of his people, but knew that sometimes even a kender ought to be careful to stay alive.

For one thing, they owed Zephros a debt for Edelthirb’s death.

For another, they needed to warn someone who would listen that people like Zephros were roaming the desert. Everyone in the camp already knew, so they had to get away to spread the warning.

But who would listen? Dwarves usually retreated to their caves to wait out human follies. Silvanesti elves did the same with their forests. Other kender were sparse in this land.

“We’re going to strike out for the citadel of Belkuthas,” Whistletrot said. “Starting now. Krythis and Tulia talk to everyone. That means they must listen to everyone, or nobody would talk to them. We’ll take the warning to them.”

“We will? What about Edelthirb? He hasn’t had any rites, and he won’t have them from the humans, so our duty—”

“Oh, be quiet. Only living kender can give rites to a dead one. We’ll be needing rites ourselves if we don’t travel fast.”

Elderdrake still looked dubious. “Shouldn’t we at least warn the other humans that Zephros will desert?”

Whistletrot laughed. It was a laugh that would have chilled to the bone anyone who believed kender were merry, lighthearted, light-headed little folk. It was a laugh that sounded more like fire tongs scraping together.

“Why should we? The farther Zephros goes from the other humans, the easier it is for us to catch him.

Elderdrake pondered that for a moment, then nodded and began counting his pouches.

It must have been this way among the first humans when two men had a quarrel. Knives (perhaps chipped from stone) in hand, naked save for loincloths, and friends looking on to cheer or jeer as the mood took them.

But this battle was different, too. There were rules, the knives were fine tempered steel (dwarven work, in Hawkbrother’s hand), and one of the fighters had no real friends in the square around him.

That spoke well of Hawkbrother’s courage, to place such faith in the honor of his enemies. Briefly, Pirvan held the thought that he had never before fought a man he would be so reluctant to kill.

Then he forced those fancies away. One did not go armorless into a fight with live steel while harboring kind thoughts of one’s opponent. He might not return such thoughts, and yours might slow you for one vital moment.…

It would be shameful to kill Hawkbrother without cause. It would be even worse to be killed by him through carelessness.

The two men spent the first minutes of the fight testing the ground and each other. Each walked cat-footed, alert for the least opportunity to launch a damaging attack. Both knew that knife fights were as often as not settled in moments, by the first slash or thrust that cost one fighter blood, speed, or strength.

Neither man gave his opponent an opening for such a stroke, however, or at least no opening safe from a deadly riposte.

Some knife strokes left no chance for a riposte. The victim was dead before the steel withdrew, even if he still stood on his legs. But these strokes were few, and much about them hung on sheer luck.

Without such luck, you could kill your opponent without taking from him the strength of desperation and the power to kill you before he died. That outcome Pirvan wished to avoid at all costs. Honor, Oath, and Measure required him to accomplish his mission in the south, which could be done with either him or Hawkbrother alive. It could not be done with both of them dead, barring a miracle. Pirvan had lived too long to put that kind of trust in miracles.

Twenty years before, when his night work in Istar was done with no weapon save a dagger, Pirvan could have ended the bout in minutes. Even those who lived by the bloody knife walked wide of him, knowing how many folk survived because Pirvan would not kill, rather than because he could not.

Though twenty years may be an eye blink in the life of an elf, it is a long time in the life of a man. Eyes and nerves, muscle and sinew, will none of them be what they were. Pirvan had kept in practice with knives as much as work allowed, which was much less than when he would no more have touched a sword than robbed an old woman.

Hawkbrother, despite his youth, was clearly a finished knife fighter—not at the height of his powers, but certainly Pirvan’s match. Though shorter than Pirvan, he equalled the knight’s reach, thanks to long arms.

Indeed, a wise man would not bet either way on this fight.

None of the onlookers seemed in a wagering mood. They stared at the fighters as if the sheer intensity of their gaze could bring the fight to a swift and bloodless conclusion. Haimya was pale under her tan. Eskaia kept her countenance better than either her mother or brother.

Most likely, she had not seen enough bloodshed to imagine all the horrors that might come to one or both of us tonight, thought Pirvan.

That thought was ill-timed. It passed through Pirvan’s mind as Hawkbrother moved in for his first attack. He came low, striking for Pirvan’s leg, to slow or disable him.

Pirvan saw the steel flash toward flesh and tendons. With an eye blink to spare, he pivoted on the other leg and came out of the spin, thrusting at Hawkbrother’s thigh. It was the desert warrior’s turn to spin away with equal agility.

Equal, but no more, in spite of his thirty years’ advantage in age. That gave Pirvan a useful hint. Hawkbrother might not be his opponent’s equal in fast footwork. If he had not learned tumbling, jumping, and climbing as thoroughly as Pirvan, the knight might have a surprise or two for his opponent. Now, how not to waste the surprises …

Hawkbrother had a mature head on his broad young shoulders. He would not be overconfident. Most likely, he could be surprised only once.

And that had best be soon, thought Pirvan, before those thirty years slow me enough that the surprise will go the other way.

Fit and trained as he was, the knight had no illusions he could match the endurance of an opponent amply young enough to be his son.

The next few exchanges were feints, each man testing the other for blind spots, bad habits and good ones, lack of imagination. If this had been a test bout at Dargaard Keep, and the two men training for the Knights of Solamnia, their instructors would have praised both highly. Neither man was predictable, neither easy to catch off guard (Pirvan, after his first lapse, was impossible), and both had worked up a good sweat without losing speed or temper.

The last thought made Pirvan grin. It would not unman him to kill Hawkbrother, if the gods willed it. But he firmly refused to contemplate being angry with the young warrior.

Hawkbrother saw the grin and laughed. “You find my work amusing? Perhaps I can change your mind.”

He sprang at Pirvan, jumping so that he altered his course in midair to land within easy striking distance of the knight.

Or rather, what would have been easy striking distance, if Pirvan’s eyes had not taken in Hawkbrother’s legs as well as his knife hand. Pirvan had moved while Hawkbrother was still in midair, and came down a finger’s breadth out of his opponent’s reach.…

An opponent who was, for a moment, off balance.

It was Pirvan’s turn now to make a low pass, and his steel went home. Not deeply, only scoring the callused flesh over Hawkbrother’s left knee, but blood flowed.

“I claim first blood!” Pirvan called, with the most knightly formality he could muster when short of breath. Then he repeated it, realizing that his first effort must have come out more a gasp than words.

“I heard you the first time,” Hawkbrother said. “So, I’ll be bound, did the elven rangers in the forests of Silvanesti. I may be bleeding, but I’m not deaf.”

“Your pardon,” Pirvan said, bowing. “I meant no insult.”

“If you mean no insult, then do not bother asking me if I yield,” Hawkbrother replied. “Shall we continue the dance?”

“As you wish,” Pirvan said, with another bow. He did not take his eyes off Hawkbrother as he bowed, which was just as well. The warrior came in fast, stamping to raise dust and confuse Pirvan about his direction.

Perhaps also, thought Pirvan, to prove that he could endure the pain of his bloody knee.

The knight wanted to tell Hawkbrother that he took his opponent’s courage and endurance for granted; that he need not put himself to pain and trouble to prove either. But he was too busy evading or parrying Hawkbrother’s darting blade, to have time or breath for polite conversation.

That lack of breath was reason for concern, Pirvan decided. Best take the next good chance to end this quickly, before he had to risk a mortal wound to one or both of them.

By good fortune, he’d moved toward the patch of hard crust over soft sand, which he’d marked earlier. He judged that Hawkbrother had also noticed it and could not be led across it.

That did not matter. It was not Hawkbrother who had to step through the crust.

The desert warrior seemed to have briefly lost his sense of direction during the last quick exchange. This made it easier for Pirvan to lead the fight toward the patch. It still took time, breath, and strength, and also allowed Hawkbrother to get home one quick slash at Pirvan’s left arm.

“I suppose you will not yield either?” Hawkbrother asked. He spoke with a grin that made it plain he asked foolish questions only to preserve custom and honor.

“You suppose correctly,” Pirvan said, returning the grin. To his left, he saw the patch only a few steps away. To his right, he saw Hawkbrother beginning to realize where the fight was leading them.

Then Hawkbrother came in fast again, trying to drive Pirvan onto the patch. There was nothing for the knight to do but let himself be driven. That, or take a serious wound. This might make Hawkbrother doubt Pirvan’s courage, but it should ease any suspicion.

Pirvan’s bare left foot touched the pebbly crust. Now he had to move as fast as he ever had in his night work, and against an opponent more dangerous than most folk who ever served in a city watch.

Instead of tilting left as his foot crunched through the crust, Pirvan tilted right. He turned the tilt into a cartwheel. Hawkbrother lunged at a momentarily helpless opponent—and it was the desert warrior’s foot that crunched through the crust, to be held fast.

Pirvan spun out of the cartwheel on to his feet, tossed his knife, caught it by the blade, and slammed the weighted hilt up under Hawkbrother’s jaw. The younger man had turned by then, so willpower and reflex together let him slash Pirvan across the ribs.

Then Hawkbrother crumpled. The fight was over, with the bloodier of the two opponents still on his feet.

Pirvan knelt and listened for Hawkbrother’s breath and pulse. Both seemed in reasonable order, for a man who probably had a broken jaw.

“Pirvan, stop dripping blood all over the poor man,” Serafina said sharply. “Eskaia, we need to wake Tarothin. If he hasn’t slept off his illness, he can always go back to his blankets after he heals these two bulls.”

“Best I come with you,” Darin said. “My judging is no longer needed, and Tarothin may have to be carried.” Unspoken, except in his glance at Pirvan, was the notion that he might awaken the Red Robe a trifle more gently than the two women.

“Well and good,” Haimya said. “Now, if somebody will bring me herb water and bandages, I can at least stop the bleeding while we wait for Tarothin.”

When Gildas Aurhinius awoke, the sun was too high for him to believe he had slept only a few minutes, though he felt as if he had.

When Nemyotes brought him the news, however, he very much wished he could go back to sleep.

“Zephros deserted during the night, during the rain,” the secretary said. “Most of his men went with him. We found several bodies. One man was still alive. Before he died, he said that those who refused to follow Zephros were murdered.”

Aurhinius could not think of anything to utter except a groan, which would be unmanly, so he held his peace; also his head.

“I fear there is more,” Nemyotes said.

“How fearsome?”

“Enough. The other tax soldier bands have held muster. Most of them count a score or more of deserters. Even Floria Desbarres’s company has lost a few.”

“Gone with Zephros?”

“Most likely. The rain washed out tracks for miles. The captain of scouts has men hunting Zephros’s trail.”

“Bid him report to me the moment his men find anything,” Aurhinius said. Then, as a realistic afterthought, he added, “or when they decide Zephros has too much of a head start.”

Aurhinius drank from a goblet of watered wine Nemyotes held out. It took the sourness from his mouth, if not from his spirit.

“Did the dying man say where Zephros might be going?”

“If anyone besides Zephros knew, he held his peace,” Nemyotes said. “Or perhaps Zephros himself did not know more than that he and his men were not safe here.”

“He was quite right, kingpriest or no kingpriest,” Aurhinius said. “But I do not like to think that he has such a hold over his men, and others’ men, that they will hare off into the desert with him, the gods alone know where.”

“Evil men have won followers before,” Nemyotes said. Aurhinius’s glare said what he thought of that pedantry. “Also,” the secretary added, “Zephros may have been playing on the ambitions of some men to be in the favor of the kingpriest or his followers. Ambition can often do the work of gold or honor.”

Aurhinius said nothing, as there was no denying that plain truth, and drank again. His thirst quenched, he stood and began peering about the already oven-hot tent for his clothes.

“Call a meeting of all the captains for noon,” Aurhinius said as he struggled into his undertunic. “I cannot order the tax soldiers’ captains to come, but remind them that I can perhaps help them prevent more desertions if they do. Some of them at least must hope to return to Istar with more than arrow-wounds and sunburn.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Tarothin had less sleep that night than Gildas Aurhinius, but at least did not wake to dire news. His healing of Pirvan and Hawkbrother left him weak, but it was thoroughly done, and both men were fit to ride at dawn.

The Red Robe was not, however. He slept through the day, which the men he had healed put to good use.

Hawkbrother called in his men, and they refilled their waterskins using the spring in Dead Ogre Canyon and Pirvan’s sledge. The Free Riders and knights traded sour looks at first, but Pirvan and Hawkbrother were each eloquent in praising the other’s skill and honor.

“If any doubt that Pirvan and those sworn to him are friends to the Free Riders and likely to aid us in this time of troubles, let him challenge me in the matter,” was the way Hawkbrother put it.

Where others could hear, Pirvan was quite as firm. “The Free Riders are fierce but honorable. We have nothing and can have nothing to fear from them, bound as they are by Hawkbrother’s oaths.”

This, Haimya pointed out when they were alone, applied only to the Gryphon clan. The last time she had studied the matter, there were at least nine other great clans and some fifteen lesser ones among the Free Riders.

“I also do not care for the narrowness of your victory,” she said. “Gerik and Eskaia say little, but their eyes speak plainly. None of us can quite bring ourselves to say—”

“That I am too old for contending in this sort of bout?” Pirvan said. He smiled to take some of the sting from the words, not wishing to make an enemy of his lady and love after making a friend of Hawkbrother. The gods themselves would fall down laughing if that happened.

Haimya flushed. Pirvan laughed aloud and kissed her. “Well, you have heard me say it myself.”

“Yes, but—oh, how to say it? Does your heart accept your years, or must I wait for mine to break when you go into one too many battles?”

Pirvan wanted to praise her warrior’s courage by doubting that her heart would do any such thing. But her love for him—and his for her—was quite as real as their courage. He vowed not to ask her lightly to bear what he himself might not be able to endure.

In silence, they stood arm in arm until the unease passed, and the dawn breeze began to blow dust in their eyes. From the canyon came the shouts of both Free Riders and guards urging the sledge up the slope. From the vast sky came only the distant cry of some bird still hunting a meal after a night spent in vain.

“When do we ride?” Haimya asked.

“I had thought to break camp as soon as we were watered,” Pirvan said. “Anyone who has followed us is less likely to ambush us by day than by night.

“But there is Tarothin, who must have sleep and may need healing, himself. I hope the Gryphons can supply it. Also, Hawkbrother says that his friend One-Ear knows ways out of this land that none but the Free Riders know.”

“That serves well enough against the tax soldiers,” Haimya said. “What of other clans, the Hawks and their ilk?”

Pirvan shrugged. “A little in every guess, and much in some, always rests with the gods. They have so far sent us safety, water, friends, and knowledge we did not have before. I think we can trust them to keep away hostile clans—and can trust our own steel if the gods turn their attention elsewhere.”

This met with no argument from Haimya, and they returned to the camp hand in hand.

Chapter 4

As the gryphon flew, it was three days’ or four nights’ ride to the principal camp of the clan named after those fierce flying predators.

“Although in truth, I have never seen a gryphon fly half that distance in a straight line,” Hawkbrother added. “They could do it if they wished. They are strong flyers, but they must eat. Or at least they wish to eat, whenever they see something that might be food. And I tell you that a gryphon will make a meal of what would make a carrion bird spew. So they are always swooping down, gorging themselves, then sleeping off their gorging.”

“Have they no enemies to surprise them in their sleep?” Eskaia asked. She seemed insatiable in her curiosity about the life of the Free Riders and about the southern lands in general.

“None but humans, and be sure that we take advantage of this,” Hawkbrother said. “Not our clan, for the gryphon is our totem and thereafter we may not shed its blood. But others, including the bolder Silvanesti, go hunting gryphons in their sleeping lairs. Not altogether a bad thing, either, or the desert skies might be filled with gryphons and the land below be eaten bare of men and their herds alike.”

Pirvan’s company and the Free Riders had no need to stop and gorge, but they did need to avoid lands where hostile clans (the Hawks, the Ravens, the Serpents, and the Dragons) might be roaming. That was doubly true where the Istarians might have gathered, whether the regular host or the ragged mob of tax soldiers.

So they struck away from the river, which Pirvan knew by the Silvanesti name Fyrdaynis and the Free Riders called the River of the Green Moons. (It was said that from its banks, at certain times of the year, any or all of the moons in the sky appeared green. Tarothin found this of more than passing interest, and would have shown more than passing regret for leaving the river, but was not fit to argue.) They rode a twisting path that to Pirvan seemed to go in two or three directions during each night’s ride. Yet at dawn he could always tell from the sunrise that they were farther south. Even by night, he could feel the air turning cooler and see moonlit patches of grass and bushes and dwarfed trees, which did not grow farther north.

“Are we going all the way to the Silvanesti lands?” Eskaia asked as they made camp on the fifth morning of the journey.

“Would it make you uneasy if we did?” Hawkbrother asked in return.

Eskaia did not stamp her foot or slap the chief’s son, but both gestures were in her voice as she replied. “Not in the least. We wish to learn how the Silvanesti see Istar’s intrigues. Who better to ask than the Silvanesti themselves—if they will answer us with words and not arrows?”

“That is indeed the question,” Pirvan said. “And because it is the question, it is why we are going to Hawkbrother’s clan first.” He did not add the question he wished answered but could not ask yet: Would the Free Riders ally with the Silvanesti against Istar, or the opposite?

Neither choice sat well with the knight. If elves and Free Riders made common cause, Istar would invoke the city’s terms of alliance with Solamnia and summon the knights to aid them against “barbarian hordes.” Some injustice had come of this the first time, even without the hand of the kingpriest’s minions. It would be much worse this time.

If Free Riders chose to help Istar settle their old grievances against the Silvanesti (which were many, and some possibly just), the knights might not be required. But the Silvanesti would be direly beset enough without them, and elves driven to desperation had dread resources to unleash when their heartlands were threatened.

It would bring the great war closer, the war of which the kingpriests had spoken more loudly with each generation, the final confrontation of humans and “lesser breeds.” Too much closer for Pirvan’s peace of mind.

When everyone else was out of hearing, Pirvan asked Hawkbrother: “How do you keep peace with the elves?”

“With the Qualinesti, by being too far away to have dealings. Likewise with the Kagonesti.”

“You know who I mean, my friend,” Pirvan said. It had been a long night, and he recovered from hours in the saddle more slowly than he had ten years ago. He was stiff enough that he doubted sleep would come easily, but knew he must not lose patience.

“There is a stretch of the southern desert or the northern forest, call it what you will,” Hawkbrother said, after a moment’s hesitation. “We both claim it, but our fighting over the claim is more sport than war. We do not go far into the woods, where our mounts cannot move swiftly, our eyes are baffled, and an archer lurks behind every tree.

“The Silvanesti return the favor. They do not go far north, where there are no trees but only scorching hot rocks, our mounts let us move ten paces to their one, and the sun flays their pale hides in a matter of hours.”

Pirvan had heard of such long-standing wars, hardly more than amusement for either side, save for the few who were killed or maimed. When the gnomes fought, among one another or with anybody else, it was much like that. Dwarves sometimes seemed to fight simply for an excuse to wander outside their mountains. Kender hardly ever took anything seriously, unless their whole race was in danger, which might become the case if the kingpriests grew more ambitious. The morning was growing warm, but within, Pirvan was chilled at the thought of the whole kender race united to fight for their very existence, with all the skill and ingenuity at their command.

Hawkbrother seemed reluctant to say more about Free Riders and Silvanesti, but Pirvan had learned enough, both for his own use and for the archives of the knights. Both peoples seemed likely to chose freely; their minds had not been shaped like clay on a potter’s wheel by centuries of bloodshed.

With that thought, Pirvan realized he could hope for sleep today, in spite of stiff muscles, saddle sores, and the near-exhaustion of the soothing oil that Haimya used as skillfully as she used her hands.

Krythis, called half-elven only by those who wished to insult him, put both hands on the sun-warmed boulder and vaulted out of the pool. He shook himself like a wet dog, so that his long black hair flew about his shoulders.

From the pool came silvery laughter. A head with near-ivory hair rose from the water, with green eyes and a smile below the hair.

“You look like a dwarfsfoot hedge after a heavy rain.”

Krythis gripped his hair and began wringing the water from it. “Speak for yourself, wife. You sometimes make me think of a snowpod too long without water.”

“You’ll pay for that, Krithot.” The affectionate form of his name took the bite from his wife’s words. Krythis continued to dry his hair until he looked up and saw that Tulia’s head had disappeared. Not even a ripple marked the pool’s surface where she had been.

Krythis’s mouth went dry. It would take magic to bring danger into this pool, where they had been swimming and taking other pleasures since they had made their abode in Belkuthas. But there was more magic abroad than there had been, much of it aimed against nonhumans. Even if none such was directed their way, the Silvanesti rivaled the kingpriests in their distaste for half-elves.

He bent over the pool—and two slim, muscular arms darted from the water and wrapped around his neck. His balance vanished before he even knew he was losing it, and he plunged headfirst into the water.

A man’s height below the surface, he saw Tulia grinning, and felt her tighten her embrace, adding the grip of her long legs to that of her arms. When this happened, he knew from long and agreeable experience what she had in mind. So he did not resist her drawing him toward their private trysting place between two rocks.

A little beach lay there, soft with moss and fallen leaves, but Krythis could have lain down on sharp stones as long as his wife was in his arms. She drove all the world but herself beyond the reach of Krythis’s senses—and she said that he did the same for her.

At last, they slept in each other’s arms, briefly but long enough that the pool was more sunlit than shadowed when they awoke. Tulia was the first to sit up and begin finger-combing leaves and bits of moss from her hair. Krythis decided to lie still. He felt too peaceful, and Tulia was too beautiful.

“Consider, my love, whether we grow too old for this,” Tulia said at last, when her hair at last flowed untangled over her lightly freckled shoulders.

“Does the water pain you?” Krythis asked. “Are you old enough for stiffened joints?”

“I should hope not!” Tulia said. “If one is going to be slow and pain-ridden barely into one’s second century, one might as well be human!” She leaned back against a sun-warmed rock face, looking rather more like a human woman barely past her thirtieth year.

“Then what do you mean?” Krythis said. He could, at least on most days, bandy riddles with Tulia for hours on end. But today was a special day, their daughter Rynthala’s coming-of-age celebration. There was so much to be done that he had doubted the wisdom of slipping away for this morning swim.

“Perhaps Rynthi wants a trifle of dignity in her parents,” Tulia said.

Krythis knew he had been tricked again. “You almost said that with a straight face and an even voice,” he replied. “If she wants dignity from us, let her ask it to our faces.”

“Though not, please Paladine, with a dozen pairs of ears in hearing,” Tulia said.

“Ah, yes, you remember.”

“It was not easy to forget,” Tulia said almost sharply.

Krythis saw that she seemed genuinely ill at ease, more so than could be blamed on the party. Rynthi was doing half the work for that, and Sirbones and the dwarves were doing most of the rest.

“I would wager my manhood that our daughter is a clean maid. Not for want of men who would make her otherwise, but because it is her own wish.

“We have given her a blessing that few children of half-elves receive,” he went on. “Both of her parents were conceived in love, and knew it from the day of their births.”

Tulia looked less uneasy than thoughtful at those words. Far too often, the half-elven were the result of a human father raping an elven mother. Not so Krythis or Tulia.

Krythis was the child of two ranger. His elven father, with Kagonesti as well as Qualinesti blood, had conceived him joyfully in a bed of ferns under the pine-framed sky. Tulia was the child of a Silvanesti mother who had fled an unhappy betrothal and found herself working at an inn patronized about equally by dwarves and humans.

One of the dwarves had spirited her away, when it became plain that the innkeeper wanted her adding to his profits on her back. But it was a human, a footloose but honorable trader, who had bedded her, held her hand while she bore a daughter, then died within months at the claws and teeth of a wounded bear.

Both had been raised more by dwarves than by any other of Krynn’s races, and it was their inheritances from two wealthy dwarven clans that allowed them to make a home of the old citadel of Belkuthas. In the foothills where Thoradin, Silvanesti, and Istar all came together, the citadel was not one that any of the three realms would gladly have ceded to one of the others.

But two half-elves, equally agreeable to their human and dwarven neighbors, offended nobody. Or at least they had not in the sixty years they had lived there.

Now the quarrels of the outer world threatened the peace of Belkuthas. Meanwhile, Rynthala had grown into a woman in both law and fact, while seeing her parents proud of each other and of their love for each other. That had to give her strength that she might not otherwise have had, and that she would need in the years to come.

“If you feel we need Rynthi’s thoughts on this,” Krythis said gently, “we can ask her. But not today, nor for some days after. This is her moment of glory, and I will not let an old man’s fretting disturb a young girl’s joy.”

“Old man, my—!” Tulia said, mentioning an intimate part of her anatomy. Then she gripped her husband by both hands and drew him down to her.

The last time Pirvan’s band and their Free Rider companions made camp, they were within half a day’s ride of the Gryphon’s encampment. Hawkbrother proposed that they rest briefly and finish the journey by daylight.

“There is ample water, between here and the camp,” he said. “The wind will raise no sandstorms.” He was silent briefly, then added, “There is also more risk of ambushes.”

“This close to your camp?” Darin and Gerik asked in one voice.

“Even so. The closer to the enemy’s camp, the greater the honor in a successful ambush.”

“We shall have to see that none of your enemies gain honor this day,” Darin said. It was one of those speeches of his in which each word came down like a hammer on a stone. Hearing him, it was hard to believe he ever laughed.

Darin’s next words were a proposal that he take the rearguard. Pirvan suggested otherwise, as the vanguard was even more dangerous in the face of an ambush, and also that if Darin were dismounted he would be hard put to overtake his comrades.

With no more than a frown, the big knight obeyed, and afterward Hawkbrother took Pirvan aside, as the others watered their mounts and prepared for the final stage of the journey.

“Your blood-son seems to obey you less than your name-son.”

It took Pirvan a moment to realize that no insult was intended by implying that Gerik was hotheaded and that Darin was Pirvan’s bastard. Hawkbrother had only been a warrior chief, speaking plainly of the strengths and weaknesses of a friendly chief’s warriors.

“Darin is ten years older than Gerik. You are old for your years, so do not judge my son harshly, if you please.”

“But Darin—”

Pirvan did not know what the Free Riders thought of minotaurs. Besides, there was no time to give anyone short of a god the full story of Darin’s upbringing as heir to Waydol.

“He is the son of an honorable warrior, whom I defeated in combat and with whom I afterward swore blood brotherhood. Had I died in our last battle together, he would no doubt have fostered Gerik as I have fostered Darin.”

Pirvan could not hold back a smile, at the thought of what Waydol and Darin together might have made of Gerik. Perhaps not a better fighter, but certainly a man quicker to come to a decision.

But the gods had it otherwise, he realized, and the knights are the better for having Darin’s strength joined to theirs.

“Your pardon, if I have given offense,” Hawkbrother said.

“Idle curiosity may give offense. Seeking to learn a friend’s strengths and weaknesses never should,” Pirvan said.

“Teach that to my brothers,” Hawkbrother said with an edge in his voice, “and some may wish to name you chief of the Gryphons when my father dies.”

Before Pirvan could reply, he heard Eskaia hailing them; the watering was about done and the saddling-up beginning.

Krythis and Tulia had taken their bows with them when they went trysting. This probably deceived few, as there was hardly game large enough for a slingshot, let alone one of the great elven bows, within half a day of Belkuthas.

The citadel’s herds made short work of the grass and leaves, and the shepherds’ bows and spears made short work of wolves and bears. Birds and squirrels thrived, but they were left in peace, by the strict command of the citadel’s master and mistress, their dwarven allies, and Sirbones, their priest of Mishakal, who said little for months on end but healed almost every day and wielded more power than he would ever have dared seek.

Certainly lord and lady did not deceive their daughter. She met them at the postern gate. She wore her usual garb of loosely cut trousers over low boots and a tunic cut high but also fitted snugly. She was half a head taller than even her father, and Krythis said she had the look of his mother, the ranger, who could look all but the tallest men in the eye.

Rynthala ran her eyes over her parents’ garb, then twirled a lock of her father’s hair on one tanned finger.

“A heavy dew this morning, eh?”

Krythis and Tulia had learned not to blush at anything their daughter said, since the days when she could truly be called “little Rynthi.” Otherwise they would have spent much of the time from that day to this blushing.

“Something like that,” Tulia replied levelly.

“Thinking that you will miss having a child about the place when I am gone?” Rynthala went on, as if her mother had not spoken. “You needn’t have waited so long, for I—forgive me. My tongue and my wits aren’t always in step.”

“They have ranger blood, and rangers go their own pace,” Krythis said, but he put an arm around Tulia’s shoulders as he spoke, and felt her quiver. She had borne three children before Rynthala, and not one of them had lived past its third year. Rynthi had taken off the curse, for she seemed to have all her siblings’ vitality added to hers, but there’d been no live births and one miscarriage since Rynthala.

“It is ill-omened to speak of leaving home on this day,” Krythis said with a severity that was not entirely feigned. “Also, have you been at the dwarf spirits? If you have, I will summon Sirbones, and he will—”

“—have nothing to do here,” Rynthala replied. “Please, Father, Mother. I can be just as rude sober as most people when drunk, as you well know.”

Tulia smiled faintly. “As long as you know it, no husband will be tempted to seek death by telling you.”

“I hope if the gods want me wed, they will send me a man who always speaks and hears the truth,” Rynthala said. “But perhaps that kind of fortune does not come twice to the same family.”

She embraced her parents; her arms were nearly long enough to span both of them together. Then she frowned. “Sirbones is fretting about the amount of dwarf spirits at hand. He suggested a small spell on the casks—”

“No,” Krythis said. “I will not so insult our guests, and if Sirbones disobeys me he can resume his travels.

“Besides, our guests are a pretty hardheaded lot. If they get drunk and fall down, it’s more likely the stones will break than their skulls. As for brawls and the like, if Sirbones cannot patch up a cracked rib or a cut lip, perhaps Mishakal should take his staff back.”

“Shall I tell him that?” Rynthala said with an impish grin that made her look about fifteen.

“Gods, no!” Tulia said, then laughed and hugged her daughter back. “Tell him our guests are not the sort to spoil this day for you, and he can trust them to do what is right.”

“I can and will,” Rynthala said, and turned, then broke into a run. She could go from standing to running as swiftly as a great cat, and keep up a blistering pace long enough to run down a deer or make a centaur sweat.

“Husband,” Tulia said. “Did you listen to yourself, just then?”

“Eh?”

She repeated Krythis’s words about Sirbones, and this time the half-elf flushed in a way that his daughter could not have made him do. Then he nodded.

“Well, at least she comes by that forward tongue honestly.”

“Honesty does not stand against blood feuds, nor make men courageous enough to face such a tongue.”

“Some men, perhaps. But they do exist, or otherwise how would I have come to be, and then gone on to wed you?”

With one fist, Tulia punched her husband in the ribs, and then tickled him with the other hand. They followed their daughter’s footsteps.

By dawn, High Captain Zephros (he had promoted himself the moment they were out of sight of Aurhinius’s banner) thought he and the three hundred men with him were safe from pursuit.

They were, at least as far as Gildas Aurhinius or any of the other captains of tax soldiers were concerned. The men, however, were still as likely as not to end up feeding the carrion birds, through too little desert-craft or too many Free Riders coming upon them unexpectedly.

Zephros also faced certain other dangers—if one can speak of “facing” danger one does not know of, and indeed can barely imagine.

Two of his captains wished to be in his place because they thought the men under him deserved a better leader, such as one of them. Nor would Kiri-Jolith, who in matters concerning war and warriors knows all, have disagreed.

Three others wished Zephros dead for reasons of their own. One was a Karthayan, seeking the blood of the man who had slain his compatriot, the Black Robe Rubina, on the north shore of Istar ten years ago. Another served the kingpriest, and thought Zephros should die for his ambitions as a warning to those who might share them. A third wished to avenge kin, dishonored by one of Zephros’s intrigues.

None of these seven knew that he or she in turn was being watched, by two pairs of large brown eyes set in small, sharp-featured faces. They would have found these spies hard to believe if anyone short of a god had told them, and perhaps even then. Kender do not commonly travel the open desert.

But kender can go nearly anywhere when they have sufficient cause. Imsaffor Whistletrot and Horimpsot Elderdrake thought they had sufficient cause.

Chapter 5

The ambush came when Pirvan was within hours of the principal camp of the Gryphons, not from any hostile clan, but from a band of Gryphons themselves, led by Hawkbrother’s eldest brother, Threehands, first heir to Redthorn.

With a seasoned knight’s detachment, Pirvan had to admit Threehands’s skill and that of the warriors under him. Not even the sharpest-eyed of Hawkbrother’s band had seen a single one of his brother’s fifty until they rose from their hiding places. Threehands himself let fly an arrow that hissed into the sand an arm’s length from Pirvan’s mount, plain warning that the leaders at least would have been dead before they knew they were under attack.

When Threehands rode down to greet his brother, Pirvan was not sure that the attack was not continuing. That the brother was using his tongue as a weapon made it no less an attack.

“As I would have expected of you, Hawk’s Egg,” Threehands snapped. “Guiding Istarians and who knows what else into our sacred and secret lands. How much did they pay you?”

Hawkbrother’s dark skin grew darker with shame, but his voice was level. “Few are of Istar, some are Knights of Solamnia, and none are of any folk with whom we have feud.”

“The knights did Istar’s foul work against the ‘barbarians.’ They cannot be friends.”

“That was long ago.”

“Not long enough for memories to die, among gods or men.”

It was plain that Threehands was accustomed to bullying his youngest brother, and that in the eldest’s presence Hawkbrother often grew tongue-tied. Pirvan cupped both hands and shouted “Hola!” so loudly that his mount pecked and reared until he nearly lost his seat. All heads turned toward him.

“We have come without the power or the wish to do harm to the Gryphons,” Pirvan said sharply. “Yet we meet with insult.

“Moreover, so does our friend among the Gryphons, your own brother. It is not for an outsider to judge or take sides in a family quarrel. But this I say and swear, Hawkbrother has sworn friendship with us after a lawful challenge fight, witnessed by warriors of both sides and by all True Gods.

“Insult him, and you insult us.”

This produced a long silence, a still deeper flush in Hawkbrother, a number of drawn weapons on both sides, and finally a clearing of the throat from Threehands.

“Brother, is this so?”

“You insult Sir Pirvan by doubting it, but I will ignore that. It is so.”

“It was still hardly fair, to set a giant against—”

For one of the few times since Pirvan had known him, Darin threw back his head and roared with laughter. The echoes took some time to die. Until they did, further speech was impossible.

“That is another insult to be ignored for now,” Hawkbrother said. He seemed to be regaining his confidence. Pirvan hoped he would not take too much pleasure in bearding an older brother for whom he clearly felt something less than overwhelming affection.

“Sir Pirvan himself challenged me,” Hawkbrother said. “There were those among his comrades who doubted his wisdom, but he had faith in his own prowess and the favor of the gods. That faith earned him victory.

“And before you let your tongue wag about my losing to a man old enough to be my father, when was the last time you felt fit to challenge he who is father to us both?”

This produced another long silence in the gorge. It also gave Pirvan a strong desire to meet Redthorn. If he was physically the master of both of these hard young warriors, the Gryphon chief would be a fighter worth knowing.

Threehands at last broke the silence by translating the last few speeches for those of his band who did not know the common speech. Then he carefully unstrung his bow, keeping both hands in sight as he did, stepped up on a rock, and waved both hands.

Drawn weapons returned to belts, backs, and sheaths. Hawkbrother’s shoulders slumped in relief. Pirvan commanded himself only by sheer force of will.

“If you are sworn friends to Hawkbrother, then it is fit to bring you before Redthorn and Skytoucher,” Threehands said. “Not all of you, to be sure, and any who seek to flee, play the spy, or violate camp laws will die as peace breakers. But I will not follow in my brother’s footsteps, and treat my father as too old to make a fit decision in grave matters of war and peace.”

Hawkbrother had the self-command to neither flinch, flush, nor reply to this final insult. Instead, he turned his horse and addressed both his band and Pirvan’s.

“See to your horses. We ride for the guest camp at once, and it will not go well with those who fall out.”

Witnesses to the lawful marriage of Krythis and Tulia had stood to speak—several of them, and none of them content merely to swear the appropriate oaths.

It was the same, now, at Rynthala’s coming-of-age celebration. Many stood to swear to the day of Rynthala’s birth, her precocious feats of strength and speech, and everything else that had happened over the last seventeen years to or around her.

In time, Krythis wished to unsling his bow and silence one or two of the more interminable speakers. But it would be the worst of omens on this day, in front of hundreds of witnesses, all of whom wished Rynthala and her parents well almost as much as they wished to empty the tables of food and barrels of drink.

“Almost done,” Tulia whispered, squeezing her husband’s thigh. “Here comes Sirbones.”

The priest of Mishakal looked less like a healer than one in need of healing. But he had looked thus when he came striding out of the mountains some five years ago, and had not suffered a day’s illness since. Meanwhile, scores in the citadel of Belkuthas owed life or health to him, as did literally hundreds, of several races, in the lands about.

“By Mishakal and all gods whose will bears upon health of mind and body, this I swear,” Sirbones said. His voice was high pitched and threadier than it had been, but it still carried. Also, he was one of the few in the citadel who spoke only when he had something worth hearing.

“I swear that Rynthala, daughter of Krythis and Tulia, is hale and hearty, blessed with as much health as any two women of her age could commonly expect, fleet and strong for battle, fit and well to wed if such is her choice, and to bear children if it is the gods’ will.

“This I swear, and in the name of Mishakal and all gods whose will bears upon health of mind and body, I defy anyone who says otherwise.”

Then Sirbones slammed the tip of his staff down on to the ground. A sphere of dazzling blue light enveloped him, sending a powerful blast of wind in all directions. Dust, pebbles, hats, and half-eaten biscuits flew about like leaves in an autumn gale.

The light faded. Krythis stared at his daughter. Tulia gripped him.

It was impossible for Rynthala to have grown a hand’s breadth in the passing of a single spell, yet her new garb made it seem that she had. She wore white trousers of fine silk, tucked into boots of amber-hued leather, stiff enough for walking yet loose enough on top to hold weapons.

Around a waist slender only by comparison to the rest of her was a belt, holding her favorite sword and dagger in a scabbard and sheath worked with silver wire. The belt was set with coral beads, and Krythis would have wagered a barrel of dwarf spirits that the buckle was set with rubies.

Above the waist, Rynthala wore a white silk shirt, with lace at throat, collar, and cuffs, and over it a sleeveless blue tunic, that hung in such a way as to hint of mail within. It also had pouches and pockets for weapons and war gear.

Around her tanned throat, Rynthala wore the silver chain that had been her parents’ gift to her when she was twelve. But instead of one of the other gift medallions, she now wore a plain pewter disk with the buffalo-head sigil of Kiri-Jolith.

Odd gift from a healer, Krythis thought. Then he remembered. Kiri-Jolith was the eldest son of Paladine and Mishakal. One of Mishakal’s priests would well know a warrior when he saw one.

Silence, as Rynthala’s throat worked convulsively from her struggle for words. Then she drew her sword and held it with the hilt uppermost and against the pewter disk.

“By this sword and by Kiri-Jolith, I swear not to shame any here this day.” She tossed the sword, caught it by the hilt, and sheathed it in one flowing motion.

“I will not swear to thank everyone. At least not until I’ve had something to wet my throat.”

“Then let the feasting begin!” Tulia called.

A dwarf standing ready with a mallet swung at a wedge that a kender held against the head of a barrel. The mallet thudded home, and the wedge sank into the wood. The kender pretended he’d been struck and capered around, wailing, until he suddenly flipped head over heels and landed on his “smashed” hands. Laughing, everyone scrambled to be first in the line forming by the barrel.

The united bands were not far on their journey before Pirvan realized his people were being deliberately led hither and yon about the countryside. Whether Threehands’ intent was merely to conceal the true location of the Gryphons’ main camp, or to leave Pirvan’s band lost and helpless in the face of treachery, the knight did not know.

Nor did he care. Darin, Haimya, and two of the men-at-arms who had once been rangers had a nearly magical ability to remember trails and landmarks. All were teaching it to Gerik and Eskaia, who were not backward to learn this useful art.

If Threehands meant treachery, he was merely giving warning rather than weakening his intended prey. He was also going to hear something from his sibling, if Hawkbrother’s expression was any guide. The young warrior’s face grew harsher with each pace into the tangle of hills, ravines, and scrubby trees that seemed to be Threehands’s destination.

They saw what might have been the principal Gryphon camp once, briefly, far off in the hazy heat, at the bottom of a valley. Pirvan did not dare rein in to study the scene more closely, and doubted he would learn much if he could. From this distance, it would be hard to tell if the camp had huts or tents, its own well, cookhouses or cook-fires, and if it could spew forth five hundred warriors or five thousand.

More than the first, much less than the second, was Pirvan’s guess. One clan only among the Free Riders had ever allowed themselves to be accurately counted by outsiders, the Blue Eagles. They could, by arming everyone who could bear a weapon even if he or she could not sit a saddle, put forward about two thousand fighting men and perhaps five hundred women. Not all of these would be useful except to defend camps, which no sane opponent forced Free Riders to do, for then they fought to the death.

But certainly, the Gryphons would have no difficulty swallowing Pirvan’s band so completely that none would know where their bones lay. That they would be avenged was small consolation; vengeance would mean knights consequently allied with Istar, marching against Free Riders, and from there to war with the Silvanesti.

The trail soon took them deeper into the hills, where cliffs and ridges left the riders in shadow much of the time. Above, where the sun touched the rock, it once more glowed orange, crimson, gold, and unnameable colors that the gods splattered in this land when the world was taking form.

The vegetation was also growing thicker, as if there was more water to be found here. Pirvan was not surprised when they reined in beside a pool a good fifty paces wide. Threehands signaled, one of his riders blew on a horn, and all the Free Riders began dismounting.

“From here, only three of you may come with me to face your judgment,” Threehands said.

“By what right—?” Gerik began, before his father, mother, sister, and mentor all glared him to silence.

“By chief right and seer right, for you will meet both my father, Redthorn, and our women of wisdom, Skytoucher,” Threehands said. Gerik remembered his manners enough to bow courteously in thanks.

Pirvan was looking about him, trying to find the shrine, spirit-house, or other planned meeting place, when two of Threehands’ men began pulling on a long rope of oiled leather. The knight’s eyes followed the rope out into the pool, and saw a small hide boat gliding toward them. Behind it was a narrow shelf of rock, and above that shelf the dark mouth of a cave.

With that much settled, Pirvan began considering who should go. Himself, of course, Tarothin, and either Haimya or Darin.

Haimya, he decided. It would be a courtesy to Skytoucher. Also, if there was any need to speak of woman’s mysteries (of which the Free Riders were reported to have many), Haimya would be the only one who could lawfully speak with the wise woman.

Pirvan turned to Haimya, asked with his eyes, and saw assent in hers. When he glanced toward the wizard—he saw a head shaking in firm denial.

The knight’s first urge was to shake Tarothin until the last tooth fell from his gums. Then he saw the Red Robe’s fingers dancing and twisting in complicated movements. To an uninitiated observer, he might have been casting a minor spell, or merely working cramps from his hands.

Pirvan translated as swiftly as if the wizard had been speaking: Threehands does not seem to know I am a magic worker. Easier to surprise him if I stay behind, feigning illness. Also, that cave may be bound to Skytoucher, so that no magic save hers can work within it.

Pirvan’s nod was brusque. He trusted many things about Tarothin, including both his loyalty and his acting ability. He had, after all, once fooled not only the knight and much of his company, but Istarian minions of the kingpriest and even spies of the priesthood of Zeboim, the foul Sea Mistress.

He should not have much trouble deceiving Threehands, who dripped overconfidence as an autumn hive drips honey.

Pirvan looked at his people. Darin was the obvious replacement for Tarothin, but the band needed him as a leader in the event of treachery. Also, his weight might sink the boat.

The knight swallowed. This was a moment that he had known must come, but wished could have come later or under easier circumstances.

“Gerik, you will make the third of our company. Threehands, lead onward.”

And, gods, grant Eskaia the sense to place herself under Darin’s protection if none of us come back, thought Pirvan. Few but he will protect her without demanding marriage.

Krythis did not believe in mixing his drinks. Besides dwarf spirits, there was brandy, mead, ale, and at least three kinds of wine. There was even a keg of something that had appeared so mysteriously that Krythis suspected it was a gift of the gully dwarves.

He had remained true to the ale. Between draining cups of it, he had also eaten heartily of the venison and pork sausages, smoked fish, fried mushrooms, eggs wrapped in bacon, and other solid fare that made tables groan before it was eaten and made the eaters groan afterward.

Krythis saw Tulia moving through the crowd toward him. She passed three kender, who took turns tossing one another off a table in a way that would have shattered the bones of less resilient folk. Now she was out in the open, swaying her hips as she came, in a way she would never have dared if she were wholly sober.

She reached him and leaned against him, and her warmth and Krythis’s desire were suddenly both real. She caressed him, where no one could see her hand, then whispered:

“The centaurs.”

“May their hooves rot.”

Still half entwined, they steered a course for the guest huts. These formed a square, and in the middle of the square two centaurs (the only ones to appear, although the whole family had been invited) were playing tug-of-war with one of the tables.

They had also gathered an enthusiastic audience. This would have made them reluctant to abandon the contest even if they’d been sober.

“Hold!” Krythis called. “You can’t break up the furniture. Guest rights don’t go that far.”

“Who says so?” the smaller centaur replied. His larger rival, a muscular roan with bells tied into his tail, was either less drunk or more sensible. He held up his hand.

“Oh, pardon, Krythis. But we do have to settle this insult before we leave. Peace in the family, and all that, I’m sure you know.”

Krythis had no intention of keeping peace in centaur families at the price of brawls in his own house, but a flat refusal could turn the brawl vicious in moments. Centaurs were as unpredictable as kender, but by the gods’ favor a great deal less numerous.

Then Tulia whispered what to others would have looked like an irresistible intimacy in her husband’s ear. Krythis nodded and grinned.

“My friends. This is a matter of honor, of course, so I will not prevent your settling it. But allow me to offer you a pair of good staves, padded to prevent injury but intended for just such quarrels as this. Moreover, if you will wait while they are brought, I will also see you given a flagon of the best brandy, to refresh yourselves between rounds. And for those who watch, another barrel of ale might be forthcoming, if the dwarves haven’t drunk it all!”

In the midst of the laughter, Tulia slipped away. She would return with servants, staves, and brandy. The brandy, Krythis knew, was from a special cask judiciously enspelled this morning by Sirbones. One drink from it would remove anyone’s willingness to fight. A second would remove the ability. A third would induce a deep sleep, from which the drinker would awaken hungry enough to eat a raw owlbear, but otherwise unharmed.

Tulia did not sway her hips as she departed, but to her watching husband she seemed more desirable than ever, if that was possible. He had been blessed in her, and said so in words and deeds whenever he had a chance, and she returned the compliment.

But had she been as blessed in him as he in her? If she had wed someone else, she might already have celebrated the coming-of-age of two or three healthy children, instead of singing old elven songs of sorrow before the shrines of three who had died young. Oh, Rynthala alone was worth two daughters, or even sons, but sometimes Krythis thought he saw an emptiness, deep within Tulia, visible only to one who knew her and could look into those blue eyes—

“Filth!” A man’s angry shout.

“I’ve no quarrel with—” a woman began. She was not shouting, so Krythis could only just make out the words, but there was something familiar about the voice.

The man’s next three words were even angrier and far harsher than the first.

The woman’s temper snapped. In a voice that carried like a battle cry, she shouted, “You, sir, are the bastard son of a she-ass who would weep with shame to see you lower yourself thus.”

Then what seemed a hundred voices were all shouting at once, few of them politely or sensibly. But Krythis was listening to none of them. He was drawing his sword, more to clear a path through the crowd than for defense, and moving rapidly toward the place where the woman’s voice had sounded.

That had been Rynthala speaking, and when she flayed someone’s hide off with her tongue that way, she was as angry as any mortal could be. Nor did the man she address seem a model of reason and amiability.

I hope Tulia can finish her business before coming to help me, thought Krythis, or that this affray takes the centaurs’ minds off their little argument.

Chapter 6

The mouth of the cave led at first only to a dark, minding passage, fitfully illuminated by torches in brazen holders of ancient elven work. The torches shed their light in several colors—yellow and red … and a green that made everyone look like something long dead and dragged from a swamp.

It made even Haimya ugly, a thing Pirvan would have sworn neither years nor gods could accomplish.

The dim light and the sinuous bends in the passage made Gerik uneasy. He walked with eyes wide, mouth trying not to gape, and a hand so near his sword that Pirvan watched him closely. The two Free Rider brothers were not watching their backs at all, which to Pirvan seemed either a grand gesture of trust or a sign that the passage was proof against treachery.

Eventually the passage stopped winding and became a series of short, straight tunnels, each at a nearly right angle to the one before. The course bent toward the left, so that attackers advancing would have their sword arms cramped against the wall. Pirvan knew the principles from spiral staircases in castle towers, but had not expected to find it here.

Nor had he expected to find any stone workings of such size among the desert dwellers. This underground meeting place had to be wrought by magic, or vastly ancient, from days when there were more people in this land.… Most probably, it was both.

It also had to have a quicker way to the sunlight, if the place were used often. With hand signals, Pirvan warned both wife and son to be alert for signs of that quicker way. It might be useful, if they came to need a quick retreat.

Haimya and Gerik had just acknowledged the signals when the last passage ended and they stepped out into the cave itself. It was hard to judge its size, for it seemed tall rather than broad, the far wall clearly visible, the roof lost in shadows. More torches burned in holders on the far wall, which was as much carved stone and sun-dried brick as natural rock.

From that natural rock, however, the ancient masons had carved two chairs, each large enough to comfortably seat two men the size of Darin. The chairs were elaborately decorated with carvings of flowers and trees that, to Pirvan’s knowledge, had not grown in this land in living memory.

Pirvan did not need to ask who occupied the two chairs. The man was plainly of the same blood as Threehands and Hawkbrother, and the woman had the air of one who can see into past and future, body and soul, and anywhere else she wishes—and against whom resistance was folly, crime, and waste.

In some magic workers, this was a pose that did not survive a serious challenge. Pirvan doubted that was the case with Skytoucher.

“Welcome, visitors to the home of the Gryphons,” Redthorn said. His voice was higher pitched than one might have expected from a man his size, but it carried well. He was also tall and stout-thewed enough to be a match for his sons, if he had remained fit and healthy.

“Greetings, chief and wise woman of the Gryphons,” Pirvan said. “We have come—”

“It shall be decided how,” Skytoucher said. “Speak, sons of Redthorn. It is our wish to know how you met these visitors.”

Storytelling was an honored art among the Free Riders, so Pirvan had heard. Certainly both of the chief’s sons told of their journeys as quickly and thoroughly as trained scouts reporting to their captain. Nothing in either story seemed to move Redthorn or Skytoucher, but Pirvan would have wagered his second-best sword that this was a pose.

Another of those lengthy silences followed the sons’ narrative. About the time Pirvan had begun to suspect he would be a grandfather before the two Gryphon leaders replied, Redthorn nodded to Skytoucher.

“From these words we have heard, it seems you are strangers but not, perhaps, enemies.”

“They cannot be—” Hawkbrother began, to be promptly silenced by a cough from his father.

“They may well not be,” Skytoucher chided. “Yet they have a wizard in their company, of which neither you nor they have spoken. What else might they be concealing? How might that wizard have wrought your memories, to make that concealment perfect?”

“I do not lie!” Threehands snapped.

“Nor did I so accuse you,” Skytoucher said. She sounded even more chiding of the elder brother than of the younger, which gave Pirvan some hope.

That hope died in the next moment. Skytoucher frowned. “There is only one trail we can follow to the end. You must open your mind and heart to me, Sir Pirvan. Let nothing be concealed any longer, and we shall know the truth behind your presence here.”

But also, he thought, far too many secrets of the Knights of Solamnia, which honor, Oath, Measure, and good sense alike commanded him to keep.

It did not matter whether the Gryphons were friend or foe, now or ever. Skytoucher was asking Pirvan casually to relinquish secrets that knights had died by torture or their own hands rather than yield.

This may not be treachery, Pirvan considered, but one wonders if it will make much difference, after we are dead.

Pirvan shook his head. “My Oath as a Knight of—”

“The knights had taken many oaths, like you, but it was the ones to Istar that they kept with our blood,” Threehands all but shouted. “So we know how much the knights’ oaths are worth, when it is life or death for our people.”

“Oh, stop picking at old sores,” Gerik said. Before anyone could stop gaping enough to reprove him, he continued.

“Wise chief, wise seer. You need only the truth about our purpose here, nothing else. Enter my mind and heart, where you will find all you need. Leave my sire and mother be, for they will die before they yield up—”

“That also can be done—” Threehands began.

“You must shed my blood before theirs, for I am bound—”

“To those who kill ‘barbarians’ for sport?” Threehands shouted.

By this time Pirvan had dragged his son and wife into a triangle, so that all flanks were guarded and no back was bare. They did not draw steel; Pirvan vowed to leave that dishonor to the Free Riders.

If the two sons of Redthorn clash, Pirvan wondered, will that sow enough confusion among the Gryphons to let us escape?

Perhaps it would. And perhaps it would make the Gryphons easier prey to hostile clans or the Istarians. But bringing that about would break Pirvan’s oath to Hawkbrother, who seemed ready to fight his own brother or even father to keep his agreement. Again, Pirvan saw a trail that led to folly as well as dishonor.

Then he saw nothing at all for a moment. A thunderstorm formed within the cave, and dazzling silver light blinded them all while thunder crashed. Pirvan was sure the cave was about to fall on him and he would be honorably entombed under the rubble of the hill—

His vision cleared, his hearing returned, but speech eluded him.

Standing in the middle of the cave, using his staff as a cane, was Tarothin.

Short of using the edge of his sword, Krythis left nothing untried to speed his passage through the crowd. This brought him within sight of his daughter, as her affray reached its climax.

She stood facing a tall man, whom Krythis recognized as an itinerant fletcher. Not unskilled at his craft, he had a weakness for drink and women—and also a weakness of memory, or so it seemed.

At least he was claiming to remember a promise from Rynthala, that her father was utterly certain she had never made to this man and probably to none other. He claimed to remember this promise, and now came to demand it be kept. To demand in a crowd, at the top of his lungs, with many of the lady’s friends and kin and few of his own within hearing.

Is this son of a she-ass trying to have himself killed, for someone else’s purpose? wondered Krythis. He might have left Rynthala to settle the matter herself, but if there was more than drunken folly here—

In the next moment, Krythis understood just how truly his daughter had come of age, and how little she needed his help.

The man rushed forward. A few guests standing close to him made futile grabs at the ragged shirttail flying behind him. The only one to get a firm grip was a kender, who was too light to halt the man. He rushed onward toward Rynthala.

The woman flung herself backward, rolling as she did. The man hurled himself atop her, just as Rynthala rolled back. Her knees rose, and both caught the man in the groin.

Afterward, some witnesses said the man flew his own height into the air. Less sober witnesses said various fantastic things. Krythis was certain the man rose no more than an arm’s length, but that was high enough to let Rynthala roll clear, spring to her feet, and draw her dagger in case it became a matter for steel.

It did not. The man was writhing on the ground, as unable to rise as a boiled eel, his face a mask of agony. Rynthala knelt beside him, then rose and sheathed her dagger.

“Can someone go for Sirbones?” she called. “This lout may be unmanned for life without healing, and he may not deserve that.”

Somebody must have gone for Sirbones, because the priest of Mishakal did appear a few minutes later. Nearly everybody else spent the time cheering Rynthala, or pounding her on the back, or carrying her on their shoulders (in which the dwarves and humans had greater success than the kender.)

Krythis tried to find someone who looked less than joyful over Rynthala’s bloodless victory, but everyone was moving about too quickly. If the fletcher had any allies in the crowd, they were acting their part well.

A pity, thought Krythis. If I find anyone who plots to launch a blood feud on Rynthala’s great day, I will unman him beyond all healing.

Then several revellers—he could not tell of what race—were grabbing him and dragging him into a line of dancers. Someone else thrust a cup into his free hand, and he drank it off without asking what it was or remembering what it had been.

Nor was this the last such cup. Somewhere in the middle of the drinking, he saw that Rynthala had joined the dancers. She had all her mother’s grace of movement and more, and although her garb had been damaged in the scuffle, she still looked worthy of a royal crown.

One day she will make and keep that promise, Krythis found himself thinking, and on that day the gods will know where to find the happiest man on Krynn.

“Long life to Rynthala!” someone shouted.

“Long life!” Krythis shouted, and then everybody was wishing everybody else long life and much else. The dwarves beat drums, the kender joined in on hoopaks, and a flute that sounded very much like Tulia’s rose silver and sweet above all the din.

The first response to Tarothin’s appearance came from Threehands. He snatched a dagger from his belt, so swiftly that it seemed to sprout from his hand. Then his arm snapped forward.

Tarothin stood, raising neither hand, staff, nor spell. He merely gave slightly with the impact of the dagger, as its point thudded into his chest. Then he worked the dagger free, examined the point, and gently dropped it at his feet.

“A few layers of boiled leather is good enough for daggers, and does not brawl and brangle with spells as mail or plate can do.”

The casual explanation seemed to enrage Threehands further. He flung himself toward Tarothin. He met, instead, his brother, grappling with him bare-handed.

The two brothers rolled on the floor. Before they could do more than tear clothing and lose dignity, Redthorn stepped down from his seat. He carried a long spear, and brought its butt end down smartly on heads, shoulders, buttocks, or whatever presented itself. His speed and agility made it plain that he wore his years lightly; Pirvan hoped they would not face one another in serious combat.

In moments, the two brothers were standing, well apart, glowering at each other, and rubbing bruises.

“You need not defend the Gryphons or your friends with each other’s blood,” Redthorn snapped. He turned to Skytoucher.

“What does this mean? I thought this cave was bound against any magic save yours. Also, you said no Istarian Robed One could read your thoughts. Yet this Tarothin seems to have done that, then pierced your binding spells.”

Skytoucher looked ready to burst, but whether from surprise, rage, or grief (Pirvan doubted it could be fear), was hard to tell.

Tarothin turned to the seer. “Gracious Lady Skytoucher,” he said, in tones that would have been no more reverent had he been addressing a goddess. “I beg your pardon for this intrusion. The secrets of your cave and the spells guarding it are safe with me. Or rather, they are safe with me—as long as the secrets of the knights—”

Skytoucher screamed. She raised a hand and flung magical energy in a searing green bolt, straight at Tarothin.

Without his moving a muscle, the mage’s staff rose before him, then began to whirl, until it blurred into a disk, from which golden sparks rained.

Green magic struck golden magic, and again thunder raged about the cave.

How long it lasted this time, Pirvan did not know. He became senseless again, and for longer than before.

When he regained his senses, he saw Tarothin squatting on the floor, and Redthorn sitting on Skytoucher. The chief had a bloody lip, and other signs that the scuffle had not been entirely one-sided.

Pirvan carefully looked elsewhere, and found the two brothers contemplating their father rather as if he had turned into a dragon.

The first person to actually speak was Gerik.

“Free Riders. My father can’t break his oath to either the knights or Hawkbrother. He just cannot let Skytoucher into his mind.

“I said I would, and I say it again. I know enough to satisfy anyone, except maybe Skytoucher, that we come in friendship. Now we also have a witness, who can keep Skytoucher from doing me any harm—”

“And keep me from reading the truth in this lad’s mind and heart,” the seer said. She rose, shaking off Redthorn’s hand as she did. Yet she smiled at him when she thought no one was looking; Pirvan suspected he was seeing the latest chapter in an old tale of lovers.

“Skytoucher,” Tarothin said. “Will you bind yourself to do Gerik no harm, if I swear a similar oath to leave the mind touching between you and him?”

“Perhaps.”

“Yes or no,” Tarothin said sharply, and Pirvan knew the anger was not feigned. “If no, then you have seen what rubble I can make of your binding spells. Would you care to chance others against me?

A duel of magic would certainly kill Tarothin outright, and the Red Robe had to know it. He also had to know that this was no secret to Skytoucher.

How does one reward that kind of loyalty?

“There will be no further magic worked here today,” Redthorn said firmly. “I have seen a father who would die rather than break either of two oaths that war in him. I have seen a son who would risk his life to save his father. I have seen my son fight his own brother to defend strangers. And I have seen a high wizard of Istar shield his friends with both his magic and his body, at grave risk to both.

“Skytoucher, you said that we might not know the changebringers when we met them. I say you were wrong. We have met them, and we know them.

“Either these people can mean us no harm, or the gods themselves have deserted us. If they have, then I am still chief and first judge of honor among the Gryphons.”

Skytoucher sat down, a weary smile on her face. “I deny nothing of what you say. Tarothin, may we talk wizard to wizard at some future time, if I yield this day?”

“Anytime, at any length,” Tarothin said. “After I regain my strength, however.”

Then he fainted, and when they knew he was only exhausted, not ill, Redthorn and Skytoucher together proclaimed peace and swore to feast the new friends of the Gryphons.

It was a solemn occasion, marred only by the fact that both Pirvan and Haimya tried to embrace their son at the same time and ended up embracing each other. Then Threehands laughed at the spectacle and Hawkbrother bit his thumb at his elder before himself embracing Gerik.

Sitting on a fallen piece of battlement, Krythis saw Tulia step through the curtain wall of the northern outwork of the citadel—or that was what his eyes told him happened. He blinked and tried to count the Tulias. The count started off with three, shrank to two, and finally reduced to one.

While doing this, he also understood why he had seen his wife walk through solid stone. She had actually stepped through a gap in the half-ruined wall, but the moons had tinted the ground outside the same color as the stone.

This was a pleasing discovery. Krythis was reasonably sure he had not drunk that much, or at least had tried not to. He should be seeing only a few unreal things, not many.

Tulia swayed up to him and sat down in his lap. This was not an illusion. Neither was both of them sliding down to the ground, their backs resting comfortably against the stone and their arms around each other.

Furthermore, it was not an illusion that Krythis’s left hand was resting on a part of Tulia he did not usually touch where others might see. Was there anyone to see?

Desire warred with returning memory. Krythis realized he had not seen or heard the centaurs since Rynthala’s brawl. Indeed, he had not heard of them. What had happened with them?

He was able to mumble the question so that Tulia understood his third attempt. She smiled sleepily.

“I gave them the staffs. But by then they felt at peace with the whole world, even without Sirbones’s brandy. They did an exhibition bout with the staffs, then challenged all comers, then danced. People began throwing money. The dance went on.

“I think it ended with each centaur having a dwarf on his back, the dwarf with a kender on his shoulders, and something atop the kender, but I don’t remember what.”

“Not a gully dwarf,” Krythis said. “I don’t think they can balance well enough.”

“You’re a fine one to talk about balancing,” Tulia said, nuzzling his neck.

“Speak for yourself,” Krythis said, tightening his grip.

Tulia sighed happily, then whispered, “I asked Sirbones if he could give a truth potion to the guests.”

“To find out if there was anyone—anyone playing games—behind that drunken fletcher?”

“Exactly so. He said he couldn’t make enough for everybody, and it was unlawful to give it without their consent anyway. But he did sober up eight more guards, and the night band hadn’t drunk, and there were dwarves and kender who’d sobered up by nightfall. Rynthala was going to keep watch too.”

“On this, of all days?”

“Never heard the old tale, about how a girl who keeps watch on her coming-of-age night may have a vision of her future husband?”

“Never.”

“Well, let me tell it you.”

Except that Tulia became so occupied with nuzzling her husband’s neck, and then returning his intimate touches, that the story never got told, or even decently begun, before they were both asleep in each other’s embrace.

Haimya and Pirvan were making the evening rounds of their sentry posts when they encountered Eskaia and Hawkbrother.

It had been too far toward darkness by the time they stepped out of the cave, so the two bands (the united Free Riders and Pirvan’s party) had made camp, close beside each other, but separate. This far within Gryphon lands and this close to their sacred cave, the sentries were meant less to guard against enemies than to keep loose-tongued fighters of either side from wandering about and breaking either their bones or the new peace.

Pirvan wondered how strong the peace was. If it had any strength at all, that, too, he owed to Tarothin. He had not yet thought of any reward sufficient for the Red Robe and doubted he would be able to, but knew honor demanded he at least try.

Knight’s daughter and chief’s son were standing on either side of a horse, she grooming the mane while he examined its hooves for lodged stones. They were a wholly decent distance apart, but Pirvan noticed that Hawkbrother now wore his hair in a single braid much like Eskaia’s, and she wore a necklace of pale blue stones.

Neither was a courtship gift, as far as Pirvan knew, but each clan had its own customs.

I hope the Gryphons at least require the man to ask the woman’s father for permission to court, Pirvan thought, or Tarothin’s work may be wasted.

Then Pirvan nearly stumbled: he’d been casually contemplating the prospect of his daughter wed to a “barbarian.”

Who has also sworn oaths, he reminded himself, that will ensure his treating Eskaia decently if she wishes to have him, or his taking her refusal decently if she does not.

“Ah, Father,” Eskaia said. “I thought you had retired.”

“Oh, it’s not time for this old war-horse to be unsaddled yet,” Pirvan said.

“No, and when he is, he’ll be ridden even harder than before,” Haimya said. Eskaia and Pirvan flushed; Hawkbrother turned away to hide what Pirvan suspected was a grin.

“I wanted to ask Tarothin what he meant by leaping into the cave,” Hawkbrother said. “But Esk—your lady daughter—she persuaded me you should ask that question.”

“Why should I ask Tarothin any such thing?” Pirvan said. He was confused almost to anger. If there was sense behind this question, it escaped him, and insulting the man who had saved them all needed much reason before he would even think of it.

“He did not realize what he was doing—” Hawkbrother began.

“Are you calling him a fool?” Pirvan almost shouted.

Haimya put a hand on his arm. He shook it off before realizing that perhaps he should not wake both camps and have them listen to this conversation.

“No,” Eskaia said. “Father, could you listen to Hawkbrother?”

“I will listen to anyone who speaks sense, or even one who does not, although not for as long.”

Hawkbrother’s gift for storytelling came to the fore again. It seemed Tarothin had risked everyone’s life, beginning with his own and going on to Redthorn. Skytoucher’s binding spells were potent, her personal magic no less so, and in a rage, she had been known to unleash her powers even on friends. She had certainly been in a rage in the cave, and Redthorn had been taking his life in his hands subduing her.

Pirvan nodded slowly. “I will ask Tarothin if he knew what he faced, which I believe he did. I will also ask you to consider what might have come about had he not done as he had. I do not think even Skytoucher would have been pleased with war between the Gryphons and the knights, or her cave in ruins, or the Gryphons losing a chief and two of the chief’s sons. To think otherwise is to call her a fool.”

Hawkbrother shuddered in mock terror. “Gryphons have been staked out on anthills for lesser crimes. No, no, I will not call her a fool. Nor your friend, either. But if he knew what he faced—”

“Then great songs have been sung for lesser heroes,” Eskaia said. “Perhaps you should make one.”

“Eh,” Hawkbrother said, finally looking as bemused as Pirvan. “I am not that fine a bard.”

“I have heard some of your songs and would say otherwise,” Eskaia said. She might have gone on if Haimya had not coughed.

“I will not speak to anyone save Pirvan, and not much to him until dawn,” Haimya said. “Those who wish to chatter the night away, I leave to do so.”

She put a hand on her husband’s arm again, but with a subtle difference that made Pirvan welcome her touch, and drew him away from the younger folk.

In her festal attire, with a cloak borrowed from one of the men-at-arms, Rynthala walked the battlements of Belkuthas. The cloak was hardly large enough for her, but she had draped her own over her parents when she found them asleep in the outer ward. She had also made sure two guards watched them, and two more the outworks at all times.

She also watched over them when her rounds brought her past them. But most of the time she was staring out over the land to the east. It sloped downward, sharply at first, then more gently, before disappearing into virgin forest that stretched all the way to the plains.

Nothing was moving on the open ground save pinpoints of light and curls of smoke from the torches of farmers, foresters, and guests who lived close enough to chance the journey home at night rather than sleep on the floor in the citadel. She did not expect anything else to move. If an armed warrior did appear, she was more likely to give the alarm than to suspect him of being her future husband.

Still, the old wives would be happier if she kept the vigil, and probably her mother, as well. It was so easy to make people happy, or at least pleased and grateful; even between husband and wife. Although that was probably not true of all husbands and wives, it was true for Rynthala’s parents—extraordinary folk, even among the half-elven.

She came to the northwest corner, and looked toward the forest that way, clinging to the steeper slopes of the mountains as they rose toward the sky. Nothing there, except a glint of light that might be some gnome or dwarf doing forge work too smoky for a cave.

She stood for a while, but saw nothing else, and continued her rounds.

More eyes than two studied the land around Zephros’s camp. But they had no more luck in seeing danger than Rynthala had in seeing men.

It was not altogether their fault. Some of them were seasoned sell-swords, and one woman had the keenest night vision in the camp.

But kender are small to begin with, and deft at hiding. When they become desert-wise, it is as if they possess cloaks of invisibility.

Chapter 7

The Gryphons and Pirvan’s Solamnic band avoided warm friendships, but quickly knit all the bonds necessary for peace, and even alliance. No doubt it helped that Redthorn made it plain how his wrath would fall on any peace breakers among the Gryphons.

Redthorn was in fact so plainspoken in favor of peace, and Skytoucher and the chief’s sons along with him, that Pirvan hardly needed to speak to his own people. He had been choosing them carefully for years; anyone who thought the homeland of “barbarians” began a day’s ride from Tirabot Manor had long since departed his service.

However, for the sake of his own honor and that of the knights, he firmly addressed his company, and while so doing ignored the bored looks on a fair number of faces. Among the most bored were certain men-at-arms whom Pirvan and Haimya had seen “walking out” with warrior maidens of the Gryphons.

“It seems the fascination of the stranger afflicts both men and women,” Pirvan grumbled as he and Haimya were undressing for bed that night.

“You think of Eskaia and Hawkbrother?”

“There are whole hours of the day when I do not think of them.”

“Such moderation in a father!”

Pirvan threw a mock buffet at her head. She replied with a less mock twist of leg and ankle that brought them both down. Pirvan’s head ended between Haimya’s breasts.

“Of course, a man need not be a stranger to fascinate a woman,” she murmured, and tightened her arms around him.

Unseen save by gryphons, the scouts of half a dozen clans of Free Riders, and two kender—Zephros’s men marched across the desert toward the mountains.

They marched slowly, seldom moving beyond the next watering spot in the course of a day, and hardly ever traveling by night. This helped keep down straggling, and allowed deserters from Aurhinius’s camp and the odd sell-sword who did not care whom he followed to join them.

There were enough desert-wise fighters in Zephros’s ranks to keep most of their comrades from doing anything too stupid too often. Straggling also diminished as it became evident that someone followed the band. Stragglers who did not vanish as if into the air were most often found with their throats cut. Sometimes their deaths had been slower.

Strangest of all were those stragglers who were found alive, sun-parched to delirium, but otherwise unharmed save for being stripped of every item of usable gear.

The obvious suspects in such a case were kender, but kender, it was well-known, did not roam the desert. Therefore, suspicion implicated the whole gamut of Ansalon’s folk, human and otherwise.

As the days went by, fear began to feed on that suspicion, and find it a nourishing diet.

The messenger from the Gryphons’ scouts rode into camp as Pirvan and Threehands faced each other in a practice bout.

Pirvan had soon learned he could not have wisely challenged Threehands as he had Hawkbrother. The Gryphon chief’s eldest son had won his name in his earliest fighting days, by wielding weapons with such speed that he seemed to have three hands. He had not lost any of that speed, and had gained skill.

The bout was not being fought to blood, but both fighters were so swift on the attack that accidents were inevitable. Both had slight wounds before the messenger rode up. Threehands tossed his towel to Pirvan and went to meet the man. As Pirvan finished wiping off sweat and sat down to let Eskaia bind the light wound in his thigh, Threehands returned.

“Bad news?” Pirvan asked.

Threehands looked even more sour, whether at the news or at being so easily read, then jerked his head.

“The Istarians are marching?” Eskaia asked. Threehands looked about to put this foreign woman in her place, when Hawkbrother strolled up. The chief’s eldest son shot the youngest an eloquent look, then squatted. While Hawkbrother did his duty patching Threehands’s wounded arm, all listened to the messenger.

The Istarians were indeed on the move, but not in great force. Less than five hundred fighting men, the scouts had reported, perhaps many less. Several clans were watching them, and a prisoner taken by scouts had, before dying, said that desert hobgoblins were also on their trail. Aurhinius was not with them; the prisoner had spoken of one High Captain Zephros.

At this, Pirvan’s eyebrows rose so that all demanded to know what the name meant to him.

“A lapdog of the kingpriest, or rather of the old kingpriest’s faction,” Pirvan said. He explained Istar’s intrigues as best he could to people who had never been within a week’s ride of it.

“So he might be seeking glory for himself, not carrying out a plan of Chief Aurhinius?” Hawkbrother asked. His brother shot another look, but this time the younger replied with a bland smile and an observation: “Duty is done by your wound, Brother. Now we are at council, and I am of Redthorn’s blood as much as you.”

“I would not dispute that if I could, knowing how much time it would waste,” Threehands said, which was the first display of wit Pirvan could recall from him. “Very well, we are at council. But I am chief over the council—”

“Chief along with my father,” Eskaia said. This time it was Pirvan who flung a reproving look, and his daughter who replied with a smile as eloquent as any of her mother’s.

Her message was Somebody must speak up for you, Father, if you are too honorable to do so yourself.

Pirvan briefly contemplated the custom among certain remote tribes, of marrying off daughters when they were no more than fifteen. Doubtless they still developed forward tongues in due time, but at least they exercised them on their husbands or sons, not their fathers.

“Very well, Brother Chief,” Threehands said, and now he even ventured what might have been, without abusing language, called a smile. Pirvan suspected it was not so much new goodwill as the new prospect of a good fight. “What does your war wisdom suggest?”

Pirvan did not have his map with him, and in any case it was one of the knights’ more complete and more secret ones. Memory would have to serve.

“They are either Aurhinius’s vanguard, a feint to disguise his real line of march, or perhaps, as you say, glory-seekers not under his authority. In any case, they are too many to have roaming about unwatched.”

Pirvan went on to explain that where any opponent should wait for Zephros depended on where he was going. There were several possible destinations, but all save one could either move or defend themselves.

“The last is the citadel at Belkuthas. It is half ruined, and the folk there have been at peace with their neighbors for twenty years or more. We were going to visit them before we returned north, to warn them to be on guard and arrange to place them under the knights’ protection, if they wished.”

“Belkuthas is not unknown among the Free Riders,” Threehands said. “Nor unhonored,” he added, “though any who wish the goodwill of the Silvanesti will not be too openly friends with Krythis and Tulia. Even if they need no defending, they will doubtless know much that others have not heard.”

“Also, appearing as their friends will give the Gryphons a fine name among the dwarven folk and the other friends of Belkuthas,” Hawkbrother said. “At times like these, one cannot have too many friends, or at least those who think well of one.”

“Unlike brothers, whom the gods sometimes send in greater numbers than any sensible man could wish,” Threehands said, but he could not quite fight down a smile as he said it. With that, nobody else could keep from laughing aloud.

Then the laughter died, as the council settled down to considering the best road to reach Belkuthas without losing sight of Zephros.

Mostly out of curiosity, Imsaffor Whistletrot and Horimpsot Elderdrake climbed the rocks beside the mouth of a certain pass. They were not likely to venture this way again, and some of the rock needles jutting from the upper portion of the cliff to the north had fascinating shapes that did not seem quite natural.

“I wonder if dwarves ever came out here,” Elderdrake said. “I know they don’t like heat, but maybe once this land was colder. They surely do like to play with rocks, and this cliff looks like somebody’s been playing with it.”

Both kender also felt better getting on high ground above Zephros’s oncoming men. Neither was more a student of war than the average kender, which is to say they could give a junior captain in any regular host headaches and fits. However, old tales they had heard (or read, or maybe both; they had argued over that much of one night) said if you reached high ground ahead of an enemy, you could do more to him than he could do to you, or at least see him more clearly.

So, one night, they scurried ahead of Zephros’s ambling column and were waiting for it at dawn, perched up among the pinnacles.

It had been a hard march and a harder climb. Both kender were sick of the desert and well loaded with items handled from stragglers. They might have had fewer possessions if they had met other kender, but as far as they could tell, they were the only ones in this desert. They refused to simply drop something that might prove useful before long.

This was a display of concentration and foresight rare among kender in their journeying years, and most humans would have been surprised or even frightened by it. But then, most humans had never seriously hurt a kender (not for want of trying), let alone killed one. They had never known a kender to want revenge, to repay them for a compatriot’s death.

The two kender watched as the column marched toward the pass. They had a good view of the approaching men, but Elderdrake wanted a better one.

“If I can count them, maybe we can tell somebody who’s also an enemy of Zephros.”

“Who would that be?”

“Oh, a man like him has to have all sorts of enemies.”

“But do we know any of them?”

“You’re no fun, Imsaffor. You spent too much time with that confounded minotaur.”

“Don’t you dare insult Waydol to my face!”

“Very well, then I’ll talk behind your back.”

“You’ve got a big wind for a kender on his first journey.”

“At least I didn’t stop for years in the middle of a journey!”

At this point Imsaffor Whistletrot turned so many different bright colors (kender can turn more than red, when they put their minds to it) that Elderdrake was afraid. He hurried out of Whistletrot’s reach, then uncoiled a long rope from around his waist.

His plan was simple. He would tie one end of the rope around one of the pinnacles, leaving the other end tied around his waist. Then he would lower himself down the cliff, to where he could count Zephros’s men, maybe even their weapons. He might even be lucky enough to overhear something they said.

The rope would keep him from falling all the way down, and let Whistletrot help pull him back up again. (If Whistletrot wasn’t angry enough to leave him dangling, but that didn’t worry Elderdrake. It takes a good deal to worry a young kender on his first journey, and besides, kender are very strong for their size, and Elderdrake was large for a kender.)

The only thing Elderdrake overlooked was a crack in the base of the pinnacle he used for his rope. Perhaps not quite the only thing—he also overlooked a patch of loose scree some fifty paces down the cliff.

The moment he put his foot on the scree, he slipped and began to slide. The slide turned into a fall as the cliff steepened. His shout warned both his friend above and the humans below—just as his weight came on the rope.

The crack in the pinnacle was so placed that the wind did not enlarge it. Elderdrake’s weight, however, exerted strain from the opposite direction. The rock groaned as the crack widened. The pinnacle swayed, then split off along the line of the crack.

“Oops,” Imsaffor Whistletrot said.

Now, when a kender with human companions says this, the humans normally shake in their boots, or else put them to the ground and run as fast as possible. It is not well known that kender will say that to one another. That can upset even a kender.

Both kender, however, were too busy to be upset. Elderdrake was trying to stop his fall without stopping in the path of the pinnacle. Whistletrot was trying to hook his friend’s rope with his own whippik, also without leaving him in the way of all the falling rock.

The pinnacle took care of the matter itself. It jerked Elderdrake’s rope across the base of another pinnacle. The rope wound itself firmly around the second pinnacle—then snapped as the first pinnacle continued its downward plunge.

Imsaffor Whistletrot had just time to grab his friend’s rope and cut it loose before the second pinnacle was hit by a third, dislodged by the fall of the first. Nor were those three pinnacles the last to go.

As the two kender watched, the entire face of the cliff and all the pinnacles on it split, crumbled, and fell into the mouth of the pass with a noise like the return of Chaos and enough dust to hide the whole city of Istar. Thousands of tons of rock poured like a waterfall onto the trail.

Like a waterfall, too, the rock splashed. A wave of boulders, each the size of a kender hut or larger, roared across the valley and struck the base of the cliffs on the other side. The hammer blow was too much for the fissured base of the cliffs. Like a curtain whose rod has pulled loose from the wall, the other cliffs also fell.

The two kender tried hard to see how much damage the falling rock did to Zephros’s men. But so much dust billowed up, they might as well have been trying to spy on the Dargonesti, a hundred fathoms below the waves.

Long after the crash, clatter, and rumble of falling rock had mostly died away, the dust remained suspended in the still air of the desert afternoon. By the time a breeze rose to thin out the dust, Zephros’s men were far out on the desert. It looked as if they were running, and the two kender half hoped they would run themselves to death.

That was about the best the men could hope for, too. The two falling cliffs had completely blocked the mouth of the pass with a pile of rock easier to fly over than climb. Nobody was going to be taking an army through this pass for a good many years, and neither kender intended to wait here that long.

“I suppose we can still go to Belkuthas,” Elderdrake said. He sounded rather subdued. He was also short of breath, and his ribs and stomach were aching where the rope had tightened around them.

“What for, you son-of-a-gnome?” Whistletrot snapped. Then he had a fit of coughing that kept him speechless, if not silent, for quite a while. There was still a lot of dust in the air.

“I am not a gnome,” Elderdrake finally said with dignity. “This is my first journey. I’ve never been in desert before, and anyway, if I could have seen that crack, so could you.”

“It was on your side of the pinnacle, and I wasn’t foolish enough to go down on the cliff in the first place.”

“Who was foolish? I knocked down more rocks than all the dwarves in this land ever did.”

“Yes, and you wasted them all because they didn’t fall on Zephros’s men!”

“Well, maybe I wasted them and maybe I didn’t. We don’t know how many of Zephros’s men tripped over their own feet or choked on the dust!”

“No, and we never will, unless they come back or we climb over that pile of rocks and go after them.”

“That’s why I think we ought to go to Belkuthas. Besides, Hallie Pinesweet said she was going to stop there. Maybe she is still—”

“Hallie Pinesweet never thought you were worth a bag of dried nuts.”

“I’m older now.”

“Five years. You think she’ll have sat waiting for you at Belkuthas for that long? Your brains are dried nuts, too!”

“Well, I’m going to Belkuthas. If we can’t catch Zephros ourselves, maybe we should ask for help from some people who can. I think Hallie said there were humans who kept horses at Belkuthas, or maybe it was centaurs who lived in the forest—”

Imsaffor Whistletrot threw up his hands in disgust and despair. It was either go to Belkuthas with Elderdrake or go somewhere else alone, and he wasn’t quite curious enough about this land to roam it alone.

Besides, once Elderdrake saw that Hallie Pinesweet was long gone on her way, he would stop thinking Belkuthas was so wonderful. Then they could go on their way—and, Whistletrot hoped, homeward as soon as possible.

He had much more traveling to do. Elderdrake was right; he had spent too long with Waydol. A kender as young as he was shouldn’t remain in one place. But he would rather live among gully dwarves than travel with a kender who behaved like a gnome—and then boasted about it!

Listening to the little council’s plan, Redthorn and Skytoucher displayed an elaborate courtesy that, to Pirvan, smelled of impatience to end the rituals and mount up. He hoped so. The Gryphons, by his own lowest estimate, could put a thousand armed riders on the march. With such a force standing before Belkuthas, it would be safe not only from Zephros but from any force than Aurhinius himself could field without warning.

“We cannot send more than a hundred fighters,” Redthorn said at last.

Skytoucher nodded. “You may be the changebringer, Sir Pirvan, or you may be merely one who comes before the changebringer, whom we must prepare to meet. Also, it does not take the whole strength of the Gryphons to carry a warning to anyone, let alone to folk the Silvanesti would not thank us for warning.”

Pirvan had rude thoughts about what the Silvanesti could do with their thanks, starting with putting it on the points of their arrows and going on from there in painful and grotesque ways. Outwardly, he kept the self-command of a Knight of Solamnia and bowed.

“I see both wisdom and honor in this. I ask only one question. Who commands?”

All four Free Riders—father, sons, and seer—looked at one another. Then Skytoucher spoke.

“We shall be two to your one, so Threehands will lead when he is present. When he is not, you shall. Your folk as well as ours will swear oath to obey either commander as they would their own fathers.”

Unless the Free Riders took oaths far more lightly than Pirvan guessed, that would be enough. The Gryphons knew this land, anyway, and were friends with half the other clans, which was better than none.

Also, Threehands might keep Hawkbrother busy enough to stay away from Eskaia. Pirvan realized this was doubtless wishful thinking in the tradition of centuries of fathers before him. Even so, he could not keep the wish from his thoughts any more than all those other fathers!

Chapter 8

Word of the advance—Krythis refused to use the word “onrush”—of Zephros’s motley column reached Belkuthas about the same time it reached Pirvan and the Gryphons. Krythis and Tulia kept no scouts in the desert. They did keep as friends some of the desert clans, both Free Riders and the root-grubbers who burrowed into cliff faces and hillsides.

It was the tale of a scout from the Treecat clan that reached Belkuthas first, passed on through several dwarves. (Indeed, it was said that dwarven tunnels so honeycombed the land that one could walk all the way from Belkuthas far into Thoradin, if one could find the right entrance, and the dwarves allowed it.)

For this, Krythis and Tulia did not mind being awakened from the deepest and most pleasant sort of slumber. That is, they did not mind once they were awake enough to understand what the tidings meant.

“They may not be marching against us,” Tulia said. It was a painfully transparent effort to reassure herself.

“I can well believe that, for now,” Krythis replied. “But they will be marching upon us before long. Where one like Zephros marches, people flee. When people flee, those like Zephros pursue—like a dog roused to give chase by his prey’s flight.

“Many will surely come here. We have labored for half a human lifetime to make this a place of peace and a refuge for all. In this time of trouble, many will remember that and come here. Zephros will follow.”

Tulia looked at the ground. “He will come here, and he will see humans and all other folk living in peace. If he is one of those sworn to destroy that harmony …”

She could not command her voice well enough to finish. To Krythis, taking her in his arms seemed a sadly inadequate gesture. It was the best he could do, however, for he was none too sure of his voice either.

At last they stepped apart, and as if at a command both turned to look outward from the tower, at their citadel. As a home filled with memories, the sight of it warmed. As a fortress to withstand even the most inept siege, the sight chilled.

There had been a fortress on this site since the days of the Empire of Ergoth, long before Vinas Solamnus’s birth. It was likely that the site had been inhabited even before then.

Indeed, a dwarven friend of Krythis, one Gran Axesharp, had walked about Belkuthas, examining all the stonework, then turned to his host and said: “Let me take this place down stone by stone some day, when you no longer need it. I swear to find signs of at least three completely unknown races somewhere about here.”

Antiquity was all very well, and Krythis and Tulia, being folk at peace with themselves and the world, were also at peace with the odd ghost that Belkuthas harbored. It was not so good to make a home in what had been a place for war.

Much work had been needed to restore those buildings they wished to keep and shore up or tear down the rest. The restored buildings would need to keep out the chill of winter, the heat of the sun, the wind, the rain, thieves, and wild animals. The other buildings needed not to fall down on their heads, or the heads of their servants, guards, visitors, or children, or even the nesting birds, squirrels, and mice.

So the keep rose tall and dark, looming over the old Great Hall, where in a maze of newly built rooms Krythis and Tulia actually lived. The keep served well enough as a watchtower and storeroom, but no one had thought of defending it since before Rynthala’s birth.

It was much the same case elsewhere. Some outbuildings housed servants, guests, or horses. Others were only fenced holes in the ground. Parts of the wall rose as high and stout as ever. In other parts gaped holes through which six minotaurs could have marched shoulder to shoulder.

“We’ll have to ask people to bring their own food, as much as possible,” Krythis said. “We can store it, but we can’t divide our own supplies among a thousand mouths. We will also have to buy from our neighbors. I will pray for the crops to be in and abundant, before enemies or fugitives arrive.”

“Can Sirbones do anything to help?” Tulia asked.

“I suspect not even Sirbones himself knows what he can do,” Krythis replied. “The gods, maybe. Any lesser being, I doubt. It cannot hurt to ask. But remember he is not a young man. Healing spells take much from a priest—and he will be casting far too many of those.”

“So the magic, like the food, may not be enough to go around, and we will watch, helpless, while people die?” Tulia said. It was hardly a question, and any urge Krythis had to console his wife vanished as she slammed one fist hard against the battlement.

In that moment she reminded Krythis very much of their daughter in a rage. In the next moment Krythis wondered if there was any place they could send Rynthala, to keep her safe.

In the moment after that, he was ready to laugh at himself for the absurd notion. If war washed over this land, there might be no safe place. There was probably no place they could send Rynthala that could keep her if she did not wish to stay. And there was little chance they could make her leave in the first place.

By then Tulia was sucking her scraped knuckles and looking ready to both laugh and cry at once.

Now, Krythis decided, it was time to embrace her—closely and for a long time, before they went downstairs to begin preparing Belkuthas for war.

To Pirvan’s left, Nedilhome Canyon slashed into the hills, now splotched with green over the desert hues of umber and ocher. To his right, Haimya and Threehands rode silhouetted against a long, gentle slope of savagely scarred and nearly barren rock.

“The canyon’s the most common road for traders,” Threehands said. “Water, caves for the night, fodder you can cut from atop the cliffs if you’re man enough to climb them. But of course, traders seldom come this way, or if they do, seldom last this far.”

“I was hardly thinking of using—” Pirvan began, when a raised hand from an outrider ahead stopped all conversation. The man turned his horse and rode back.

“Somebody’s been by here, my chief,” he said.

“Chiefs,” Threehands said. “We are two. Now speak. Mounted or afoot?”

The man spoke with the same brevity as Threehands. Men in boots leading mostly new-shod horses with moderate loads. The track angled in from the right—from the northeast—and now ran parallel to the line of the Gryphons’ and knights’ advance.

“Zephros,” Threehands muttered.

“I hope so,” Pirvan replied. He hated to think of any more armed bands, Istarians, sell-swords, bandits, or others, wandering about this land. Tempers were high enough already, and any slight mischance could mean a horrid death toll.

Threehands was already signaling the men into battle order. A Gryphon band of this size fought in three triangles, each with the base toward the enemy and the point toward the rear. Pirvan’s fighters formed the leftmost triangle, normally the least honorable.

Today the left flank was toward the hills, from which surprise attacks would most likely come. Threehands could hardly intend insult. Pirvan would also refuse to take it, regardless of the Gryphon’s intention.

They rode on, now in battle formation. Nedilhome Canyon slowly fell behind. Pirvan let his horse drift right, until he rode beside Threehands.

“What are your plans?”

“Need you ask?”

“You do plan to attack, then?”

“If it is any of your—no, you are chief, likewise. It is your concern. They are on our land, without our leave, and you speak ill of them. I trust your judgment. Is that not enough reason for attacking?”

Pirvan was silent a trifle too long. To do him justice, Threehands only frowned. He did not glare, let alone curse.

“What cause must knights have before they can draw sword?” he asked. “They certainly found enough when Istar commanded them to fight us. Has not Zephros given at least as much offense?”

Pirvan knew he did not dare reply with silence a second time. He also did not dare tell the truth, which was that at the command of Istar, the knights did not recognize the land rights of the Free Riders. It was expedient to leave them in peace, but if an Istarian chose not to do so, that was between him and the desert-dwellers.

Which left Pirvan squarely in the middle.

“Zephros is a man of hasty temper,” Pirvan said. “If he has not broken the peace yet, he will surely do so before we are much older. But until he does, he is not a lawful foe for the knights.”

“Who still suck from the paps of the kingpriest,” Threehands said, but so quietly that only his bitterness reached Pirvan. The knight had no easy answer to that, so they rode on in silence.

The pen wall across the forecourt of Belkuthas now rose to the height of a man’s waist. That would not keep in horses, but would do well for most other beasts. It would also keep either horse or foot from coming at archers behind it.

That it was even this high so quickly was a tribute to Gran Axesharp and his family. What mysterious messenger had reached them and with what tale, Krythis doubted he would ever know. But twenty dwarves had appeared outside the gate the morning after the warning came, and offered all the help their arms and tools could give.

For the sake of not appearing a witling, Krythis ordered them to start building a pen for the fugitives’ animals. One of the dwarves spat openly on the ground, and several muttered, “Baby tasks.”

But they turned to with a will, and also with hammers, mauls, chisels, wedges, and tools Krythis did not recognize. Half of them worked on the pen; the others started collecting stones of suitable size to repair the gaps in the walls.

It was now the fourth morning since the dwarves’ coming. The pen would be done by sunset, and five of the gaps in the wall could only be found by a sharp-eyed watcher who knew where they had been before. The new stonework might not stand up against a battering ram, but would certainly do more than keep cattle out of the kitchen garden!

The matter of payment had yet to arise, and Krythis decided to wait for the dwarves to speak first. It helped that Axesharp was related in some vague way (dwarven genealogies all being vague to Krythis) to the House of Lintelmaker, who had been one of the two dwarven clans to raise the orphaned Tulia and Krythis.

Perhaps the whole matter was a further coming-of-age present to Rynthala, in honor of her dwarven-fostered parents?

Two dwarves were now raising both din and dust, splitting larger rocks into slabs and then chiseling an edge on each slab. As the sharpened slab landed on one end of the pile, two more dwarves would pick up another from the other end and wedge it firmly into the wall, sharp and upward.

Krythis still marveled at what the dwarves could do without mortar. He had asked once why they were not using it, and received in return such a frigid silence that he expected his fingers and toes to turn blue. He had not asked again.

But the pen would now be proof even against animals that wished to jump out, as well as warhorses whose riders might wish to jump them in. This was just as well, because the first herd of cattle being bought for slaughter and salting down must be on the road already. If Nektoris and his sons had not lost their beast-craft—

A dust cloud on the south road told Krythis that something was already on the move toward Belkuthas. He had just formed the thought of riding out to meet them rather than stand around and watch dwarves fling stones, when two specks in the southern sky caught his attention.

Both were winged, and both had to be large to be visible from such a distance. Now he saw one dive steeply toward the earth, and the other dive even more steeply, as if seeking to get below the first and come up underneath it.

In its blind spot, under its vulnerable belly.

Krythis cupped his hands and shouted:

“Archers! To the high points!”

He then realized that the order would have made more sense if he had not left his own bow in his chambers.

As the citadel’s fighters darted out of doors and scrambled up stairs and ladders, the two flying newcomers became recognizable: one as a gryphon, the other a pegasus with a rider on its back. Gryphons’ lust for horseflesh was notorious. They did not scruple whether the horse had wings or not, but crunched down everything, even the frail wing bones and feathers.

Krythis wondered if he should climb up and hope someone would lend him a bow, but most archers were about as ready to lend their wives as their bows.

Fortunately one of the archers responding to the call was Rynthala. She ran out of the hall with her own bow slung over one shoulder, her quiver over the other, and her father’s bow and quiver in her hands. Her long-legged stride ate up the ground to Krythis. Long before the flying battle came within bow shot, Krythis was as well-armed as he needed to be.

“Where’s Mother?” Rynthala asked. “She wouldn’t want to miss this, I know.”

Krythis thought Rynthala rather overestimated her mother’s lust for battle, though Tulia was no mean archer herself and a respectable swordswoman as well. But Rynthala was born a good warrior and had made herself a better one. She had not years enough to understand that not everyone was made as she was.

Krythis direly wished to know what a pegasus was doing flying toward Belkuthas as if the fate of Krynn depended on it. Or perhaps it was only the gryphon’s pursuit that had the pegasus flying this way, to avoid ending its life as the gryphon’s dinner.

The pegasus had contrived to dive so low that the gryphon now had no hope of attacking from below. But gryphons were not stupid, in spite of their insensate appetites. The gryphon flung itself into a furious climb, wings thundering, as it rose screaming with a cry that tore at the ears.

Then, as the pegasus slowed to pass over the walls of Belkuthas and land, the gryphon stooped and dived.

The descending gryphon met more than a score of ascending arrows. Amid the fainter twangs of longbows, Krythis heard the sharp metallic snik of a heavy crossbow. As soon as he’d shot three arrows, he looked down.

Two of the dwarves were holding a huge fortress crossbow, one of those cocked with a geared crank and capable of sending its bolt through a half-grown oak tree. The lord of Belkuthas had just time to wave to these welcome allies when arrows, bolt, gryphon, and pegasus all came together in the same space of air.

The gryphon took a dozen arrows and the crossbow bolt. If it had been armored like a knight, it would still have suffered mortal wounds. But with arrows in eye, throat, and belly, it still had the strength to claw open the pegasus’s flank and break one wing.

Pegasus and gryphon crashed into the courtyard together. The winged horse’s rider jumped before his mount landed, and Krythis thought he saw elven agility in that leap. But the gryphon’s thrashing tail swept the rider off his feet, and after he fell he did not rise again.

For a moment, he was in further danger, from both the dying gryphon and his wounded, panic-stricken mount. But it was a short moment. Everyone with a weapon was already running toward the gryphon to finish it off. The swiftest runners, Rynthala and one of the archers, reached the rider and snatched him to his feet so violently that Krythis hoped they had not worsened his injuries.

Then everyone else hacked, thrust, slashed, and kicked at the gryphon until it not only stopped moving but was hardly more than a bloody mass of flesh and feathers. By then, Krythis had scrambled down from his perch and was hurrying across the courtyard.

As he did, he saw Tulia approaching from the gateway. She had her sword in one hand and was all but dragging Sirbones with the other. The priest of Mishakal looked rather as if he wished to be somewhere else, but duty as well as Tulia’s firm grip kept him moving forward.

By the time Sirbones and Krythis met, the pegasus had fallen senseless from pain and loss of blood. Half a dozen humans and dwarves were dragging the dead gryphon away. The rider, who was indeed a Silvanesti elf, had not yet regained his senses.

Sirbones bent over the elf first. He rested one hand on the elf’s chest, the other on his forehead, and murmured a short spell. Then he looked up, without rising.

“A blow to the head and cracked ribs. I have eased the pain so that he will sleep while we bind the ribs. He should be watched closely while he sleeps. And next time you handle a wounded man, Rynthala, do not toss him about as if he were a bale of hay on the end of a pitchfork.”

Rynthala’s mouth opened, then closed as both her parents gave her looks that conveyed the wisdom of silence. Meanwhile, Sirbones was examining the pegasus.

“I lack the art to heal these wounds in pegasi,” Sirbones said. “The wing may never bear flying again, and it—”

“She,” Rynthala said. “The pegasus is a mare.”

Sirbones seemed to think better of whatever he had been about to say, and nodded. “I fear I cannot heal her.”

“Then do as the rider would, if he were awake,” Tulia said. “Put her out of her pain.”

The pegasus rolled her vast green eyes at those words and neighed faintly, as if in protest. Rynthala stepped forward.

“Well, Sirbones?”

“I—I have never given death, even to a pegasus. My oath—”

Rynthala used a much less sacred oath of her own. She also cast doubts on Mishakal’s chastity and Sirbones’s manhood.

“Your oath commands you to ease unbearable pain, does it not?” Tulia said. “Does it command how?”

“I may not give death,” Sirbones said. Frail and past sixty as he was, he was as immovable as Belkuthas’s keep when he spoke in that tone.

“Can you put the pegasus to sleep while I try to set her wing and dress her flank?” Rynthala asked. “And steep the dressings and splint in whatever healing potions you keep about?”

Sirbones started to look to Krythis and Tulia for permission to obey their daughter. Rynthala’s face darkened. He hastily looked back at the daughter, and nodded, then knelt beside the pegasus. Within moments, the wounded creature’s eyes were closed, and its breathing was even shallower than before, but far steadier. From time to time its braided, silver-hued tail twitched, and once the good wing rose halfway. Otherwise it might have been a statue.

Krythis suspected that Sirbones had been less than wholly truthful about his ability to heal pegasi. Most likely, he had not wished to spend his spell power on pegasi when humans, elves, and dwarves might soon need all he had and more besides. Rynthala might have lived with that truth. But dithering was something Rynthala neither understood nor forgave, and Krythis found it hard to disagree.

Not when war might be coming to Belkuthas. Naked, raw, red war.

And if not war, then so much else that was unheard of for years in this land that the leisure to contemplate alternatives over wine would be a luxury that existed only in memory.

As the column made camp for the night, Darin found the next set of footprints. The chiefs had chosen a site as far as possible from rough ground. This was no more than long bow shot. They also commanded that no tents go up, so none could be trapped within them, and that double sentries would stand watch all night.

Darin led out the first watch, and found the footprints while he was picking the sentry posts. A returning messenger brought Pirvan, Haimya, and the two Gryphon brothers out to where Darin knelt, guarding a patch of soft sand as if it were a relic of Huma Dragonbane.

“Kender, I think,” Darin said, when only the four summoned were within hearing.

Certainly the footprints were too small for anything except kender or gully dwarves. Gully dwarves would find little fare in this land and lack the wits to pack food and water. Kender, on the other hand, had wits to spare, regardless of how they used them.

Pirvan knelt and studied the footprints more closely. The feet were not only small but booted, which further argued against gully dwarves. Also, they were sunk deep into the sand in proportion to their length.

Pirvan rose, brushing sand off his hands and knees. “Kender indeed,” he said. “And carrying heavy packs.”

“Probably everything in them handled from their rightful owners,” Threehands muttered. Hawkbrother looked away, and Pirvan decided on silence, as there seemed more to this than met the eye.

Less tolerant, Haimya spoke briskly. “Have you or your folk a quarrel with the kender, my chief?” It did not take one who knew Haimya well to hear the edge in the words “my chief?”

“And if we do?”

“The knights seek to undo the evil they did, wielding swords for Istar against ‘barbarians.’ Will you help or hinder?”

“How am I hindering?” The Gryphon sounded truly perplexed.

“Do you see all kender as thieves and vermin?”

Threehands laughed, less harshly than usual. “No, only those who come into the desert without knowing its laws. Fortunately not all of them live long enough to trouble anything but the sand. But a kender will handle anything, including a man’s mount, weapons, or water. The desert spirits do not honor that.”

“You and your warriors have laws about sharing in need,” Pirvan reminded Threehands.

“Yes, but those laws command one to return or repay as soon as possible. Kender—well, the gods only know where something handled by a kender will end up. Not back with the one who first held it, surely. Free Riders have died because kender handled their waterskins,” Threehands concluded. “Fortunately they seldom come into the desert at all. So I suppose we can be at peace over these two, as long as they stay well away from us.”

Pirvan nodded. This seemed the wrong time to suggest they should vigorously follow the trail of those kender, seeking to meet and speak with them. If kender seldom entered the desert, what were these two doing here, especially now? What might they have seen?

Not that these questions were ever likely to be answered. Not only was the desert large and kender small, but the average kender could find a hiding place on a dining-hall table!

By evening at Belkuthas, it was plain that Sirbones and Rynthala between them had done well by the pegasus. The inward bleeding had ceased, the cleric’s spells kept the pain within bounds, the stepped dressings were already at work on the wounded flank, and the broken wing was set with a splint so elaborate that Rynthala had enlisted the help of two harness-makers and a carpenter’s apprentice to design and build it.

This was as well, and for more folk than the pegasus. The rider, when he regained his senses, turned out to be a messenger from Maradoc, king of the Silvanesti. His message was that a Silvanesti embassy, led by one Lauthinaradalas, a high judge, was on its way north. It intended to reside at Belkuthas, a neutral location that all parties to the dispute with Istar might approach without fear. The embassy would remain until Istar either sent its own embassy to the Silvanesti or showed itself determined to treat the elves as mere subjects.

“Lord Lauthin is not expecting the humans to see reason,” said the messenger from his sickbed. Krythis and Tulia offered no response to that. “But the king has commanded, and he will obey. So will you.”

Krythis was glad Rynthala was still down in the stables—she seemed prepared to sleep in the stall with the wounded pegasus.

He said, “Your pardon, my friend—”

“Hardly that, to a half-elf.”

Krythis counted to ten. “I will call you by your name, if you will condescend to give it.”

“You may call me Belot.”

Krythis noted that this was not the same as saying his name was Belot, nor was it the full name that courtesy demanded for a host who had saved one’s life. The self-named Belot was either determined to be rude or genuinely feared that the human blood in Krythis and Tulia had corrupted them enough that they might use his full name to work magic against him.

Neither boded well for the elf’s presence at Belkuthas. As for what it implied about the presence of two or three score like him.… Only with an effort of will and a few warming thoughts of Tulia was Krythis able not to shudder.

“This may not be the best time for those who cannot fight or run to be traveling here. Gryphons are not all that need be”—Krythis searched for a softer word than feared—“that need be considered in one’s plans,” he concluded, which sounded like an Istarian law counselor but at least did not seem to offend Belot.

“All plans will be easier to make when Istar recognizes its proper relationship with the Silvanesti,” Belot said. “Now, if I may go to my mount and see how she fares …”

Tulia offered, “She fares well enough, for now.”

“I must—”

“You may not leave this bed without leave from Sirbones,” Tulia said, coming up on the other side of Belot.

“A human healer?”

“A priest of Mishakal, who is honored by all races, elves included,” Krythis said. “Go where you will, if you insist, but on your head be it.”

Belot put a hand to his bandaged head, winced, and lay back down. “Your pardon,” he said, sounding almost sincere. “But I am worried about Amrisha.” Krythis heard truth and real affection in those last words.

“Our daughter attends Amrisha,” Tulia said.

“Your—daughter—?” Belot said, pronouncing the word as if it were an obscenity and staring as if he had just found dung in his wine cup.

“As fine a rider and with as much knowledge of healing animals as you could find,” Tulia put in.

“A quarter-elf, taking care of Amrisha?” Belot snapped. “Are you mad?”

Krythis did not count to ten or conjure up fantasies of Tulia this time. He thought briefly, but in great detail, about the pleasure of throwing Belot off the top of the keep. If anybody besides Amrisha the pegasus would miss Belot, Krythis would confess himself surprised. Krythis also gave thanks once more that Rynthala was not present. She would have thought even longer about undoing Sirbones’s healing of Belot—and perhaps done more than think.

“You will be even madder than we if you try to wander about the citadel with bees swarming in your head and your feet going in different directions at each step,” Tulia snapped. “We respect you for having earned King Maradoc’s trust. But tonight you would do well to earn ours.”

She slipped her arm through her husband’s. “Shall we leave this elf to the rest he so clearly needs?”

The only problem with Tulia’s grip on Krythis was that he could not run from the chamber, nor even walk from it as fast as he wished.

In the fresh air outside, Krythis felt his temper cooling along with his skin—except where Tulia warmed it with her touch.

“As if war was not enough,” she said at last.

“Do we need to fear war if this High Judge Lauthin and his followers come? Famine, perhaps, and brawls, but war? Who would attack us while we host such an embassy?”

“Anyone who wanted to bring about the final war between humans and elves. You have assured me time and again that such exist. Do you say otherwise, to reassure me?” Her tone was very like her daughter’s.

Krythis knew that to say anything even smelling of an untruth would be an insult not soon forgiven.

He would not be divided from Tulia. Not now. “You have the right of it,” he said slowly. “But if Lauthin brings a score like Belot, we may not survive the embassy long enough to be killed in the war!”

“Then let us fill the days and nights before either comes, with as much life as is in us,” Tulia said.

Chapter 9

Rynthala raised both hands, controlling ber horse with her knees. One hand lifted over her head, halting her scouting party; she held the other out at an angle, thumb and forefinger apart. That brought Tharash out of his saddle and up to her stirrup, albeit at his own graceful, leisurely pace.

Tharash (his full name was only just shorter than a gnome’s) was an elf, from his dark coloring almost certainly of Kagonesti blood. He admitted to being seven hundred years old, although he did not look it, even by elven standards. In any case, Rynthala’s parents could account only for the last forty or so of those years.

They did not care. He was the best tracker and the most indefatigable huntsman and ranger they had ever known. Rynthala, wise beyond her years in such matters (thanks largely to Tharash’s teaching) was willing to take their word for it.

She had even been willing to take Tharash on this ride south and west; for all she knew, it was a trick to get her away from Belot. Her parents trusted her trailcraft and courage; they did not trust her temper with the elven messenger. Since they could not offend him by departing with her, they had sent Tharash in his old role as foster father. They were accompanied by a dozen of the best woodsmen and riders at Belkuthas.

“Yes, Lady Rynthi?” Tharash said. He now put a “lady” in front of her pet name, and no longer patted her knee. Otherwise his manner toward her was unchanged from when she had been seven and spent her first night in the woods with him.

“Judge for yourself, but is that not smoke beyond the ridge—the one with the red outcropping—to the southwest?”

Tharash needed only a single look. “Your eyes are sharp, lady.”

“Who honed them?”

“Guilty. But your tongue is your own creation.”

“Need you follow that trail? My parents have already worn it fetlock-deep.”

But Tharash was not listening. After looking around to see that none had overheard, he knelt and put his ear to the ground. He managed to look graceful even in that awkward pose, but was swift to stand afterward.

“Unless my ears are failing—”

“Your ears will fail long after I am dead,” Rynthala said gently, then wanted to apologize to the frowning face beside her.

She had spoken only the truth. A fourth part of elven blood might give her a century of life or a bit more, but Tharash would still be following trails when her ashes rode the winds of Krynn. It was a price that few elves were willing to pay for associating with humans, and for this Tharash deserved more honor, or at least fewer reminders.

“My ears tell me that not far off are no less than three bands of good size, two of them at least largely mounted.”

The elf’s courtesy kept him from adding, Is it wise to go on? but Rynthala could hear it in his voice.

“One of them could well be Lauthin’s embassy. If so, we should seek them out and ride north with them.”

“Will they welcome us? I am not Silvanesti, so folk like Lauthin are as strange to me as kender, and not nearly as amusing.”

“They already seem ready to think the worst of us Belkuthas folk. If we send them a guard of honor, it can do no harm.”

She did not add, unless we encounter a foe too strong for our fourteen bows, because she could also hear those words in the elven ranger’s voice. Indeed, she could think of nothing to say, nor anything to do except give the signal to remount and move on.

For three days, the united company of Free Riders and Solamnic warriors had been casting back and forth across the country between them and Belkuthas. This was a compromise between, on the one hand, splitting the band to search out Zephros’s army and, on the other, marching straight for the citadel.

Neither chief had favored dividing the company. At least three other armed companies, not counting the kender, were within a day’s ride. All remained as invisible as if they had burrowed into the rock like dwarves. Dividing the riders increased the chances of intercepting one of these bands, but also of falling to them if they were strong enemies.

Threehands himself spoke strongly in favor of riding straight to Belkuthas. Pirvan disagreed.

“The folk at Belkuthas are friends to all, or at least foes to none who come in peace. But we will have a warmer welcome if we gather knowledge of who else comes. More than Zephros are coming on, I think.”

Threehands clearly found that probability about as agreeable as draining an oasis dry, but acknowledged Pirvan’s wisdom. So they began their wandering path, which left them farther toward Belkuthas at the end of each day but meanwhile let them search the land well to either side of the direct road.

Now it was the last halt of the third day’s march. Pirvan squatted cross-legged. In this pose and garbed as he was, one would have had to look twice to see that he was not a free rider. Haimya lay on a scrap of rawhide, her head in Pirvan’s lap, while he combed the sand out of her hair.

There was more gray in that hair than there had been even as recently as their departure for the desert. But it was still thick, springy, and a delight to run his fingers through. He wished earnestly that a night would soon come, when he and his lady could pitch a tent and withdraw into it.

A shadow fell across them. They looked up to see Hawkbrother.

“Pardon if I intrude—”

Haimya smiled. “You look too much in earnest to be sent away, regardless of what you say.”

“You are more gracious than I deserve. Ah—how much longer shall we expose Tarothin to the perils of this land?”

Pirvan started to bristle, but Haimya put a finger to his lips. “We shall cease when Tarothin bids us, and not before,” she said. “He is an old friend as well as a potent wizard, and this is probably his last quest. We cannot take honor from him by wrapping him like a babe.”

The word “honor” did not have its usual near-magical effect on a Free Rider. Pirvan realized that more was called for, and tried to keep his voice light.

“We do let him use a tent of nights. He has proven he can wake from a sound sleep, shred a tent, jerk pegs and poles out of the ground, and put out fires—all of it using little or no magic.”

“At least once,” Hawkbrother said.

“Once is all he will need. After the first attack, we ride straight for Belkuthas to bring warning.”

Hawkbrother nodded, but seemed to have unspoken words dangling like overripe berries from his lips. Pirvan’s hands ceased their work in Haimya’s hair.

“What truly afflicts you, Hawkbrother? If you do not tell the truth, I shall forbid you to see Eskaia!”

Hawkbrother’s face told Pirvan that this was no proper jest, even before Haimya pinched her husband’s inner thigh so hard that her fingernails nearly met in his flesh. The Gryphon warrior looked enraged enough to draw steel and humiliated enough to weep.

“Your pardon, though I realize my ill-spoken jest may not deserve one,” Pirvan said. Haimya’s pinch turned into a caress.

“It does, for you are my sworn chief and have a right to speak as you wish.”

“Even as a father who forgot that his daughter is a woman grown and not his to command?”

“Even that,” Hawkbrother said, and he smiled. “You and my father should sit down over wine some day and trade stories of how you gave your children commands that they would not obey. I am sure it would console you both.”

“When that day comes, I am sure it will,” Pirvan said. “But your father is far away, and your brother is close. Does he wish to end our search?”

Hawkbrother’s look told Pirvan that he had guessed aright. Haimya’s told him that if he was so shrewd, why had he made a witless jest, insulting to both Hawkbrother and their daughter?

“Well, if your brother speaks plainly of the matter—”

“He will not, Chief Pirvan. But he feels himself a stranger here, facing battle with other strangers in a far land where no Free Rider may pass his grave mound for a century or more.”

Pirvan thought of all the Knights of Solamnia who had ridden out on their appointed duties and vanished forever, to be recorded on the rolls only as “Missing, presumed fallen with honor.” How many of them had doubted the wisdom of being in the place where they fell—and still faced death with courage?

He remembered an adage from his days of training as a Knight of the Crown: “Honor is not a contest. Set no man a test you would not be ready to face yourself.”

That would guide him with Threehands. The Free Rider would not be tested past tomorrow’s moon rise.

Then Solamnic trumpet and Gryphon drum together sounded the call to mount up.

Horimpsot Elderdrake was the first to sight the band of sell-swords waiting in ambush. This nearly ignited an argument with his companion, who disliked the thought of his eyes being dimmer than the younger kender’s.

Fortunately, Imsaffor Whistletrot was the first to sight the mounted column heading north toward the kender’s perch. And both simultaneously sighted the lookouts settling into position at the head of the pass to the east.

“This is going to be a wonderful fight,” Elderdrake said. “It should last all the rest of daylight, and then we can go down and do what we please on the field.”

“No, we cannot,” Whistletrot said. He spoke with a solemnity more commonly associated with White Robe clerics than with kender. “We need to warn the riders.”

“Oh, and if they are grateful, then we can—”

“We need to warn them because they are not Zephros’s men. Every band in this land who is not Zephros’s may in time fight him. It is not what they will do for us, it is what they may do to Zephros.”

“But how are we to warn them before they are in bow shot? Those sell-swords look strong.”

“What kind of a judge of human warriors are you?” Whistletrot snapped. “I have been among them more years than you have been on your journeys.”

“And their horses have been horses more years than you have been alive, and they are still horses!” the younger kender all but shouted.

Whistletrot did not dignify that outburst with a reply. Instead, he stood up and dropped pack, pouches, and weapons on the rock. Then he ran out into the open, toward a slope where he would be in plain view of the sell-sword band.

A moment later Elderdrake heard his companion’s voice rise in shrill mockery.

“Hey, you silly gut-bags up there! The sun will parch you in time, but right now you stink! Go somewhere else and make the air foul!”

The taunting rapidly grew worse.

Elderdrake did not wait long before he, too, stood up and dropped most of his pouches. He did not let go of his hoopak, however.

His friend had gone out there to taunt the sell-swords without more than the clothes on his back. By kender code, any other kender around had to join Whistletrot, or their memories would be taunted.

He ran out into the open, adding the drone of his whirled hoopak to a few well-chosen words about how seldom the sell-swords bathed. He went on to describe what this did to their skins, beards, hair, tongues, digestions, and chances with women. By the time he had run that line of taunting to an end, Imsaffor Whistletrot had come up with a few new ideas of his own.

In between taunts, the kender listened for the sound of sell-swords breaking cover, drawing steel, or nocking arrows. They could now hear easily, almost over the sound of their own voices, the approaching rattle and thump of the mounted column.

Sir Darin, riding in the lead, raised the alarm in a most irregular fashion.

“Why are those idiot children dancing up there?” he exclaimed. Then, in a different tone, he called, “Sir Pirvan! Threehands! I think we’ve found our kender!”

Then, as the westering sun glinted on the helmets and weapons of armed men leaping from cover, Darin shouted: “Attack!”

Some of those riding behind took it as a warning, some as an order. The library of Dargaard Keep was filled with books chronicling battles and campaigns gone awry or even turned into disasters by ambiguous orders. Pirvan spurred his mount forward, shouting to Haimya and Grimsoar to keep their company in hand and guard Tarothin. He would have a few words to say to Darin, who was not fighting his first battle and should have had more sense!

Then Pirvan realized that Darin had, largely by chance, contrived exactly the right tactics. A good many of the Free Riders and a few of the Solamnics were closing on him, eager to be led up the slope to battle.

All the rest were maneuvering their mounts into a defensive formation—while from the right, a motley array of foot and horse was spilling from a narrow gap in the rock. Pirvan knew that it was his duty to parley with the newcomers and try to keep the peace with them, but if he failed, his fighters below would be well placed to stand against them.

He would still have words with Darin, but they would be fewer and milder. Also spoken after he had dealt with the men now barely out of bow shot to the right.

Pirvan turned his horse, discovered that Hawkbrother was riding with him, thought of asking the Gryphon warrior to withdraw, then thought the better of such folly. He had insulted Hawkbrother once already today; if he did so again and Hawkbrother did not survive the battle, Eskaia would never forgive him.

“Remember, young chief!” he called. “We give them a chance to speak, and if they speak peace, we give it.”

“Oh, I obey,” Hawkbrother called back, shouting over the rising battle din. “But they shall speak quickly, or my sword shall reply!”

The sun flashed on his scimitar as he drew and flourished it.

“That is a battle,” Tharash said, pointing ahead.

Rynthala shaded her eyes against the sun, then nodded. But her voice held doubt. “It is not where we both saw the smoke.”

“It is sun on steel, or I am an owlbear cub. That means battle, or at least warriors. I doubt that any travel this desert wearing armor and weapons to entertain the sandstingers.”

Rynthala realized she had just been gently reproved. Remembering what Tharash could say when he did not wish to be gentle, she hoped she would never again have the experience.

“I hope Lauthin and his friends are nowhere near,” she said. “I would like to lead in my first battle without a Silvanesti high judge watching.”

Tharash managed to put eloquent agreement into a simple nod. Then Rynthala stood in her stirrups and, with hand signals, motioned the riders into battle array.

They would remain mounted as long as the enemy or the ground allowed. All except her and Tharash carried two bows, a long one for work afoot and a shorter one for work mounted, with arrows suited to each. So they could shoot as fast if not as far from the saddle, and keep the rider’s power to advance, retreat, or charge to close quarters at will.

Now, if she and her people could just avoid sticking their heads into a noose that they would not recognize until it had already pulled tight …

Her hands dropped together in the final signal: Advance, at the center.

Pirvan would have liked to throw an occasional glance at the slope now on his left. He hoped Darin was rallying his attacking column, turning it from an eager mob into a disciplined body.

Hope was all he could do. He would lose an important advantage over the men before him if he appeared worried. He had to command himself before he could command the situation.

“Ho!” he called when he thought his voice would carry and knew it would not come out a rasp or a squeak. “Who comes here?”

“Who wants to know?” one of the advancing horsemen replied. He seemed to be well mounted, although his horse was thin-flanked, while he had both broadsword and mace slung on his saddle.

“It’s the Solamnics!” somebody screamed from behind the rider. “Kill them, and none will know we are here!”

Pirvan had a moment’s leisure to reflect that whoever led this band would have to be truly witless or utterly vicious to deserve such idiots in his company. He had this leisure because the rider made a desperate effort to turn his mount sideways and block the onrush of the foot, pricked into action by the fool’s outburst.

The horse reared. One of the footmen thrust a spear up into its belly. Screams and spraying blood filled the air, and horse and rider fell, to be trampled out of sight in the rush.

One man darted out in front, determined to be the first into action. Pirvan hoped he was the witling who had brought on the battle. He drew his sword and spurred his mount onward.

One day his speed would desert him, and then it would be a race between the end of his fighting days and the end of his life. But for now, the Knight of the Sword who had once been a master thief in Istar could, in his new profession, rely on the same speed and agility that had been so precious in his old one.

Unfortunately for both Pirvan and the bold opponent, Hawkbrother was even faster.

A shrill Gryphon war cry split the air—and nearly Pirvan’s ears as well. Hawkbrother’s black horse was a blur; his scimitar and the arm holding it moved faster than the human eye could follow.

One moment the foe was running boldly forward; the next moment his body was toppling one way and his head was rolling the other. Two comrades loyally tried to retrieve his body from being trampled by friend or foe, and Pirvan was almost ready to let them do it.

Not so Hawkbrother.

“You will know we have been in this land, though you kill us all!” he shouted. His scimitar came down again at impossible speed and a barely imaginable angle; Pirvan would not have cared to describe the stroke to any of the arms instructors at any Solamnic Keep. But the steel reached its mark, and another foe went sprawling, his skull gaping.

The third man raised a spear in both hands; the scimitar came down and chopped it in half, while the tip of the blade ripped the man’s face. He screamed, but had the courage to throw the pointed half of the spear at Hawkbrother’s mount. It struck sideways, and the horse acted as if it were no more than a fly bite.

Pirvan pointed his sword urgently toward the rear and his hand pointed toward the onrushing enemy. “We need to be back with our comrades to make a fight of this, Hawkbrother. I will sing songs for you whether my voice is fit or not, but I would rather we were both alive when they are sung!”

“If that is a promise, I follow you,” Hawkbrother said, although Pirvan noted he actually turned his horse a moment before the knight did.

Then both galloped back toward their own ranks, arrows and oaths pursuing them without either finding a mark. When he could raise his head again, Pirvan finally turned his eyes toward the slope, to see how Darin’s part of the battle fared.

He learned little. The slope cast up an immense cloud of yellow dust. Amid the swirls of dust, Pirvan could occasionally make out what he presumed were human figures in swift movement. He could not tell one side from the other, nor indeed be entirely sure there were not hobgoblins and ogres on the battlefield!

Meanwhile, the head of the column facing Pirvan was coming on, in no particular order but with a considerable edge in numbers. Pirvan and Hawkbrother might have had to fight for their lives, but Threehands and Haimya brought both Gryphons and Solamnics to their rescue.

The reinforcements numbered hardly more than twenty, and faced odds of better than two to one. But the enemy had no other advantage, not in weapons, discipline, or skill at arms, and they were gravely outmatched in valor and determination.

The Solamnics were determined to avenge the insult to their leader and to the knights in general. The Gryphons were determined not to be outdone in prowess by anyone even remotely friendly to Istar. They also rejoiced at the chance to finally come to grips with one of the armed ghosts that had been haunting their trail for three days.

Altogether, the counterattack crashed into the head of the column with a savagery that could have routed a much larger and stouter-hearted force. Those in the column who did not fall at once recoiled, then turned and ran. Those immediately behind them fell into disorder as they tried to avoid being trampled by their fleeing comrades.

The four mounted leaders—Pirvan, Haimya, and the two sons of Redthorn—wheeled their horses and drove them in among the ranks of the fleeing men. Their men followed, with more haste than order, but this was a battle where steel and ferocity counted for much more than well-ordered lines.

Pirvan’s heart rose into his throat and stuck there when he saw that one of the “men” was Eskaia. Fortunately her brother was on one side of her, wielding his sword with nearly a knight’s skill. On the other side of her, improbably but undeniably, was Grimsoar One-Eye.

Serafina was nowhere in sight. Pirvan suspected her heart, too, was in her throat, seeing her weak-lunged sailor husband ride into battle on a horse barely large enough to carry him at a trot.

If Grimsoar does not live through this battle, Pirvan thought hastily, I had best flee to live out my days among the minotaurs, or Serafina will track me down.

Then somebody was shouting, loud enough to be heard above the horse cries and man cries, the hammering of steel on steel, and all the rest of the battle din. A moment later Pirvan could even make out the shouter’s words.

“Look! Up on the hill, above Darin! Enemy cavalry!”

Pirvan looked, and his heart sank down to his bowels. The dust had cleared enough that he could see Darin—well forward in the ranks of the enemy, along with his men—and also a mounted force descending the slope to strike at Darin’s flank.

The battle had suddenly turned from hard fought to desperate.

When Rynthala led her band over the crest of the ridge to within sight of the battle below, two things immediately faced her. One was a vast cloud of dust, in which it was barely possible to tell that human beings moved and fought, let alone which side was where.

The other was a kender, standing on a rock, desperately waving his arms.

Rynthala spurred her horse toward the rock, then reined in so sharply her riding teacher would have winced. Battle imposed its own rules.

“Ho, little friend—”

“Little? I am as tall as my Uncle Trapspringer, who was tall enough to be mistaken for a human. This annoyed him very much. It will annoy me as much if you do not rescue my friend, Imsaffor Whistletrot.”

Rynthala pointed at the dust cloud. “Is he in there?”

“Well, I have not seen him come out and, if he didn’t fly or burrow into the ground—and he isn’t a dwarf, but a kender like me—”

The kender had sent his message. Rynthala pointed off to her left.

“Follow me down there, but stay in line and clear of the dust. We don’t want anyone striking out at us in a panic.”

Rynthala hoped she would have equal self-command. At the moment, her mouth was as dry as if she had swallowed dust for an hour. Her breath came quick, and muscles that she had not known she had were twitching of their own will. When she dug in her spurs, she was surprised that the pressure of her legs did not crack her mount’s ribs.

But the horse seemed as eager as his familiar mistress. Together they shot down the slope. Rynthala’s notion was to stay well clear of the dust until she could snatch a prisoner or even find a willing informant among those fighting. She saw no elves and little archery at the moment, but the dust cloud was rapidly growing large enough to hide a small manor. She could not risk the slaughter of friends on the slim evidence of her eyes.

A breeze rose as she was halfway down the slope, at first blowing the dust toward her. She rode through a yellow wall, half surprised that it was not as solid as brick, to find herself coughing in relatively clear air.

She was also almost on top of the largest man she had ever seen, nearly the size of an ogre although vastly better-formed. Indeed, he was so handsome and so swift and graceful, Rynthala’s hand came up of its own accord to make the sign of Kiri-Jolith.

The godlike young warrior did not see Rynthala at first, being occupied with two opponents. She noted that he was holding them at a safe distance without trying to beat down their guards and kill them; he could have done so easily, with his advantage of height and reach, not to mention a sword in proportion to the rest of him.

At last, one of the men threw down his blade and knelt to ask mercy, and the other turned and fled. As he vanished into the dust cloud, Rynthala heard a scream—and the man stumbled out again, clutching a bleeding leg.

A kender followed, clutching his hoopak and trying to look in all directions at once. He was coated with dust and spotted with blood, but from the vigor of his movements most of it must have belonged to others.

“You must be Imsaffor Whistletrot,” was the first thing Rynthala could say.

At least it was better than hailing the warrior as Kiri-Jolith. A valiant fighter, surely, and almost certainly for good, but definitely human, and not even as young as Rynthala had thought. He could not be far off thirty, which to her still seemed a considerable age.

Both the warrior and the kender replied at once, but the kender talked three times as fast, so that Rynthala heard his answer first, even if most of it did not make sense. Apparently she had named him correctly, he thanked her, he trusted that Horimpsot Elderdrake had told her, he would return his friend’s hoopak now, and on and on for some long while.

By then the warrior was plainly trying hard not to laugh. He looked down at the kender, who barely came up to his waist, and said, “Have I changed so much that you no longer recognize me?”

The kender looked up, his mouth fell open, and for once in history a kender was too astonished to speak. This gave the warrior a chance to bow to Rynthala.

“I trust you are on the side of good, my lady, for it would be a painful duty to fight you. I am Sir Darin Waydolson, Knight of the Crown.”

“I am Rynthala of Belkuthas, and I won’t fight you unless you are going to attack my parents’ home.” Rynthala felt herself flushing at the way the words came out. She had talked more sensibly when she was ten years old!

Sir Darin was too polite to notice. Instead he waved his sword across the slope, where the dust was now exposing a good-sized battle. It was nearly finished, now, judging by the number of men down—and Rynthala noticed that most of these wore sell-swords’ motley gear, and most of those standing wore either Free Rider or Solamnic garb.

As far as I can tell under the dust, anyway, Rynthala reminded herself.

Sir Darin stepped closer and pointed his sword downhill. Another, thinner cloud of dust surrounded a second battle, still in progress. A mixed band of Solamnics and Free Riders hotly engaged another column of sell-swords, trying to force their way down from a pass to the east.

“If you wish to fight beside anyone, take your folk down and report to my commander, Sir Pirvan of Tirabot, Knight of the Sword. Or Threehands, son of Redthorn the Gryphon, who is chief alike with Sir Pirvan. I will send a man to guide you, if needed.”

Rynthala was torn between relief that there was still a fight to fight, and regret that Sir Darin would not be going with her. She signaled to the riders behind her. Follow me.

Rynthala was able to bring her band—or at least two score of its arrows—into the last moments of Pirvan’s fight. The warrior maiden was plainly disappointed.

Pirvan assured her that her arrival had ended the fight more quickly and, thereby, saved lives on both sides. For this he would be grateful, and Kiri-Jolith and Paladine would honor her.

“Are you Sir Pirvan of Tirabot?” was all the warrior maiden replied.

“I am, but—”

“Then I am bidden by Sir Darin Waydolson to seek you out. Have I done so?”

“Yes, but—”

“Sir Pirvan!” A small figure darted between the two mounted warriors. “Good to see you again. We must talk. These are Zephros’s men you’ve fought. We met them a few days ago at a pass with a lot of rocky spikes. We knocked down some of the spikes and both sides of the pass fell. That blocked their way. They must have found another road through the hills. The other men are common sell-swords. I don’t know if they are on the same side, but Zephros’s men are evil from the heart out. If every last one of them—”

Pirvan held up a hand. This did nothing to still the kender, whom he recognized under the dust as Imsaffor Whistletrot, once one of Waydol the Minotaur’s band. Ten years did not age kender greatly—or slow their tongues.

What did silence Whistletrot was Rynthala’s sliding out of her saddle and picking him up bodily by the scruff of the neck. This brought Pirvan to realize that the woman—barely more than a girl—was taller than he was, and probably stronger.

Whistletrot used quite a lot of what had to be vulgar language, but it was in the kender tongue, so that it offended no one. While he was relieving his feelings, Eskaia rode up and hailed her father as a junior captain hails a senior.

“Greetings, Father. Sir Darin reports that he has slain, taken, or driven into flight all the sell-swords. The ones you fought—Zephros’s band, they say—are asking for a truce to bury their dead and recover their wounded.”

“I grant it,” Pirvan said. It was pleasant to talk to someone he could trust not to interrupt him—at least not on the battlefield.

But the pleasure would not last long. He needed to learn a great deal about those whom he had defeated, and learn it before sunset, which was coming on fast. Then he had to place his men—hale, hurt, and slain—and his prisoners, in safety. In the morning, he would have to fight another battle, and resume the march to Belkuthas.

If the heiress to the citadel had come out to meet him, it was only courteous to follow her home. But Pirvan prayed to every god lawful for a knight to name, and a few others who might help if they were feeling generous, that Rynthala would also help him through the mountain of work that remained before they saw the towers of Belkuthas rising ahead!

Chapter 10

At sunset, Eskaia stood side by side with Hawkbrother on a low rise, overlooking the camp. They did not touch, but for now, an occasional glance served as well. They had also measured precisely and now kept between them a distance that pleased them without displeasing Eskaia’s parents or the Gryphon warrior’s elder brother.

Closest to them were the captured sell-swords, most of them unbound save for a few who had refused to give their word of honor not to escape. Amidst them stood Pirvan and Tarothin, with several of the captives in a circle around them.

“What does your father mean by so wearying Tarothin?” Hawkbrother asked. “The Red Robe pretends valiantly, but I see grave sickness on his face. Better he should have stayed behind. Skytoucher might have been unable to heal him, but the two could have taught each other much.”

Eskaia ignored the criticism of her father. “I think Tarothin is using a modest truth spell. One that will let him tell if a sell-sword lies.”

“Better to make the man unable to lie.”

“That demands more strength than Tarothin has.”

“All the more reason for his resting in safety,” Hawkbrother said.

Before they could quarrel over this, they saw Rynthala of Belkuthas riding up with half a dozen of her mounted archers. Close behind her rode Sir Darin, with a similar number of the Solamnics. As the two parties dismounted and began to unload scavenged weapons from their saddles, Darin and Rynthala somehow contrived to end up standing close to one another. Eskaia was prepared to wager all her armor and her second-best mount that this was Rynthala’s doing.

“They seem to find each other’s company pleasant enough,” Hawkbrother said.

No need to ask who they were. Eskaia smiled. “Why not? You tell me if she is not a fine woman. I say Darin is intelligent, honorable, brave, and good to look upon.”

“I wonder that you have not set yourself at him, if he has so many virtues!” Hawkbrother said. Eskaia heard an edge in his voice that had not been there since the battle ended.

She turned and stared. His wide brown eyes seemed moist from more than dust, and that neat mouth was set in a hard line. Eskaia stared for a further moment, cursed herself, then licked her lips.

“Hawkbrother, I beg your pardon. You are not jealous, are you?” Her mother had always said that more than a trifle of jealousy in a man cast doubt on both his honor and his intelligence.

“In truth—oh, somewhat. Perhaps a little more. How do you regard Darin? Did you praise him to make me jealous?”

Eskaia let out a long breath. “Paladine and Habbakuk be my witness, no! If I did anything that foolish—you could take me away and do to me whatever Gryphon men are allowed to do to foolish women.”

“I have not that right, and if I did your parents would say more than somewhat against it, perhaps my brother as well.”

Eskaia sighed. “I shall have to speak to my parents on this and other matters, before many days pass. Also my brother, who may feel freer to do something foolish because he has not a chief’s burdens.

“But as for Sir Darin—I was saying about him what I have known myself since I was not yet a woman. To me, he has always been something between an uncle and an elder brother. He was, as much as our parents, my teacher and Gerik’s in weapon use and many other matters.

“I think he walks a little apart from most, because he was raised and taught by a minotaur. He fears that some flaw in the minotaur’s teaching may someday lead him to injure another, and dishonor Waydol’s memory.”

“Waydol was the minotaur?”

“Yes.” Daring, Eskaia reached for Hawkbrother’s hand and gripped it. “I have always regretted never meeting Waydol. I think you would have regretted it. I think you would have respected him, too.”

“I think anyone who knows Sir Darin would say the same,” Hawkbrother replied. He might have said more, except that Eskaia’s delight moved her to kiss him—starting on the cheek but working around to his lips.

He replied, at first, with restraint, but before long with his arm around her. When they stepped apart at last, both were a trifle breathless, but Eskaia hoped the smile on Hawkbrother’s face was mirrored on her own.

“Well, my friend,” she said. “Our first kiss.”

“Better than our first quarrel, which is what I feared,” Hawkbrother said. He looked ready to kiss her again, but at that moment they noticed that Pirvan was done with the sell-swords and looking at them.

They did not, however, step apart.

The sunset light through the lancet window in Sir Marod’s study now glowed rose—almost the same hue as much of the stonework of Dargaard Keep, or the emblem of his rank embroidered on the cloak hanging over his chair.

He leaned back in the chair, imagining that he heard his joints and the chair’s creaking in unison, and stared at the map on the far wall. It was a splendid map, hand-colored on the skin of several large deer sewn together, the whole framed in half a dozen different kinds of wood, all so aged, darkened, and polished that it was impossible to tell what they had been as living trees.

It was also more than a hundred years old, but it showed plainly enough every place that was in Sir Marod’s thoughts at the moment. It showed Bloten, whose keep had some days before reported the departure of Sir Lewin and his company, well-supplied, armed, and mounted, and bound over the mountains for good or for ill. It showed the Khalkist Mountains and Thoradin, whose dwarves would have a busy year if matters went awry.

It showed the desert and its western fringes, the land where Aurhinius’s host, Pirvan’s company, and (if what Marod had heard was report instead of rumor) numerous sell-swords wandered about on separate business. It could not have shown where any of these were, although Marod would have liked to be able to say, of Pirvan’s whereabouts, more than “somewhere between the Khalkist Mountains and the Abyss.”

It did not show Belkuthas, though the citadel had first risen not only before this map but before the art of map-making was known to men. No doubt it had not been inhabited a century ago, perhaps with the consent of the dwarves, perhaps by their wish.

Sir Marod leaned forward again, and drifted into a reverie that allowed Knights of Solamnia to use certain small spells, for keeping swords sharp, water pure, and maps up to date.

Even in the reverie, though, he did not forget the problems the spell might cause, entirely apart from violating the Oath and the Measure in ways that both gods and men might oppose. Of late, those who claimed to speak for the kingpriest had found harsh words to use about wizards—White, Red, and Black Robes, alike. Marod’s transgression of their strict prohibition might waken anger in places where the Knights of Solamnia needed goodwill.

Also, not all magic-users were staunch allies. Some might see spying on the enemies of the kingpriest as a way to win favor withheld from their comrades. The Solamnic Orders already had too many factions without inviting vipers to nest in their armor.

The gods might not have spoken unequivocally on this matter. Pirvan himself had once known and even used a minor spell without injury to his later career as a knight. Recently, however, the good sense of men sent a plain messenger.

Sir Marod felt coldness against his cheek, but warmth over his back, and sat up with a start. The last light had departed from the window, and he felt a stiffness in more joints than his knee. He’d spent too long in an awkward position in this chilly room.

A second candle stood on the table before him, where there had been only one—and that first candle was burned to a stub. Sir Marod groped for his cloak and discovered that someone had draped it over his shoulders.

“Elius?” he said. Then he remembered that his former squire had been dead for ten years. The man who stepped into view was a candidate young enough to be Elius’s grandson.

“Your pardon, Sir Marod,” the young man said. “I didn’t think you’d want to be hauled off to your bed like a drunkard, but it would be ill-done to let you take cold. When I saw you waking, I sent to the kitchen for a posset cup. It should be here in a moment.”

“Thank you,” Marod said. He groped for the young man’s name and was relieved to find it behind only the fog of sleep. “Thank you, Candidate Grandzhin. Have the posset sent to my bedchamber. If I can fall asleep on this table, it’s time I was in bed.”

“At your command, Sir Marod.”

Pirvan was about to open the council of war, but he noticed two faces missing.

“Where are the kender?”

Everyone looked at everyone else, as if seeking the answer on other faces or in the thin air. Gerik finally said, hesitatingly, “I think I heard one of them—I don’t know which—say to the other that they should take watches up by Zephros’s men.”

Not everyone cursed, but those who did included Pirvan. “The little fools,” he added. “If Zephros’s men see them, they’ll say the truce is broken and the kender will die slowly!”

“There’s a saying in Karthay,” Haimya put in. “ ‘The definition of futility is telling a kender not to go somewhere he wants to go.’ ”

Even the Gryphons laughed at that, and Threehands added, “Kender are hard to see even by day, let alone by night, and Zephros’s men have not seemed overly desert-wise. Besides, the kender may give us extra warning if Zephros’s men do turn truce breakers.”

There was nothing else anybody could propose in the matter of Zephros’s men, except to give them more bloody noses if they started another fight. Pirvan also intended that the knights send a message to Istar, for passing on to Aurhinius, but since Zephros deserted from Aurhinius’s service, no one expected miracles or even results from that.

The sell-swords were another matter.

“None of them can pay a ransom without stripping themselves bare,” Darin said. “Then they would have no choice but to perish or join up with Zephros’s band, as they originally seemed intent on doing.”

“Nor are they the only ones,” Tarothin said. His voice rasped like that of a man with lung-fever, but the words marched out audibly and in good order. “I have read hints in the minds of some of the captains, of many other bands of sell-swords now on the way to join Zephros. Zephros, not Aurhinius.”

“The kingpriest,” Haimya said, “or those about him, who seek to undo all the victories won by reason in the past generation. Including ours,” she added, and if her voice had been applied to the kingpriest’s throat it would have decapitated him on the spot. Even Pirvan shivered as he heard it.

“Which means that we need to march to Belkuthas as quickly as possible,” Threehands put in. “Unburdened by prisoners, either. I trust none of those dung-eaters out of my sight.”

Pirvan ignored the implied solution; honor would demand a quarrel if Threehands took offense, and that would end nowhere good. “We can take their oath, to not fight against us until they have paid ransom. Then we can put the sigil of the knights on their weapons. No one will enlist sell-swords with such weapons. They can throw them away, of course, but then they will be disarmed.”

“If the kingpriest is behind this, Istar’s treasury will buy them new weapons,” Haimya said. “But I doubt we can do better.”

“So be it,” Pirvan said. “Who says otherwise?”

None did, either because they agreed or because they were too weary to put their disagreement into sensible words. At least the sell-swords and Pirvan’s party were safe from each other, and both from Zephros’s men, until sunset tomorrow.

Bloodier battles had been fought to win less.

At the crest of Shammal Pass, Sir Lewin of Trenfar had dismounted to save his mount. Now he stood holding its reins, as the remainder of his company and its pack animals moved down the first rough hundred paces of the far side.

A young knight came up and saluted. Lewin recognized Sir Esthazas of Narol, Knight of the Crown for barely a year.

“All well?” Lewin asked.

“All well, in spite of the risks of this night passage,” Sir Esthazas said.

“Are you questioning my orders?” Lewin said.

“No, you yourself spoke of this passage as fraught with danger.”

“You remember correctly. Have you forgotten what else I said?”

“That we hide ourselves from dwarven spies by traveling at night. But—”

“Yes?”

“I beg your pardon for what may seem—what you said—but—”

“I will grant pardon for anything you say without hesitation,” Lewin snapped.

“Then—why assume the dwarves are enemies? Also, if the tales run true, they have night vision like cats. How then can we hide ourselves from them, even if we need to?”

“Never assume friendship from folk without proper notions of honor,” Lewin said. “And as for their night vision—it is easy to believe old tales about the other races, and so make them into fearful monsters to frighten children.”

The light of Solinari was bright enough to show Lewin the other knight’s flush. That reminded him just how young Sir Esthazas was—and also, that his mentor had been Sir Niebar the Tall, Knight of the Sword, friend to Sir Pirvan the Wayward, and outspokenly overfond of the other races.

Sir Esthazas would bear watching. Lewin was prepared to believe in spies deliberately assigned to his band, and in tales borne out of zeal. But insulting the young knight would only raise doubts about Lewin’s own honor among those whose goodwill—or at least, cooperation—he needed.

“I ask your pardon, Sir Esthazas. You raise these questions for the same reason I do mine, for the safety of our company. I can find no fault with that, and apologize if I seemed to do so.”

Lewin did not remember how or whether Sir Esthazas accepted the apology. He was too busy mounting up, and as he did, examining the trail before him. Some of the rougher parts seemed to have been worked at with hammer and chisel. To make an impossible passage merely difficult, or to slow what might have been a quick march, to keep enemies within ambush range longer? Dwarven work, either way, in this part of the Khalkist Mountains.

Sir Lewin prodded his mount into movement, and took his place in the rear of the column.

“Have we a clear road home?” Rynthala asked.

“To Belkuthas?” Darin said, meeting question with question.

“Of course.”

“Never think ‘of course’ when leading warriors,” Darin said. “Seldom will all your band see a matter the same way. Always say exactly what you mean.”

“Well, then I will say that you seem to have appointed yourself my teacher in war. You also address me as a child.”

“Which offends you more?”

If Rynthala had thought this splendid warrior capable of a jest, she would have taxed him with making a rather foolish one. However, it had become her firm conviction that Sir Darin Waydolson had no vestige of humor in his composition.

“If you have eyes, you can see that I am no child. It might be harder to tell what experience I have in war.”

“By your own words, you ride at the head of a war band for the first time in your life.”

Rynthala wanted to shake some of the literalness out of that splendid head. However, shaking Sir Darin would be a task somewhat akin to shaking a full-grown pine tree. Rynthala knew herself to be no weakling, but not adequate to such a job.

“Very well. I say you give advice whether I ask or not.”

“Also, I give it when you are uneasy about something that has nothing to do with today’s battle. This makes you less willing to listen gracefully.

“Is the matter that concerns you the elven embassy coming to Belkuthas? The council of war did speak of it in confidence, but they spoke of it at all only because you mentioned it. So I think I violate no confidence by asking you.”

Darin had used about five words for every two he had really needed, and remained unsmiling and sober the while. However, he had also gone to some lengths to be polite. Rynthala decided she would repay him in the same coin.

“I had not thought I was so uneasy as that, but yes, the embassy is much on my mind. If anything happens to it to give Lauthin a grievance, that grievance will be against my parents. Never mind if it happens three days’ travel from Belkuthas; he will say that somehow they ought to have prevented it.

“Then the Silvanesti will have their excuse to move against my parents. They hate half-elves, those who rule in the south now do. They hate them more than they hate humans or Kagonesti, or even the kingpriest!”

Darin’s massive hands twitched. In another man, Rynthala would have said he was about to try taking her in his arms. She had a full quiver of ways to deal with unwanted attentions, but wondered if any of them would work against a man of Darin’s size. On the other hand, he seemed very unlikely to offer such attentions, and, if he did, she was of two minds about whether to take offense.

Darin instead put his hands behind his back. Then he looked at her with an intensity that held no hint of desire, but appealed far more than if it had.

“Your family’s honor stands in the balance, then?”

“Yes, against enemies where in justice one might have hoped for friends. Can you help?”

“Your family’s honor will be as sacred to us as our own, if we become their guests.” Rynthala tried to keep her face still, and Darin rewarded her by going on. “Even before we are guests, we all wish peace in this land, and therefore no harm to the elves.

“Of course, they may feel we are more likely to do them harm than give them protection. I have yet to hear of Silvanesti admitting they could not deal with any and all foes. But if we can protect them without their noticing, I am sure we shall do as much good as necessary without having to waste time arguing.”

Rynthala heard indignation in Darin’s voice, and thought she saw a hint of a wry smile on his face. Perhaps he was not altogether without feelings—or even humor.

Weariness and an unease that was not quite yet fear ate at High Captain Zephros, from within and without. He felt as if he were infested with both worms and fleas.

Nothing about this journey into the sun-blasted wilderness had been agreeable. He had ceased to be surprised by bad luck; if he had not, he would have ceased to be leader even of this motley array of mutineers, deserters, and street scourings.

That might still come about, as a result of this day’s fighting. His men counted fourteen dead and more than forty hurt, some of whom would need burial rather than healing before the last moon set. They had needed to ask for a truce to remove his losses, which by law and custom gave the victory to the enemy.

An enemy, moreover, consisting of flea-ridden desert barbarians without civilized leadership, and Solamnics under Pirvan the Thief, called a knight, but in truth the worst enemy the kingpriest had. Zephros had had a chance to remove that thorn in Istar’s side, and all he had to show for it was a casualty list of the kind that had driven stouter warriors into desertion or flight.

Zephros’s hearing was acute, and the desert night was silent, with even the normal camp noises subdued. So he heard the footsteps outside his tent and the sentry’s challenge, then a sudden silence. At that silence he drew his sword, remembered in time to save his dignity that a tent wall offered no protection for a man’s back, and met the visitors standing beside his camp table.

There were two of them. One was a Captain Luferinus, of an old Solamnic family that had curiously never produced a knight of any order. He was outspoken in his praise of the kingpriest’s goals and power; whether this had been rewarded in Istar, no one knew. Rumors did run that he knew more about the Servants of Silence than it had been safe to say aloud these past ten years.

The other was a figure in a brown robe with a hood, of almost elven slenderness but otherwise ambiguous as to race, sex, and much else that distinguished one person from another. Zephros decided to call him “he,” and feigning politeness, lit a second candle from the one already on his table.

That only showed him that the face within the cowl was still in shadow. It had to be a trick of the light or his fatigue, but Zephros thought there might be only shadow where the face ought to be.

“Greetings. Forgive my poor hospitality, but the wine is all gone to the hurt, and the hour is late. I will listen if you are brief.” His servant unfolded two camp stools, then at a nod from Zephros departed, with a cautious backward look at the hooded man.

Luferinus was the first to speak. “Zephros, I do not believe those we both serve will be happy with today’s events.”

“Not unless they are fools, which I think we all agree they are not.”

“They are, if they leave you in sole command here,” rasped the shadow face. Zephros would have made a gesture of aversion if he had not been too angry to think of one.

“Oh, and you can do better?”

“You shall do better, guided by myself and Captain Luferinus.” Again the voice had the quality of a rusty file grating across crumbling stone. After listening to only those few words, Zephros already had the beginning of a headache.

“Who are you?”

Both visitors were silent.

Zephros’s headache grew worse.

Emboldened and angered at once, he stepped forward and attempted to push the brown cowl back from the shadow face. Instead, he stopped with his hands in midair as the cowl fell back of its own will.

The face staring at Zephros had once been human. Now the skin was ridged and leathery, the eyes narrow with the slit pupils of some thoroughly unwholesome reptile, and the scalp quite hairless, with a faintly oily sheen to it. There were no external ears, only silver discs where they should have been, and the few teeth revealed in a ghastly parody of a smile were also silver.

Zephros had little knowledge of magical matters and what he had was acquired more by accident than by design. However, in the circles in which he moved, it was impossible not to have heard of the renegade mage once named Wilthur. He had worn, so it was said, all three robes at different times in a life prolonged unnaturally by forbidden magic. In the end he had challenged one of the three primary gods, or perhaps all three at once, depending on the tale.

Zephros suspected it was either all three or Gilean the Neutral. Paladine would have slain him cleanly, and Takhisis would have dragged him to eternal torment in the Abyss. Gilean would have done this, transformed Wilthur to warn all who beheld him to avoid his follies, without forcing the beholder to choose any particular path.

The high captain also realized he had been staring in a manner likely to give offense, at a being—he could not call Wilthur a man—whom it might be death to offend.

Then Wilthur grew taller and paler. A moment later, a Silvanesti elven noble stood before Zephros, so exalted in manner and carriage that the Istarian felt an urge to kneel.

He did not. He even found the wits to speak.

“I had not heard you were a shapechanger as well—it is Lord Wilthur, is it not?”

“As you wish,” and even the voice had the elven musicality to it. Then the elven noble shimmered, and the robed, hideous Wilthur returned.

“I see,” Zephros said. “Or rather, I saw. An illusion spell, correct?”

“As you say,” Wilthur replied. “This, however, is not.”

A fireball materialized, a finger’s length from Wilthur’s suddenly outstretched left hand. It flashed down, scorched a dark path across the camp table, struck one of the stools, and consumed it entirely. A thin curl of green smoke rose into the air, from a patch of sand that seemed to have turned into glass.

“Nor is this,” Wilthur added. Invisible fingers of cold iron seemed to grip Zephros’s throat. He clawed at the air, felt his vision darkening, retained enough of it to see another invisible hand grip the other camp stool and crush it to powder—

—and gasped as the iron fingers vanished and he could breathe again. Zephros rested one hand on the camp table, nearly overturning it, and rubbed his throat with the other.

“I could kill you in an instant and give Luferinus the command,” Wilthur said. He might have been discussing the price of cider after a poor apple harvest. “But it would take time to make the men accept his authority, and some might fight for you, poor thing that you are. Then there would be deaths, disharmony, and delay, yet again.

“None of which we can afford in the presence of an able and numerous enemy,” Luferinus added. “We must be in order and united when the other companies of sell-swords arrive.”

“Other companies?” Zephros said. Doubting the evidence of his senses was not one of his vices, but he simply did not understand.

“Other companies,” Wilthur said quietly. “Better than the rat’s brood Pirvan took today, because you and they could not meet in time. Half of them would have turned their coats, anyway, so I suppose it is no great loss. But more and better are coming, and you may have the glory of leading them to victory. Merely do our bidding, and we shall ask for nothing to take the glory from you.”

And pigs will march into the smokehouse of their own will and come out hams without any human aid, Zephros thought. It was a more elegant thought than he could usually muster; he remembered at least three tutors who would have been proud. He also remembered that he had given up poetry in spite of the tutors, thinking it not fit art for a soldier.

It now seemed rather a pity. Poets would doubtless sing of whatever victories he won, or compose fine epitaphs if he lost. None of them would know the truth, and Branchala did not much care for verses that did not smell at least slightly of the truth.

However, the only important truth now was the two men standing before him, waiting for his answer.

“For our men, for the kingpriest, and for the cause we all serve, I agree to your terms.”

Zephros was relieved when the others merely nodded, instead of asking him to sign in blood or some such trick.

The two kender had been watching Zephros’s camp from a position far ahead of Pirvan’s most advanced scouts. However, by the time ruddy light flashed within one of the tents, Imsaffor Whistletrot was sound asleep.

His comrade Elderdrake wanted to kick him awake, if only to stop the snoring that surely must be waking half the camp, to say nothing of minotaurs in Ergoth and dragons in dragonsleep. He did no such thing. His friend and mentor had been marching and fighting for a long time, and deserved to sleep when both of them were not needed on watch.

Except that if that flash of light meant something, somebody should know about it back in Sir Pirvan’s camp. Whistletrot had told his traveling companion enough about the knight to convince Elderdrake that Sir Pirvan of Tirabot liked kender and was even willing to listen to them … almost as long as they were willing to talk.

But how should anybody know anything if Elderdrake didn’t go back and leave his friend alone and asleep, or else wake him up? It would take a while to go to the nearest sentry, and if the man did not care for kender, Elderdrake might have to go all the way back to Sir Pirvan, and that would take even longer.

Elderdrake decided he would do nothing and go nowhere until either the flash came again or Whistletrot woke up.

In fact, before either happened, Elderdrake himself had fallen asleep.

Chapter 11

The three bands, united into one, rode out in the dawn of what all hoped would be the last day’s travel to Belkuthas. Rynthala’s mounted archers, except for those acting as scouts, accompanied the Gryphons and Solamnics.

This was the logical task for them, knowing the land as they did. However, certain Gryphons were muttering that servants of the lord and lady of Belkuthas might let hurt come to the Free Riders, to win favor among the Silvanesti.

Raising his voice only a few times, Threehands subdued such tongue-wagglers without bloodshed, but as the column rode out, the Gryphon chief wore a face so long it all but dragged on the ground. He also cast sour looks at the two kender, who were riding one behind the other atop a pack horse and singing (at least Pirvan assumed it was singing.)

Pirvan dropped back to ride beside his fellow chief.

“Those cursed kender haven’t done enough damage?” Threehands snapped. “Now they want to deafen us?”

“I thought they’d done us more good than harm,” Pirvan said cautiously. If the kender were still a grievance for Threehands—

“Oh, when all is said and done, I imagine you have the right of it,” Threehands said. “But their knocking down the Cliff of Spikes, and blocking the Pass of Riomis—that will not go unpunished.”

“It was an accident—if they are telling the truth,” Pirvan added. This was partly out of tact. He also knew too well that storytelling was a fine art among kender, and practiced everywhere, even among humans who did not really appreciate it.

“Perhaps, but it still destroyed shrines more ancient than the Knights of Solamnia,” Threehands said. “It also blocked one of the easiest paths from the desert to the wells at Riomis and Felthun. Blocking the path to water is not as vile as poisoning it, but the desert-born will not think well of those who do it. Even the desert-wise like you should be slow to honor it.”

“The gods only know on what side justice—” Pirvan began.

What knowledge he was going to attribute to the gods did not pass Pirvan’s lips. A hail from the scouts up ahead broke in on the conversation.

“Elves!”

Threehands muttered something about scouts who said the first thing that came into their hitherto empty heads, and spurred his mount ahead. Pirvan joined him.

They caught sight of the elves, who were mounted but moving at such a slow walk that Pirvan could easily count them. A dozen or so older elves—one of them as close to elderly as a Silvanesti elf could be and still appear outside his homeland—rode amidst some fifty archers. The archers had no armor save silvered metal caps, and few had any weapons except their bows. No one in his senses, though, despised elven archery. Pirvan matched the elves’ pace. Some of them rode very slowly, indeed, and were poor horsemen, as well.

An angry shout echoed across the hillside.

It did not echo as loudly as it would have a day before; they were up into the forest now, and the trees swallowed much of the sound. But the elf was shouting with the strength of righteous indignation, and could have made himself heard in the middle of a battlefield.

“Rynthala! You do us no honor to meet us only now!”

Pirvan’s head jerked about, looking for the source of the voice. Instead, he saw Sir Darin pull his horse around and ride toward the elves. At the slow pace he needed to maintain on rough ground, this took some time, but the elves seemed so completely bemused by Darin’s size that they kept silent until he was within speaking distance.

“Your pardon, worthy elven counselors and warriors. I am Sir Darin Waydolson, chief of scouts to this band under Sir Pirvan of Tirabot and Threehands, son of Redthorn of the Gryphons.”

Darin had the elves’ attention, and Pirvan was now able to pick out their speaker and leader. He was the eldest one, although his stooped and slight frame seemed to hold a youthful voice.

“Rynthala met us on the field of battle against renegade sell-swords,” Darin explained, “enemies to the peace of all in this land. Because she knew the land, Sir Pirvan and Threehands commanded her to be our guide. So, if you wish to accuse anyone of misconduct, let it not be Rynthala, who also thought you would be in less danger if our band was strong.”

“No danger can come near fifty Silvanesti archers,” the old elf snapped. “It was a matter of duty, not safety. Unless perhaps Rynthala feared to ride alone, and wished to remain in your company.”

Sir Darin at this point turned a color that the two kender found vastly entertaining, judging from their shrieks of laughter. Pirvan had the notion that Darin was about to lose his temper. Though he knew why and did not doubt the justice of so doing, Pirvan could not call it wise.

He spurred his horse to join Darin. “Sir Darin speaks the truth, and with my voice. Make your quarrel with me, if you feel that you truly have one. Or, more honorable to the name of the Silvanesti, let us all be march-friends until we reach Belkuthas. Then weary bodies will not cloud our wits.”

The elven leader looked ready to continue the conversation, but a companion gripped the shoulder of his robe, and the gesture brought him to silence. This gave Pirvan a chance to close with Sir Darin.

“So be it,” the elf said.

Pirvan turned his horse, staying close enough to Darin to be able to speak to him in a whisper.

“Well done, for the most part, but why did you speak out so quickly?” Pirvan asked.

“I did not doubt your honor,” Darin said. That was a rare remark from his lips; commonly he would be silent for hours even when he should have spoken, rather than cast doubt on another’s honor. His upbringing by a minotaur, among whom honor was a matter of life and death, had much to do with this.

“Thank you,” Pirvan said. He hoped his voice did not bleed sarcasm.

“I doubted your swiftness, and did not doubt Rynthala’s,” Darin added.

This did not seem the best time for speaking in riddles, and Pirvan said so. Darin actually flushed.

“She seemed ready to ride at the elves, or at least say things no Silvanesti of such rank would forgive. I felt honor-bound to save our host- and hostess-to-be from such an embarrassment.”

“Also their daughter.”

“Of course.” The flush did not deepen, but neither did it depart.

Pirvan trusted Darin to do nothing improper, regardless of his feelings for Rynthala, or hers for him. He still hoped Darin felt no more than the desire to defend a battle comrade’s honor from slanderous attack, such as would have meant a death challenge among minotaurs.

Which of the True Gods, Pirvan wondered, does one pray to to keep young folk from falling in love at times inconvenient for themselves and others? Pirvan was not sure if any god had power over this, but thought Mishakal—healer of mind and body, as well as Paladine’s consort—might be a good place to start.

Before Pirvan could phrase a prayer, however, a cry again interrupted him. This time it had no words in it and needed none, for Pirvan could see for himself.

Tarothin the Red Robe was swaying in his saddle, and the eyes he turned up to the sky were glazed and unseeing.

In the first moments of the spellcasting, Tarothin sensed the magic working to fuddle the wits of his companions. But something about it—something for which there were only arcane words, but that might be compared to the bouquet of wine—was so alien to him that he did not at once begin a counterspell.

It was nearly his undoing, and that of the others, too. He felt the spell touch the elderly elf’s—High Judge Lauthinaradalas’s—mind, and also Rynthala’s. He heard the words forming in their so-slightly disarrayed minds before they reached their lips or the ears of others.

But, not having begun his riposte, Tarothin could not halt the elf’s words. Nor, when he struck back, could he be subtle.

He ripped the spell from Rynthala’s mind with all the subtlety of a field healer tearing a bandage from a clotted wound. The woman’s cry remained internal, fortunately, and Tarothin knew what Darin did thereafter.

Before Pirvan joined Darin, however, the Red Robe’s entire awareness focused completely on turning aside a second attempt to cast the spell. This time he succeeded; no one but himself noticed the attack, and this time he learned the identity of his opponent.

That stark knowledge and the effort of the counterspell made Tarothin cry out and reel in his saddle. It felt as if he had been struck hard with a club, in the ribs and on the back of the head. For a moment, even his breath came short.

Then Pirvan was beside him, holding him up, and Gerik was riding to do the same from the other side. Tarothin fought air into his lungs once more and gripped the saddlebow until he was sure his hands were equal to holding reins again.

At last he was able to speak.

“Magic. Enemies—close. And—Wilthur fights us.”

Before Pirvan could answer, a ripple of movement in the trees drew everyone’s eyes. Then the whine of descending arrows struck upon everyone’s ears.

From the back of a horse already responding to the pressure of his knees, Pirvan saw the arrows, a fleeting dark shadow against the blue sky. His mount was not the only one in movement, either. Nobody within sight or hearing of the arrows was so green that they did not know the most elementary tactic to defeat an archery ambush: the arrows are aimed at where you are when the archer shoots, so before they strike, be somewhere else.

This meant a great many riders and horses all moving in different directions at the same time, in a comparatively small space of none-too-smooth ground. There were collisions, falls, and a few arrows that struck home.

But the united bands had ceased to present a helpless target before the first arrow fell. Now they were forming for battle, and were as much a menace as a target.

It helped that the hostile archers had shot at extreme range for anyone except seasoned elven bowmen. Some arrows actually fell short, and some that struck home lacked the power to penetrate and do grave hurt.

Pirvan realized that one reason the enemy had shot at long range was to avoid hitting or even confronting the elves. Whatever reason they had for being enemies to Pirvan and his companions, they were not yet foes to the Silvanesti.

This did not tell Pirvan nearly as much as he wanted to know about the attackers. The Silvanesti, after all, were not without enemies. It strongly suggested another band of sell-swords—this time with some potent wizard named Wilthur working among them.

Haimya screamed, louder than she ever had, save in labor. She was screaming curses; she was not the only one. Almost together, the elves were turning their mounts and riding out of the line of fire. They were not even unslinging their bows, let alone shooting back. Pirvan was charitable about that last; some of the elves struggled even to stay mounted. They rode away from Pirvan’s fighters, not toward them. As plainly as if they had written it across the sky, the elves were saying this was not their battle, and whoever had shot at Pirvan’s folk could go on doing so.

Pirvan was about to join the general cursing, but noticed the elven withdrawal had cleared the hillside for an advance on the woods. He was not the only one to see that.

Hawkbrother and some twenty Free Riders were on their way uphill, working from a trot to a canter. Pirvan prayed they would not try to gallop, or they would be falling faster than the elves, some of whom were now trying to catch their loose mounts or stay on the backs of bucking ones.

Hard upon the Free Riders’ heels came Rynthala and her mounted archers. They had their horse bows ready, and some of them were already shooting. Pirvan hoped they had as much sense as their enemies, and avoided hitting friends.

Then a sleet storm of arrows swept down from the forest. Again, the shooting was not good, but it was against an easy target. At least five Free Riders and six of their mounts went down.

One of the fallen was Hawkbrother.

Gildas Aurhinius placed the letter he had just read on the pile to the left of him, and drew the next letter off the pile of unread ones to his right. His eyebrows twitched slightly. This letter bore the seal of Carolius Migmar, one of the highest-ranking commanders in the host of Istar. He was also a brave fighter and excellent rider … and had once been a good friend and drinking companion, when they were both young captains. Reportedly, Carolius was somewhat the worse for years and much the worse for wine, though the red eyes that greeted Aurhinius each morning while he shaved reminded him he should not fault others’ drinking.

Migmar was also more than somewhat the worse for his alliance with the kingpriest, if other tales ran true. Or rather, as with so many, his alliance with the men who had served the old kingpriest. The old guard spent its time intriguing with sympathizers all over Istar’s realm, hoping to put on the high seat another such harsh, chill soul.

Aurhinius wondered how long it would take before some of them conceived the blasphemy of making the seat vacant, by steel, poison, or magic. He hoped it would be many years, not only after his death, but after the death of all those he cared about.

If the kingpriest was truly the repository of virtue, compassing his death was blasphemy. If he was not, claims that he was were also blasphemy.

Being a soldier rather than a scholar, Aurhinius put the question aside. He would never come up with an answer that made sense, even to himself. Also, he would waste time needed for reading letters, seeing to the camp middens, and scouting the desert to guide further bands of recruits to the main camp.

Aurhinius opened the letter, using a dwarven-work knife that Nemyotes had given him on the tenth anniversary of the man’s becoming the general’s secretary. What the letter told him nearly made him drop the knife on his foot.

Carolius Migmar was coming south with reinforcements and would assume command of the tax soldiers and all Istarian regulars when he arrived. Meanwhile, Aurhinius was highly commended for sending his vanguard northwest. Numerous bands of sell-swords with Istarian captains would be sent to strengthen the vanguard, which would make its base the citadel of Belkuthas.

This would put a strong force on one flank of the Silvanesti, while the main body held the elves in front. With such strength arrayed against them, they would surely see reason on the matter of taxes, and could be punished severely if they did not.

Migmar wished his old friend well, hoped he was in health, and looked forward to having again the old pleasure of serving with him, this time in high rank for a cause blessed by all who loved virtue, gods and men alike.

A list of the sell-swords said to be marching on Belkuthas came with the letter. It was scant on details of numbers, training, and weapons, but suggested Belkuthas might shortly play host to five thousand men.

Aurhinius used a coarse word. He suspected the lord and lady of Belkuthas would use the same or a stronger one when they learned of what as about to befall them.

“My lord?”

It was Nemyotes, drawn by his commander’s unwonted language, thrusting his head into the tent.

“Thank you, but I need no help.” Aurhinius hoped his voice was not shaking.

Nemyote’s look killed that hope, but he did withdraw before Aurhinius could say more.

Aurhinius muttered another coarse word. He mastered his impulses, which were to ride back to Istar posthaste and ask Migmar if this folly came from too much wine or from orders. If it was orders, Aurhinius would then ride to the palace of the kingpriest and smite all of his counselors with the open hand, if not with cold steel.

Assuming, of course, he did not drop dead in the saddle, halfway to the Mighty City.

Aurhinius thought longingly of a drink—a drink of ice-cold water, with just a trace of lemon in it. Wine might make him actually commit follies instead of just imagining them.

Also, it was likely that some of the Istarian captains coming south would be senior to Zephros. They and their men could bring him to heel. While this might delay establishing the flanking camp, it would be worthwhile if it meant peace with all the folk about Belkuthas.

Unless those who ruled Istar were now openly seeking to turn the tax-gathering campaign into a provocation for war against the “lesser” races?

What appeared to be utter confusion followed Hawkbrother’s fall. However, Pirvan’s war-honed eye could make out underlying patches of discipline and purpose.

Most of the Gryphons rode on to close the distance and reach the cover of the trees rather than turning about under arrow-fire. A few dropped behind, to guard the fallen from a sortie on foot and recover those fit to move. These dismounted to take shelter behind the fallen horses.

Rynthala’s mounted archers were also dismounting, to make smaller targets and unleash their more powerful longbows. They were badly outnumbered, though, and two of them went down even as Pirvan watched.

Then Sir Darin charged up the slope. As before, he went afoot, but his shield was on his left arm instead of slung from his pack horse. It was a shield taller than most, scarred and dented from where scores of lances had struck it in practice jousts, but none had ever penetrated, nor had Darin ever been unhorsed.

As Darin approached the tree line, the hostile archery subsided. Either the archers were not quite ready to shoot down a Knight of Solamnia, or they judged him to be an unrewarding target behind that massive shield.

The archers were not long in learning their error. Darin did not shout, wave his sword, or even blink. He merely nodded—and ten of Pirvan’s men-at-arms flung themselves into the tree line on the heels of the Gryphons.

The uproar that followed the second attack made speech impossible. Pirvan saw that the Gryphons of the rear guard were following Darin and their comrades in among the trees. He also saw Eskaia sitting her saddle, her lips paler than he had ever seen them, and her free hand twitching.

“Eskaia. You and Gerik take five of our men and go help the wounded Gryphons.”

Eskaia now twitched all over. She slipped out of the saddle and dashed uphill. She had left her healing packet tied to her saddle, but no doubt Gerik would remember his.

First love and first battle—at the same time, Pirvan mused. That would shake anyone.

Then Pirvan realized he had used the word “love” for what lay between his daughter and Hawkbrother. That might have shaken him, except that he had more important matters at hand. The battle, if it deserved the name, had been won. Any remaining work could be left to Darin, Threehands, Haimya, and the other captains.

He turned his horse to search for the elves, and realized that, in the short time of the battle, they all had vanished into the forest.… All but a lone archer, taller than most elves, who stood by a pine tree, his bow slung, cleaning his nails with the point of an arrow.

Pirvan beat down the urge to strangle that archer, responsible for his own bad manners if not the criminal folly of his chief. Only after gathering his resolve was the knight able to ride over to the elf in silence and dignity.

“Good archer, I am Sir Pirvan of Tirabot, Knight of the Sword. Pray, tell me if you will take a message to your chief.”

“I may.” The elf spoke the common speech with such an accent that Pirvan had to mentally translate what he said.

“Then tell—”

Silence.

“Then tell your chief, whom I would wish to honor by addressing by name—”

At the bite in Pirvan’s words, the elf looked up, and hastily put his knife away.

“High Judge Lauthinaradalas,” the elf said. He also seemed to believe he had to pay in gold or perhaps blood for every word he uttered.

“Then tell High Judge Lauthinaradalas to take a different path to Belkuthas, unless he explains his conduct in this battle. I will not be responsible for the safety of any of his party who come within bow shot before we reach the citadel. We shall see you at Belkuthas, and hope to hold more civil discourse when we do. My word of honor, as a Knight of the Sword.”

The elf gaped, as if he either did not understand the words or could not understand why anyone spoke at such length. Then he nodded.

“The message will go.”

A moment later, only trembling leaves showed where the elf had vanished. Pirvan turned his horse and rode slowly back to his people, who were now busily adding some captive archers to the sell-swords.

Sir Lewin trusted dwarves no more than he had at the pass, but he thought shooting at the dwarven family was ill-done on the part of his men-at-arms. Not even a gully dwarf would be so foolish as to attack an armed Solamnic band when he was traveling with his whole family.

Fortunately dwarves were small, hardy targets. The only arrow that found its mark before Lewin halted the shooting hit the dwarf’s wife in the arm, and Lewin’s cleric was able to remove the arrow at once and end her pain quickly.

This done, Lewin squatted before the dwarf and said, “Friend dwarf—”

“My name is Nuor of the Black Chisel, Knight.”

“Then my name is Sir Lewin, Knight of the Rose.”

“A bit wilted, aren’t you, doing this sort of work?”

“The archers will be punished. They shot without orders.”

“Without skill, either. Otherwise, we’d be dead. If we’d been elves, you’d be dead.”

Lewin decided that whatever the loyalty of the local dwarves, their manners were the same as those of dwarves everywhere.

“I accept the accusation. In return, will you tell me how far it is to Belkuthas?” The dwarf’s answer, if it came, would tell Lewin something more about the local dwarves.

“If I saw a rock falling on your head, I’d not call out, Knight. I might turn my back, though. The sight of blood turns my stomach.”

“Oh, hush, Nuor,” the dwarven woman said. “It was a stupid accident, but the knight wasn’t the only stupid one here. You’ve been telling me about rumors of sell-swords under every clump of mushrooms. So why do you insist we visit your brother today? And go out of the tunnels?”

Nuor cringed from his wife’s tongue as he had not from Lewin’s glare. He shrugged. “Good horses, good weather, no need to stop and refill waterskins—a day and a half, maybe two. Enough?”

It was not, but Lewin realized it was all he was going to hear.

“Thank you, good sir and madam,” he said, and bowed.

Nuor did turn his back, but his wife returned the bow.

Without having seen it before, Pirvan recognized Belkuthas. Rynthala spurred her horse to a gallop, and her archers swarmed after her. Threehands pursued her with oaths, but nothing except arrows or dragons could have caught the riders.

Threehands was still swearing when Pirvan rode up to him.

“If that wild girl will obey no one except Darin, and her people obey no one except her—!”

“Easy, brother chief. The journey is over, and who obeys whom is not so important when you come home from your first campaign. Or was that so long ago that you have forgotten how you felt?”

Threehands was too dark to flush visibly, but he could not meet Pirvan’s eyes while he laughed. “Smooth-tongued as always, Sir Knight. But no fool, either. Also, I realize now that she might want to see if her home is safe, from both enemies and High Judge Lauthin the Loud.”

“Are you not saying two words that mean the same thing, Threehands?”

They were still laughing over that when a small dust cloud broke off from the larger cloud of Rynthala’s riders and began to return. As it came closer, Pirvan saw that it was one of the riders, the weather-beaten old elf Tharash who seemed to be her second in command.

“I am bidden to welcome you to Belkuthas, in the name of Krythis and Tulia, likewise their daughter Rynthala. It is requested that for tonight you camp outside the walls, in a place of your choice. There are several good springs on level ground.”

“Are any of them in use?” Pirvan asked. “As, for example, by a certain high judge of the Silvanesti and his company?”

“Yes. An outrider has come in from them. We will direct them to a camp elsewhere than yours.”

“We are grateful,” Pirvan said. “I trust Belkuthas has suffered no mishap.”

“It is not that we do not trust you within our walls,” Tharash said. “Nor Lauthin either. But we are preparing the place for defense. Everywhere we are not digging or moving stones, those who have fled the sell-swords are camped, with their animals and goods. Few are well-armed, let alone warriors.”

“And camping outside, we will be in the path of any attack, giving warning?” Threehands said.

The elf shrugged.

Threehands smiled. “Take no offense, Tharash. We would do the same in your place, and you and yours have honor with us. We might even make a good warrior maiden of Rynthala, if she can ever learn to follow orders.”

Tharash laughed softly. “You would have to live as long as I have, Free Rider, to have any hope of seeing that.”

Chapter 12

Pirvan’s party reached the citadel of Belkuthas later than he had wished, but earlier than he had expected. Rynthala’s wild ride brought out a swarm of able-bodied refugees, who helped water the horses, tend the wounded, and carry the dead.

From what the refugees said, the bands of sell-swords wandering the country under the name tax soldiers were either ill disciplined or seeking to terrorize the people. Most of the farmers and herdsmen who had seen their homes burned and their flocks slaughtered could not tell the difference, nor did Pirvan really blame them for not remaining to find out.

The refugees were pathetically grateful to Pirvan, and almost equally so to the Gryphons, although some of them from outlying areas had experienced Free Rider raids. As they saw it, somebody was giving the sell-swords a badly needed lesson, after which they would all go home and leave peaceable farmers and herdsmen in peace.

Pirvan hoped so. He did not have the heart to suggest that this might be the beginning of a long ordeal. He had still less heart to suggest that the lord and lady of Belkuthas might not have done the best for the refugees by taking them in.

The problem was, very simply, that to an experienced soldier like Pirvan, Belkuthas was still hardly defensible against a serious attack. This was in spite of all the work already put in by its defenders—human, dwarven, and otherwise—of which they were justly proud.

The original citadel had covered several times the area of the one presently inhabited. Krythis and Tulia had put in a state of defense only the inhabited one, which might have supported a garrison of two hundred. It had only one well, but would otherwise require either a long blockade, heavy siege engines, or potent spells to bring it down.

The potent spells might lie ready to the enemy’s hand. Pirvan resolved to speak with the Red Robe on this matter. Meanwhile, the inhabited citadel was now holding more than five hundred refugees, most of them useless mouths, in addition to its defenders, some of the refugees’ livestock, and the gods knew what else.

Pirvan hoped Krythis and Tulia did as well.

Outside the inhabited area were old walls and the stubs of towers. Many of them had been quarried for stone for centuries, so that it would have taken a thousand men two years to restore them to their original state. As they were, they were totally indefensible, offering no protection for the citadel’s other two wells. They did offer plenty of hiding places for an attacker to sneak up on the defended walls and try rushing them by surprise.

With time short and men abundant, Pirvan wagered that this was exactly what any attacker would do. He resolved to array his fighters to protect at least his side of the citadel from that particular menace, and to keep so much as a mouse from getting through unchallenged.

Then it would be time to speak to Krythis and Tulia.

Pirvan gave Threehands, Darin, and Haimya their orders. Rynthala being back home, she was under her parents’ authority again, Pirvan hoped with some counsel from Tharash. Then he went to visit the wounded, saving Hawkbrother for last, partly out of politeness, partly because the Gryphon warrior hardly needed encouragement.

For a man with a bloody gash in his scalp and torn muscles and cracked bones in one leg, Hawkbrother was in singularly good spirits. Pirvan thought part of this might be an act, to keep up Eskaia’s spirits and those of the other wounded, but also knew that the Free Riders were as firm about making light of pain as they were about showing honor.

Having his scalp half shaved and most of the shaved half dressed did not improve Hawkbrother’s appearance. From the way Eskaia stared at him, he might have been the avatar of a god.

“Eskaia, would you mind fetching me some water, now that there is someone to relieve you,” Hawkbrother asked. “Don’t wait for herbs. I would drink horse piss if I thought the horse was healthy.”

Eskaia patted him on the cheek opposite his scalp wound, then went off. As she left, Pirvan noted she had somehow managed to wash her face and brush her hair since the arrival. Not that she could not have done it in five minutes, nor that she was unready for battle, but two years ago a small war could not make her change her clothes between riding and dinner.

“You may be drinking just that before we are done with Belkuthas,” Pirvan said.

Hawkbrother looked toward the citadel. “Water?”

“That, and much else. I will tell you later.”

“Much later. I say nothing against your daughter—”

“Wise of you, brother of brother.”

“No head wound can take my wits, for I have none, or so my mother once told me,” Hawkbrother replied. “I do say that Eskaia will be easier in her mind once I start healing, so I shall have to be quick about it. Meanwhile, could you tell her that I will not vanish in a puff of smoke if she takes her eyes off me for two breaths?”

“Tell her yourself, Hawkbrother.”

“Have—have I the right? By Free Rider custom, that means—”

“It probably means that I will have to paint myself blue and shave my scalp, then swear blood brotherhood with Redthorn—all of which I will do, to keep the peace. But as for us, by the custom of our family, whoever wants something done by another must ask her himself. Also, I think the request will sit better with Eskaia if it does not come from me. If I say a word of it, she will wrap herself up with you in the same blanket—”

Hawkbrother was light-skinned enough to flush. He also seemed to have inhaled a good deal of dust, judging from the way he was coughing.

“I beg your pardon, Hawkbrother. And now, before I make a bigger fool of myself than I already have—”

A trumpet sounded from the keep. In the distance, a silver-toned horn replied.

“Fifty plagues take the Silvanesti,” Hawkbrother said. “That has to be Lauthin the Loud and his little flock.”

It did not improve Lauthin’s disposition to hear the name “Lauthin the Loud” bandied about the citadel from the moment of his arrival. Nor did having to wait to be received in proper state.

However, his hosts had made up their minds that they had nothing to lose by being ready for the worst, and nothing to gain by trying to placate one who seemed to have been born in a vile mood and grown worse with each passing century. This was their home; Lauthin could use it with their consent, or camp in the forest without it.

Tulia and Rynthala went out to settle the embassy in a safe, comfortable campsite well clear of Pirvan’s men and the refugees. (The Silvanesti sense of elven superiority was matched by a human belief that elves were effete and cowardly.)

Krythis saw to putting the quarters and hall in as much order as possible. He was even able to wash his face and hands, although one could have shaken from his clothes enough dust to mix a fair-sized hod of mortar.

Tharash kept running back and forth among the two camps and the citadel until Krythis finally told him to wrap himself around a jug of ale and not stir for an hour.

“You don’t want me standing by?”

“There will be no trouble. Do you understand that? Do all our people understand it?”

“I do. I’ll speak to one or two of the young folk. They’re hotheaded, compared to what they were in my day.”

“You had a day, Tharash? You were not born as you are?”

The elf laughed and went off to find the ale. His departure was a signal for the return of Tulia and Rynthala.

The horns and drums that announced the coming—the onset, Krythis wanted to call it—of High Judge Lauthin followed immediately thereafter.

Zephros was not happy at the news, either of the defeat of the sell-sword ambush or of the safe arrival of Pirvan at Belkuthas. The only thing that consoled him was that Luferinus and Wilthur seemed still less content. The pleasure of watching their distaste or even dismay gave way to impatience with their refusal to provide him details. Treating him like a fool might be their pleasure; it would be an expensive one if it was noticed by Zephros’s troops.

For the moment, memories of desert hobgoblins and rumors that the enemy had wizards kept the men reconciled to accepting mysterious, hooded magic-users among their own ranks. This acceptance might not last forever, and then it would not matter a bit whether Zephros discouraged or encouraged desertion from his usurped band.

The men would depart. If they somehow knew that Wilthur the Brown was the source of the magic, they would depart in haste and without order.

Meanwhile, if these zealots for the kingpriest wanted Zephros’s help, that help would be informed.

“It seems to me we are crying before we know that the milk has been spilled,” Zephros said, sipping his wine. He feared it was the last. None of the new companies coming in had any left, nor would the loot of raided farms help. The folk around here seemed partial to ale, which he had never been able to stomach, or dwarf spirits, which might be good for embalming corpses.

“How so?” Luferinus said.

“If the scouts are right about Pirvan, why shouldn’t they also be right about the crowding in the citadel? There will be more refugees coming in, too.”

“So?” Wilthur said. He put a world of frustration into the one word.

“We have the weight of numbers. You keep saying one repulse will break the spirits of our men. Well, I doubt it. The surest way of making certain it will not is for me to say what you believe.”

“You would not!” Wilthur exclaimed. His voice held such fury that Zephros half expected a fireball to land in his lap.

Instead, Luferinus spoke. “Do you mean to come at the truth roundabout, or can you march straight there?”

“Forward, march!” Zephros said. It had not been much wine or good wine, but he had taken it on an empty stomach. “Simple. Be sure the first attack will drive home. Weaken them beforehand, from a distance—by magic.”

Wilthur went from looking ready to kill Zephros to looking ready to kiss him. The captain found the second possibility even more appalling than the first. He also remembered that no tale about Wilthur ever said he knew much of war. Luferinus was too much in awe of the mage to teach him.

I may be as bad a soldier as that old bastard Aurhinius always said, thought Zephros, but Kiri-Jolith forsake me if I am not better than these two.

“By magic,” Zephros repeated. “Possibly even simple magic.”

“You are no judge of magic, and you are talking too much,” Luferinus said.

Wilthur replied by making a small fireball appear in his hand. He tossed it up and pretended to let it fall toward Luferinus’s face. The other captain turned pale. Wilthur raised a finger, and the fireball vanished with a pop.

“If, that is, there is a simple spell for poisoning a well,” Zephros said. “Simple spell—poison a well.”

“Do not, I pray, take up poetry when you retire from war,” Wilthur said. “I make no promises. But what you suggest has merit. It may even prove fruitful.”

Zephros wanted to stick out his tongue at Luferinus.

“Lauthinaradalas, high judge of the Silvanesti,” the elven herald bawled.

To Krythis’s ears, he sounded like a minotaur calf trying to imitate a full-grown warrior bull. Why did the heralds of all races always sacrifice beauty of sound for sheer volume? There was explanation and even excuse for doing so on the battlefield, but within doors, in a small chamber where one could hit one’s audience with a thrown biscuit?

Lauthin stepped forward. He strode briskly, and his eyes were clear, though his wrinkles and almost-transparent skin said he was older even than Tharash. He also had a rasping voice and no discretion about using it at length.

Being judged by Lauthin must be a disagreeable experience, thought Krythis, even when the judgment went in one’s favor.

Lauthin read the royal decree establishing his embassy and defining its purpose. This merely gave Belot’s information in more detailed form.

Krythis and Tulia looked at one another, then Krythis nodded. “If you find the citadel of Belkuthas fit and proper for the purpose you have stated, it is at your disposal for the duration of the embassy.”

“This is as well. Please make your arrangements to move out immediately. We cannot camp in the wilderness for long without sacrificing the dignity of the Silvanesti.”

Krythis saw from Tulia’s expression that he had not imagined the words he thought he had just heard. “We had not received such a request, nor imagined that we would,” was the least rude reply that he could muster.

“Then Belot failed in his duty, and I shall deal with him myself,” Lauthin said. “Consider, however, your sacred duty as hosts. Consider also that without full hospitality to this embassy, you can have no hope of my offering you a place among the true elves of Silvanesti.”

Neither Krythis nor Tulia replied for a moment, Krythis at least because he was speechless with rage. He could not recall having been so angry in his life, not even with a drunken servant who had tried to attack Tulia.

We have lived apart from the world too much, forgetting how much folly there is in it, he thought. So when it comes from an unexpected place, we are twice as surprised as most folk.

No amount of surprise would justify telling Lauthin and his embassy to pack up and go home. If he did, any agreement reached between the elves and Istar would doubtless include the suppression—by fire and sword, if all else failed—of Belkuthas and its allies. The dwarves would offer their fosterlings a refuge, but do no more against the combined might of the two realms and races.

“I believe you make your request and your offer in good faith,” Krythis said. His voice was almost steady, and Lauthin did not seem to be looking at either his or Tulia’s hands. “However, we cannot do as you ask, within any reasonable period of time. The refugees from the sell-swords flooding the land are a duty we have taken up and cannot lay down. If we were sure you were ready, willing, and able to assume responsibility for them—”

“What an outrageous idea!”

“Then it would not be practical?”

“My lord and lady of Belkuthas, I have come as an ambassador, not a rescuer to a pack of smelly human fugitives.”

Tulia’s strained patience audibly snapped. “They are refugees, not fugitives, having committed no crime save that of being inconvenient to Istar’s sell-swords. They do not smell, save through water being short. A fair number of them have elven blood and—”

“Far too many say this, I know. But few truly, and those are Qualinesti and Kagonesti, not my concern any more than humans.”

“What about dwarves?” Krythis asked. That was stealing Tulia’s thunder, but somebody had to steal it before she poured it on Lauthin’s head like a chamber pot into a town alley.

“What about them?”

Krythis elaborated. “Is it the wish of King Maradoc to raise difficulties—if I may put it delicately—with the dwarven nations?”

“It is not. But he expects them to go into their caves until this brawl is done.”

“I wonder how King Maradoc learned so much as to be able to speak for the dwarves,” Tulia put in. At least she was content with hurling words, instead of something more solid.

“I wonder that elven blood could not prevent you two from being such witlings,” Lauthin said. He nodded to his herald, who was barely able to proclaim the high judge’s withdrawal to his quarters before Lauthin stalked through the door.

This time Tulia actually was laughing and crying at the same time, the moment they were alone. Krythis put an arm around her shoulders.

“He will have to come back, you know,” he said. “Maradoc will not thank him for ruining the embassy and risking war out of pique over our hospitality. When Lauthin’s temper cools, he will think of that. Also, we may be able to find other places for the refugees. Then there may be room for even Lauthin’s swollen pride.”

Tulia wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “You are asking for two wonders at once. First, another place for the refugees. Second, wits in Lauthin. Can you imagine that, in an elf who thought that offering us a place in his household would bribe us to cast out folk who came to us for help?”

“The old Silvanesti nobles are a proud folk. Lauthin doubtless thinks that he had offered us something worthwhile.”

Tulia said nothing. Krythis put his hand over hers and contemplated the pride of the Silvanesti nobles. More and more, it seemed like the pride of those humans who would claim all virtue for their race and leave none to others.

Pirvan and Haimya had a chamber to themselves, a gift they had not expected. It came to them through the efforts of the captive sell-swords, who formed themselves into a working party and, under Darin’s guidance, cleaned out and furbished several chambers in the keep.

“There’s no fire, but it’s a warm night,” the leader of the captives said. His name was Rugal Nis, and he was a burly, plain-spoken man without airs but with a well-worn harness and possibly some ogre blood.

“We are grateful,” Haimya said, “but I must ask a question. Why?”

“We did this?” Nis laughed. “It’s poor return for a gift to ask the giver why. But I’ll tell you, Lady Haimya. You and yours fought us fair, treated us well even when we wouldn’t turn our coats, and kept the desert cutthroats away from us. It does nothing against the kingpriest to show our thanks.”

“Then you surely have ours,” Pirvan said, and ushered Nis out. He closed the door without turning, and still without turning said to Haimya, “We shall have to think about the sell-swords, if we have to stand a siege. I would not turn them back to the friends of the kingpriest. Perhaps to a reliable sell-sword captain, since their own is dead, but—”

He broke off. At that moment, he had turned around and beheld Haimya. She lay on the bed, having removed not only all her armor but all she wore under it. She had propped her head on one hand, and almost, but not quite, beckoned with the other.

“The sell-swords can wait one night.”

“You cannot?”

“If I have to, you will be sorry.”

In the forests to the north, Sir Lewin’s party joined the march of a company of some two hundred sell-swords. The knight heard the tale that Belkuthas had sold itself to the elves, and that a high elven captain was commanding there. He also heard another tale, that a high elven lord was captive there, and that great favor would come to anyone who rescued him.

“It seems to me no one knows what is going on, and perhaps some are putting about tales to confuse us,” Sir Esthazas said. “May I beg caution?”

“A knight does not beg, nor does he ever forget caution when he does not know the way of honor,” Lewin said. “But in this case, we can hardly take the side of the elves. Not that I would oppose our rescuing the elven lord, if he is a prisoner of his own traitors, but even that will mean working with the sell-swords.”

“Even if they besiege Belkuthas?”

“As you yourself said, no one here seems to know what is going on. The place to learn the truth will be closer to Belkuthas. There, Istar’s tax soldiers will not thank us if we hold ourselves aloof from the fighting. The reputation of the knights for loyalty to Istar—that is the way of honor here.”

The younger knight looked ready to dispute the matter, but seemed reluctant, within the hearing of the sell-swords. Lewin decided he would leave Sir Esthazas to lead the men-at-arms and negotiate with the sell-swords himself.

In the forest outside the camp of Zephros’s men, now a thousand strong and only an hour’s march from Belkuthas, strange rumblings echoed among the trees, and acrid smells trickled into camp on the night winds. Sentries gripped sword hilts and spear shafts; sleeping men turned uneasily and dreamed of monsters rising from the earth.

Far below the ground, tunnels hewed through solid rock echoed to the stolid tread of dwarves moving purposefully, as always, and faster than usual.

In the keep of Belkuthas, a certain freshly scoured chamber echoed to happy cries.

Pirvan and Haimya slept entwined, but the knight awoke much sooner than he had expected, given that this was the first bed he’d seen in many weeks. He felt strange sensations, also not wholly expected.

Perhaps the years had not taken as much as he had feared? More likely, Haimya in his arms was even more inspiration than he had thought.

He kissed her and felt her stir, then roll over to return the kiss. Likewise the embrace—

The keep was shaking. Pirvan knew that passion for Haimya could shake him. Their embraces had shaken many a bed, but never had he felt a castle keep shaking in such a moment.

Earthquake. And the first rule in such an event was to get outside, so that you would not be buried under falling stone or timber when the tremors grew too violent for the building you were in.

They were only one story above the ground. A jump would be safe, and faster than the stairs. Now, if that window was wide enough—

The knight was crouched in the window, trying to fit his shoulders through, when he saw men run toward the citadel’s well house, then suddenly recoil. They recoiled before a dark flood pouring out of the well. It was touched with foam, and silvered here and there by Solinari.

The flood continued. Now it was more like a wave breaking on a rocky shore. The courtyard was ankle-deep in water, and the well was now the source of a fountain rising higher than Pirvan’s perch.

Suddenly, the fountain turned into an eruption of water, steam, sand, mud, bits of rock, and less identifiable debris. The roof of the well house soared into the sky like a pot lid flipped aloft by hot steam. A good part of the well house wall followed it.

A vertical pillar of water, foam, and wreckage towered high above Belkuthas. Then it arched away from the vertical, and Pirvan heard above the roaring a mighty splashing as the water struck the ground.

The heavier debris rained down all over the citadel. Pirvan heard thuds as stones struck the ground, screams of pain as they struck flesh, more screams of terror at the falling stones and the noise.

Pirvan himself would not have minded finding release in a scream. Cold knowledge sank into him: the citadel was under attack by magic. Magic directed at its water supply, and also at the courage of its defenders.

Without either, Belkuthas was weakened. Without both, it was—he would not say doomed—in grave peril.

He was still so cat-nerved that he jumped when an arm stole around his waist. He turned and saw Haimya, peering over his shoulder at the uproar in the courtyard. She wore only the dagger she had snatched from under the pillow.

Outside, Rynthala rode up, wearing a tunic thrown over a night robe. She also wore her bow and quiver. Pirvan suspected she would take them to the bedchamber on her wedding night. A man lacking the courage to face that prospect should be unlikely to woo her, let alone win her.

“Rynthala!” Pirvan called.

The heiress of Belkuthas looked up. “Sir Pirvan. You and Lady Haimya are well?”

“We’ll be better when we know what’s happening.”

“Gone!” somebody screamed. Then a tumult around the remains of the well house threw shouts into the night air. From them, Pirvan extracted the heart of the matter.

Something—he agreed with those who shouted “evil spells”—had flung all the water out of the well, then collapsed the well shaft. Some thirty or forty yards down lay solid rock. There was talk of somebody climbing down the well, to see for sure, and at least one sensible person had lit a torch. Nobody seemed eager to be the climber—nor did Pirvan doubt anyone’s courage for that.

“Rynthala!” he called. “Are there scouts out?”

“Why?”

“Because I think our enemies will want to follow the ruining of the well with an attack, before we can rally. A few scouts could give warning, perhaps delay them with archery.”

A new voice called out, “I would expect them to wait until thirst forced us to yield without a fight.” That was Krythis, who had just appeared, striding through the mud in barely more complete garb than Pirvan and Haimya.

Pirvan did not want to say that the kind of sell-swords coming would want loot and refugee women, which they would not have without storming Belkuthas.

The refugees would be sufficiently frightened already, without hearing that.

Instead, he said, “Who commands now?”

Krythis looked about to reply, when Rynthala bent down and whispered in her father’s ear. Slowly he nodded, then looked up at Pirvan.

“Could you take command? You are senior knight, and no one else has such rank or experience.”

“Very well. But you will rank second, along with Threehands. In the citadel, when I am not present, he obeys you. Outside the citadel, likewise, will you obey him?”

By now others were listening to this public discussion of what ought to be a private matter. There were curses and a few mutterings about “desert horse-(obscenities).”

Pirvan raised his voice. “It will have to be that way, or the Gryphons may leave. Certainly honor will demand that they fight a separate battle. We can’t have that.” It was a piece of advice for the archers of Lauthin the Loud as well, if they were within hearing.

“Very well,” Krythis called. “I will tell Tharash.”

“Do that,” Pirvan said. “Wait a moment, and I’ll come down and see to the well. I’m not as young as I was, but I should still be better underground than anybody save a dwarf.”

Haimya’s voice hissed in his ear. “You will do no such thing. First, because you now command here, and your life is not your own. Second, because you are clad like a new-born babe.”

“The best garb for digging wells, or so I have heard,” Pirvan said. Then he turned, and almost fell into Haimya’s embrace.

She was shaking, but stopped when she felt and heard him laughing. “I still have the dagger, if you do not tell me the jest.” But it was not the hand that held the dagger that touched him.

Pirvan managed to put into words the absurdity of discussing the matter of command in a besieged fortress while crouched unclad in a keep window, with a half-elven lord standing in a similar state ankle-deep in mud from an ensorcelled well.

By the time he finished, Haimya was at least smiling. “Although if the absurd is the worst that befalls Belkuthas before this is over, we shall all be very lucky,” she replied.

“Too true. Now, for the love of the True Gods, let me get dressed. I have to go down to the courtyard at least, if not down the well. I have to start my command here with a little dignity!”

Chapter 13

The road of honor was anything but clearly marked. Anything other than caution would be a folly that would make the name Sir Lewin reek down through the ages in the chronicles of the Knights of Solamnia.

Upon joining what seemed to be the main body of the march to Belkuthas, Sir Lewin immediately regretted his remarks to Sir Esthazas.

He was unnerved not only by the rumored presence of Sir Pirvan and his companions at Belkuthas, nor the equally rumored presence of elves of some exalted rank (some rumors claimed even King Maradoc himself). The first would be a problem, the second perhaps a problem or an opportunity, but Sir Lewin could live with both.

What he could not live with—perhaps literally—was the “host” in whose ranks he now found himself. He could not deny that he was endangering those he led by keeping company with Zephros’s army, now swollen to nearly a thousand. At least he was endangering them as long as he did not assume command and try to delay the assault on Belkuthas until those thousand men knew more of war.

There were in truth many valiant, skilled, and well-armed men among the thousand. But they obeyed twenty different captains, with Zephros their commander only in name. It took half a day to agree on what was needed for some companies, abundant in others, and stolen and bartered almost everywhere.

Lewin finally worked his way around the camps to Luferinus, who seemed to know the most. The knight had to be cautious in dealing with Luferinus, who was the recognized leader among those sell-swords who would do anything for the glory of the kingpriest and the injury of the lesser races. He was not universally loved; the rumors of his having a pet mage did not help. Nor had Lewin come all this way to cut his own throat by so openly aiding the kingpriest’s cause that the knights would have to bring him before a tribunal.

Still, the meeting with Luferinus was not without value. It became plain that Zephros could be a weapon in the hands of anyone who left him the glory of command. For now, Luferinus was wielding him.

But the chance of battle could alter that. Lewin was not quite sure if he should give chance a helping hand; there was that mage to think about. But he resolved to meet privately and secretly with Zephros as soon as he could arrange it.

Of course, the whole question might be settled on the morrow by a victory at Belkuthas—although the last march to the citadel did not make Lewin hopeful.

The plan was to finish the march by daylight, camp just out of sight of Belkuthas at nightfall, then march at first light and attack once the sun was up. A night attack or even a night march were assumed, quite correctly, to be well beyond the power of this motley host.

The march actually began around noon. By the time the shadows lengthened, the army was barely halfway to Belkuthas, and scouts from the citadel had long since sighted them. Attempts by mounted sell-swords to drive off the scouts had led to skirmishing, in which the only casualties were a round dozen of horses and a centaur accidentally shot by one of Zephros’s archers.

By nightfall, they were hardly farther along. They made camp wherever they could, a cold, thirsty, and hungry camp. Lewin offered the service of his men to at least keep Belkuthan scouts from slitting the throats of sleeping men, and even Esthazas agreed that honor demanded it.

The offer was accepted. Lewin and his men spent a sleepless night guarding men who were not their comrades, who would hardly be fit to fight at all on the morrow, and who would have a wearying march on what promised to be a hot morning, even to reach the battlefield.

The only consolation was a rumor (ah, those rumors!) that someone had poisoned, or filled in, or boiled away, the only well within the walls of Belkuthas.

From below came a continuous scrape, thump, and clatter. New refugees hauled loads into the huddled encampment. Dwarves piled more stones onto the walls of the crowded pen. (The kitchen gardens of the citadel would be well fertilized for the rest of the year.)

With buckets and basins, barrels and bottles, and everything else that would hold water, every able-bodied person among the citadel’s defenders not otherwise occupied was hauling water from the two wells beyond the inner citadel. That had been Pirvan’s first order when he reached the courtyard. He had hauled the first bucket himself.

Now the last scout had ridden in, reporting that the attack would come in the morning.

Lauthin and his archers had barricaded themselves in the base of one of the towers. No one cared to try to get them out. What they would do when the fighting began, no one knew.

All those who would listen to orders had received them. Pirvan had even found time to console Eskaia, who was drawn and blinking back tears at the thought of being a widow before she was a wife. The knight had the sense not to console her with the notion that Hawkbrother’s wounds would keep him out of the fighting.

At last, Pirvan climbed the walls, where he found Grimsoar One-Eye.

“Hello, old thief,” Grimsoar said. “Pull up a piece of stone and sit down.”

Pirvan did so gladly. They stared off at the dark bulk of forest beyond the moonlit open ground. Pirvan thought he saw a spark of fire, but doubted any attackers were that far advanced, or any refugees that far behind.

“A long road from the sewers of Istar, eh?” Grimsoar said.

“Not so long, considering what we’ve found along it. I would walk it again, even if I had other choices.”

“Aye. You found her early on. A pity I came so late to Serafina.”

“Old friend, when you and I were thieves in Istar, Serafina was a baby.”

“I know. It’s not that I’m complaining, but—well, I’d rather we’d started our own babe before this all began.”

“Serafina might have broken your head, thinking it was a trick to leave her behind. I know Haimya came close to breaking mine when she learned she was carrying Gerik just before we were to leave on a certain matter.”

“I don’t doubt it. Well, we could both have done worse. Still, a man does like to leave behind him something that won’t die with his last friend.”

From below, a shrill altercation burst suddenly into the rest of the noise. After a moment Pirvan recognized the kender, speaking their own tongue.

It might be well to learn it. The kender went everywhere, saw or heard everything, and would not discuss most of it if they had to use the common language.

Too late for that tonight. Too late for anything except a few hours’ sleep. Don’t call it the last sleep, he thought, even in your mind, you fool! In Haimya’s arms, and then a battle for justice and against—what?—in the morning.

Pirvan hoped Zephros’s men would lose their way and not come until after lunch tomorrow. He wanted to sleep late.

The first warning, birds flying up and deer running out of the forest, had long since come. From the walls, Rynthala saw nothing else moving. The enemy must be arraying their men under cover of the trees, or else, they had fulfilled Sir Pirvan’s wish, and gotten thoroughly lost.

A pity this is all rocky ground, Rynthala thought, with no bogs for them to fall into.

She watched Eskaia leave Pirvan’s side and descend the stairs, toward the healer’s station. She was plainly going to spend some of the waiting time with Hawkbrother.

Eskaia was a lucky girl, with no men to command today—although Hawkbrother’s own followers clearly saw her as their chief’s lady and were careful to stand between her and strangers. Also, she was lucky in knowing that her man knew he was her man.

If Rynthala or Sir Darin fell today, neither would ever be certain what there had been between them. Certainly warriors’ mutual respect, and that from the beginning, but this was not entirely what Rynthala had in mind.

At least they would be fighting side by side. If it came to counterattacking outside the walls, Darin and Rynthala’s men-at-arms would mount up and ride out. That would be her third battle in six days, all three fought under the eyes of Knights of Solamnia.

She was learning war at a frantic pace.

Now all I have to do is live long enough to use the knowledge, she thought dryly.

The sound of axes and saws drifted from the forest on the hot wind. Siege engines? Too late, and the ground too rough on that side. Probably scaling ladders—and it said much about the enemy that they were only now making this vital provision for the final assault.

Granted, scaling ladders were clumsy things to haul through woodland. But five hundred men with shields and ladders, advancing at a run and covered by five hundred archers—they could have had Belkuthas in the time it took a posset cup to cool, knights or no knights.

She wanted to take that thought to heart, to let it warm her and make her believe the battle would be no harder than chasing gully dwarves out of the midden heap. She could not. She had heard too much, seen enough—and besides, this was her home.

Any battle here was accursed by the True Gods.

From the forest, the woodworking din continued, but now a horn blared above it, and drums answered.

Well over a thousand men advanced in three columns through the woods. The largest column was Zephros’s, with his own men, the recruits from the march, and assorted men who had come in numbers too small to have their own captains. Zephros was not such a fool to be ignorant of what that meant about the men. He merely hoped they would be the first to fall.

Zephros led on the right, with Luferinus in the center. He was a captain that many lesser captains would follow, either out of respect or out of hope of gaining favor in the eyes of the kingpriest.

To the left rode assorted men, watched over, rather than led, by the two knights and their men-at-arms. That position had been negotiated between Zephros, Luferinus, and Sir Lewin. This left-hand column was to march around the citadel, keeping out of bow shot, and bar escape for refugees and counterattacks by dwarves. These orders would preserve the lives of the men and the honor of the knights without much risk of bloodshed. Neither refugees nor dwarves were witlings enough to roam around a battlefield.

The army was now just outside bow shot of the outermost wall, or at least the pile of rubble where it had once stood. Zephros studied the successive barriers lying between his men and the inner citadel, looking for hidden archers.

He signaled to Luferinus, and the two captains put their horses to a trot. The laws of war demanded that a fortified place be summoned to yield; Zephros was not ignorant of what it would mean to break that law before the eyes of Knights of Solamnia.

Legal niceties never helped once battle was joined, and this particular law made difficult Zephros’s best chance of victory—swarming the citadel so quickly that no one need be spared to tell tales. Then anyone who objected to its change of ownership would face an accomplished fact, needing a host of his own to unaccomplish it.

“Unaccomplish.” Zephros savored the word like wine as he rode forward at the head of his men. It was a place he once expected never to find himself in again, after Aurhinius’s wrath at the end of Waydol’s War.

As Zephros reached the outermost wall, someone hailed him from the inner citadel.

“Who comes here in arms, where no enemy exists and peace is the wish of all?”

That sounded like a herald rather than a knight. A pity Sir Lewin was off to the other flank. He might recognize Sir Pirvan’s voice.

“I am High Captain Zephros of the host of Istar, lawfully come to make of this citadel a bastion of virtue. We wish it to serve our host, while it brings the Silvanesti to their proper relationship to Istar.”

The reply to that was a good deal of laughter, and several voices speaking a tongue Zephros did not know. It sounded like Silvanesti; it also sounded rude.

“How do you answer?” he called.

“I answer that you have no lawful business in this citadel. It is already host to an embassy of the king of the Silvanesti. If you are empowered to meet with the High Judge Lauthinaradalas to discuss all the outstanding matters between Istar and the realm of the Silvanesti elves, you may enter, with such persons as you wish, and with the same rank as the high judge.

“Otherwise, we must ask you to camp without, and if you seek entry by violence, be warned you shall be treated as enemies.”

“Confident, aren’t they?” Luferinus said. “No water, a mob of peasants on their hands, an elven noble to keep from getting pricked in his bony arse, and they still wish us to the Abyss.”

Zephros tried to find a suitably eloquent way of phrasing his own reply. The silence dragged on, until Zephros realized he would look a fool if it continued longer.

Zeboim drown the knights, he thought. The law is upheld and waiting gives time to our enemies.

Zephros rose in his stirrups. “The citadel of Belkuthas refuses to yield to the hosts of Istar, fighting in the name of virtue. Let all who stand in their path beware!

“Storming parties, forward at a run!”

Pirvan had gone two walls outward from the inner citadel to hold the parley. When Zephros—easily recognizable from the kender description—ordered the attack, Pirvan and his men-at-arms had to retreat with as much haste as was consistent with dignity.

They could have crawled on their hands and knees. The attackers’ idea of a run could hardly have overtaken a child of four. Pirvan rather regretted he had not posted a few bands of archers among the outer ruins. They could have given the attackers a bloody nose some two hundred yards sooner, perhaps stopping them beyond bow shot of the courtyard where the refugees huddled.

“Ought to have” are words that every captain has thought, but the victory goes to those who do not let it unman them. Pirvan had forgotten where he read that, but remembered the good sense it made then—and now.

Honor demanded that the men-at-arms with him climb the ladder first. As he, last, was scrambling up it, an unexpected face appeared on the wall. It was the sell-sword Rugal Nis.

“Me and the lads have been talking,” he said without preamble. “The magic with the well’s unlawful. We’re not bound to stay out of this fight. Most of us want in, on your side. Can we arm up and come out with no trouble?”

Pirvan looked about him. There was no one in hearing range who was worth consulting, save Haimya and Eskaia. Both of them were looking at him, as if expecting him to be a fount of wisdom.

The responsibility of command was a constant joy.

“Very well. But I warn you: stay close to me. I can’t speak for the trust of everyone here until you’ve proven yourself good comrades.”

Rugal Nis grinned and slapped Pirvan on the back. He did the same to Haimya; he tried to kiss Eskaia, but she danced nimbly out of the way, laughing nonetheless.

Pirvan hoped there would be cause for laughter at the end of the day.

Zephros’s men were now marching, or rather swarming, over what had clearly been Sir Pirvan’s camp. When the knight led his men inside the walls, he had also seen to it that they stripped the camp of anything of value. A few tents that had seen their last campaign, firewood, rusty cook pots, the ashes of campfires, and the turned earth of carefully covered midden pits—a gully dwarf would have despaired of finding anything here.

That didn’t keep some of the men from breaking such ranks as they had kept, searching for loot. Zephros rode out to rally the stragglers. He would gladly have gone to Nuitari to find a dozen good sergeants to do the job for him.

Luferinus saw Zephros riding toward him and seemed to think his fellow captain wished another meeting. He turned his own horse toward the camp, with a backward glance toward the far flank. There, Sir Lewin was at least keeping the men from falling into ditches, tripping over their own feet, or maiming themselves with their own weapons.

As the two captains rode toward each other, a small figure rose, seemingly from the ground. Zephros’s first thought was gully dwarf. Then he recognized the slight build of a kender—coming toward him at a run, hoopak raised to stab with its sharp end.

At that moment, Luferinus saw the kender also, drew his sword, and dug in his spurs. His horses reared in surprise. Others had also seen the kender—archers among Zephros’s men, both in the column and among the would-be looters. They nocked, drew, and shot with admirable speed, but less admirable aim.

The kender went to the ground and, being covered with ashes and filth, was all but invisible when he did. The arrows flew harmlessly above him, and not so harmlessly pierced Luferinus’s horse in several places.

The horse screamed and reared again, twisting in a frenzy of agony. Luferinus also twisted, struggling to keep his seat. He lost the struggle, lost his seat, and crashed to the ground, one foot still caught in the stirrup. Before he could rise, more arrows struck the horse, and it bolted.

Before the appalled eyes of both advancing columns, Luferinus’s horse thundered away in a cloud of dust, dragging the captain with it. Zephros dug in his spurs and gave chase.

In moments the dust swallowed both captains—and also all the men from both columns, mounted and afoot, who followed the captains.

Where there had been an attack formidable at least in numbers, there was suddenly no attack, and as to the numbers, no two men seemed to be doing the same thing.

Pirvan’s first thought as he watched the attack disintegrate was that Tarothin must have found a spell to fog their wits. The Red Robe was atop the keep, where he could see everything, and had all the spellcasting materials and apparatuses his saddlebags and the citadel could provide. No asking him, though, until the battle was over—this was not something where one could use a messenger.

The knight was still watching the confusion in front when he heard a familiar tread behind. Sir Darin walked with amazing lightness for one of his size, but even on solid stone that size made his tread distinctive.

Then Pirvan realized Darin was not alone, and turned to stare not only at the knight but at two elves standing beside him. One looked as if he would rather be hiding behind Sir Darin. The other stepped forward.

“Sir Pirvan. I will not give my name, for I wish no witnesses to my speaking until I have proved myself with words and deeds alike.” His speech, in the common tongue, was fluent, even graceful.

Elven eloquence could sometimes be as ill-timed as kender chatter. Pirvan made an impatient gesture.

“You have offered the words. What deeds do you offer?”

“Some of us wish to stand upon the walls, and let ourselves be seen by those who would doubt we are with you. Perhaps this will make certain foolish men outside the walls think again about coming within them.”

“Will you stand armed?” Pirvan said. “This is a battle, in case you hadn’t noticed. It is no place for gestures by unarmed elves. I would not have your blood on my conscience.”

He was tempted to add that only a fool would give Lord Lauthin cause to complain more than he already did. The elves’ expression halted the knight’s tongue. They looked resolved to face death rather than again stand aside from a battle. In carrying out that resolve, they were committing what in human hosts was commonly named mutiny.

Soldiers died for that offense, more often than not. Pirvan wondered what the Silvanesti punishment was—and prayed he would not learn today.

“Very well. You and those of your mind—take your bows and quivers. Go around to the hillward side of the citadel. I doubt we have much to fear from these folk, but there’s another column working its way around to our rear. They may need a little more discouraging.”

As he had sent off two of his men-at-arms to escort the sell-swords, Pirvan now did the same for the elves. This left him with one man-at-arms, Haimya, and Eskaia. Not much dignity for the commander of a great citadel under siege. Should he ask Krythis for a plume for his helmet, or perhaps a canopy to ward off the sun, which looked as if it would make the rocks hot enough to fry eggs before the day was done?

Perhaps the day would not end without more laughter, either. Then Pirvan licked dusty lips, and remembered the matter of the citadel’s water supply.

Sir Lewin had gradually worked his way toward the head of the column, which he was busily protecting from its own follies. He had ten men with him and the rest distributed along the length of the marchers, with Sir Esthazas riding in the rear guard.

All the Solamnics were keeping well clear of their comrades, if only to avoid riding any of them down. Also, Sir Lewin wanted his men to be free to form up and charge if they found a foe worthy of such a maneuver.

His hope of that, however, was rapidly shrinking. The ground was riddled with animals’ burrows and little ditches cut by rainwater, almost too rough to allow any sort of charge. The walls on this side were also more crumbled, and one could easily find oneself riding through fields of rubble without warning.

It was as he drew rein to find a path through one of those rubble fields, that Sir Lewin happened to look at the wall. His eyes were undimmed by his nearly fifty years, and it was not hard to recognize those standing atop the wall, even at a good bow shot’s distance.

Elves. Their stance, their build, their coloring—all nearly shrieked in Sir Lewin’s ear.

He did not shriek. But his shout was pitched like a battle cry. “The elves have joined the fight for Belkuthas. The embassy is foresworn. Follow me, for the honor of Istar and the name of soldiers of virtue!”

The wolf-pack howl that replied told Sir Lewin the men had very little interest in virtue and much in vice, particularly the kinds practiced with the wine and women they might find within the citadel. He told himself that the citadel’s fall would be a victory worth winning, nonetheless, a victory over elven treachery.

Then he waved to his trumpeter. The great battle horn roared, and all over the battlefield heads turned toward the sound.

Among those who recognized the blast of a battle horn of the Knights of Solamnia were Sir Pirvan and Sir Darin. Pirvan could not see across the citadel as easily as Darin, with his extra height, so it was the younger knight who saw the truth first.

He uttered a word Pirvan had never before heard from his lips. Then he added, “There is a knight leading the rear column. I must ride out and learn what he is doing in such dubious company.”

“You must—?” Pirvan began.

Darin shook his head. “If he is there by design of the orders, well and good. He will not allow me to be harmed. If he is there for other reasons—he must learn what a fool he is, to ride with them against fellow knights.”

Only Sir Darin did not use the word “fool.” He used a much stronger word in the minotaur tongue. Pirvan had heard him use it before, but never applied to another knight, or indeed any person Darin respected.

The older knight was still recovering from his surprise when Darin leapt off the wall, to land halfway down the stairs. He descended the rest of the way three steps at a time, then dashed across the courtyard toward his mount. A moment later, Pirvan heard him roaring.

“Open the gate! Paladine demands that I ride to save a knight’s honor.”

As softly spoken as he commonly was, Darin possessed a voice to match his stature. Pirvan feared he could be heard all the way to the trees, and that he would have a dozen arrows in him before he was twenty paces from the gate.

But Darin was right. The Knights of Solamnia had to look to one another’s honor, when ignorance or folly might strike at it.

Briefly, Pirvan cursed the moment he had accepted command of Belkuthas. His honor demanded that he remain at his post, and leave riding out to save others’ honor to Darin.

Chapter 14

By the time Zephros overtook Luferinus, the sell-sword captain’s own men had surrounded him. None of them were attempting to care for his wounds. No man with his head at that angle to his body could be alive.

Zephros reined in. He saw a ripple of rising heads and raised weapons around Luferinus. His initial impulse, to go and kneel piously beside the body, began to disappear.

Taking its place was an impulse to be elsewhere, if only he could find an excuse and a way to leave without turning his back on either the enemy or the men who had been his allies until a few moments before. He would not have minded Luferinus’s fall under most circumstances, but these circumstances seemed to have been contrived by Hiddukel the Liar.

He was contemplating this, and it seemed to him that some of Luferinus’s archers were contemplating drawing bow, when a mounted man galloped into sight. His horse was lathered and his own eyes were wild, while from his gaping mouth came a shriek.

“The knights are coming out! The knights are out of the citadel! ’Ware, ’ware!”

That seemed to Zephros as good a reason as any for digging in his spurs. He galloped off, to a brief chorus of jeers, which died when the men saw that he was advancing toward the citadel and the charging knights, not fleeing.

His real reasons for advancing were less than heroic. He wanted to give Luferinus’s men as few excuses as possible for shooting him in the back. He also wanted to see if the knights’ charge was another rumor.

As Zephros rode, he swore a mighty oath that he would kill with his bare hands the next person who spread panic by spreading tales!

Mistaking Sir Darin’s ride out to parley for a charge of the garrison’s knights was understandable. Darin wore armor and carried both sword and lance, and he looked as formidable as any three knights. His horse had been kicking its heels in the Belkuthas stables for two days, so it emerged at a brisk center.

Though they thought Darin was attacking, the first ranks of the soldiers refused the honor of engaging him. He did not even have to couch his lance before they scuttled off in all directions. The knight doubted this was due to a vast abiding respect for the Solamnic orders, and drew his sword, a more effective weapon at close quarters.

This convinced other sell-swords that it was time to face Darin, Solamnic Knight or not. Some thirty of them swarmed toward him on horseback and on foot, at the same moment as he recognized Sir Lewin.

To say Darin was confronted with a dilemma was to grossly understate matters. Sir Lewin had been raised by Sir Marod, Sir Pirvan’s patron, since before Pirvan took to thieving in Istar or Darin was washed ashore near Waydol’s stronghold. Darin would have found it hard to doubt Lewin’s honor, even had there not been much in the Measure against such doubting.

Nonetheless, Lewin was riding with the enemy rabble, apparently advancing to the attack with them. There had to be some explanation that did not involve Lewin’s having lost either his honor or his wits. Darin hoped one would be forthcoming, and that Sir Lewin would not stand on his superior rank as a Knight of the Rose and refuse to speak.

Meanwhile, whether the men coming at Darin were friends of Lewin or not, they were clearly no friends to the younger knight.

Darin sheathed his sword, couched his lance, and prodded two sell-swords out of their saddles, trying to do as little damage in the process as he could. Against a third mounted opponent his lance encountered a too-robust breastplate and snapped. He used the broken shaft to club a fourth rider out of his saddle, then tossed the piece away, drew his sword again, and tried to discourage the men on foot from approaching.

Discouraging them proved inadequate. Sadly he realized, almost too late, that he would have to kill. By then the soldiers had drawn close enough to use their weapons—mostly pikes and bills, and nearly all with rusty metal—against his mount. In moments Darin’s horse was bleeding in half a dozen places. Then he felt it starting to fall.

He leapt free, landing with the agility of a much smaller man, with shield on his left arm and sword in his right hand. He pushed two men hard with the shield, cut a third across the chest with a precise sword stroke, then settled down to what he feared would be a long and serious fight before he could speak to Sir Lewin.

Indeed, Darin had lost sight of the Knight of the Rose in the rock. The defenders on the citadel wall had not. They saw Lewin still riding forward, now accompanied by a good score of men-at-arms. They saw him to all appearances advancing to the support of the sell-swords who seemed to be doing their best to bring down Sir Darin.

Sir Darin would have been respected for his personal qualities even had he not been a friend to Sir Pirvan. The archers on the wall included both humans and elves, and the humans began shooting at once. Their sergeant had to dissuade some of them from leaping down from the wall, advancing to hiding places among the ruins, and shooting from closer range.

It was now the elves’ turn to face the dilemma. They respected Sir Darin as much as they did any human, and he was plainly in danger. Also, the humans on the wall were now fighting for him. If the elves did not shoot, they would again be holding back from battle. If their not shooting caused Sir Darin’s death, they would be shamed before everyone in Belkuthas, and down the years to the end of their lives.

The prospect of such a long life of shame decided the matter. The elf who had not given his name to Pirvan—but who was in fact named Dohartar and was a cousin of Belot—was the first to shoot. The other nine were only a few heartbeats behind.

The range was long even for elves, but the ten followed a common elven practice for such ranges, all aiming at one or a few targets. Thus enough arrows would fill the air around the target that one or more would strike.

Indeed, they put down five men with fifteen arrows, faster than a greedy child taking a bite out of a stolen honey cake. Four of these men were sell-swords. The fifth, by mischance, was one of Lewin’s men-at-arms. He flew backward out of his saddle, arms flung wide, his eyes staring, and an arrow in his throat so that blood sprayed from his mouth.

Lewin knew that such archery at such a range had to be elven. Even in his innermost heart, where he despised the elves as much or more than he did the other lesser races, he acknowledged their prowess at archery. But they had used that prowess, to kill a man sworn to the Knights of Solamnia. There could be no further question of the embassy’s immunity from attack and capture. Lewin preferred to capture the elves, because even in a red rage he knew that many questions needed answering and dead elves would answer none.

He would not, however, much care whether elves taken in arms against him and his men survived to say anything at all. He rode forward, drawing his men after him. They in turn drew the sell-swords after them. The whole array surged toward the citadel walls, clambered over the rubble, flowed to either side of the fight around Sir Darin. They were plagued by archery from the walls, but convinced that in moments they would be ending it and avenging fallen comrades.

The only one on the field who recognized Darin as a Knight of Solamnia and thought that madness had been unleashed was Sir Esthazas. He was not only far junior to Sir Lewin but was also far to the rear of the other Solamnics—his assigned and therefore honorable position. Even so, from there he could not help fight the madness.

By the time the defenders’ archery and the attackers’ advance were both in full spate, Pirvan had arrived at the wall on that side. Messages that Darin was in peril had reached him; what he saw made the messages seem tame.

The younger knight had cleared around him a circle littered with the dead and dying. Even in a desperate battle, he seemed to be trying not to step on the enemy’s wounded!

But he could not break out, anymore than his foes could break in. About all that kept Darin alive besides his own prowess was that all the sell-swords’ archers were well to the fore, trying to beat down the defenders’ archery. They were making headway, too, by sheer weight of numbers—one elf was already down with a bleeding thigh, and two humans were hurt and one was dead.

Meanwhile, there was Sir Lewin, whom Pirvan now recognized. He even hailed the Knight of the Rose several times. Lewin did not seem to even hear. Was it Pirvan’s hails lost in the battle din, or Lewin’s judgment fled in battle fury?

Only one way to be sure—and only one man who could do that particular work. Pirvan grasped one of the grappling hooks held ready to pull down scaling ladders and set the prongs into a crack in the stonework. Then he gripped the attached rope and lowered himself over the battlements.

The hook pulled loose about the time someone on the walls noticed what their commander was doing. The thud of Pirvan’s landing and the yells of protest came simultaneously. Pirvan rolled with his old agility, came up with sword in hand, waved to the staring faces above, and ran toward the swirling fight around Darin.

Back to back, he and Darin should both survive, and in surviving make enough trouble for the sell-swords to draw Lewin’s notice. Lewin of Trenfar could not be thick skulled enough to go on fighting after that, or Sir Marod would never have trained him!

No messenger needed to carry word of Pirvan’s departure. The shouts from the wall on his side told everyone in the citadel, including Rynthala.

She sent a messenger to Tharash to mount the archers. She thought of sending one to Pirvan’s men-at-arms, but she had no authority over them, and they would doubtless move at once when they heard of the knight’s whereabouts.

She also thought briefly of a message to her parents, who stood with Threehands and Haimya on the wall facing the first two attacking columns. They no longer really deserved the name, but nobody in Belkuthas was prepared to turn their back on nearly a thousand armed enemies.

She slung her bow and ran toward the stables. She had no time to go herself, and what she really wanted to say, no messenger should carry. Besides, if she fell today, it was likely enough that even with her last breath she could say it to Darin herself.

Tharash was already mounted, with eight archers, and the men-at-arms were plainly chafing to move out as well. The old elf was grinning through the dust on his long face.

“I left a couple of the lads to keep an eye on those Silvanesti volunteers,” he said. “They can take care of themselves against enemies, but we may need to keep Lauthin the Loud out of their hair.”

He lowered his voice. “The sell-swords wanted to join us, too. I didn’t quite trust them, so I said that we couldn’t take anybody who wasn’t already mounted. Rugal Nis wasn’t happy, but he swallowed it.”

“Well done, Tharash. We may yet see today’s sunset.”

“Don’t wager anything you can’t afford to lose, Lady Rynthi.”

“I’m already wagering my life, old friend. Lose that, and what else is there?”

Rynthala sprang into the saddle without touching her stirrups, and turned her horse without touching the reins. “Follow me and—where do you think you’re going, Eskaia?”

“My post of duty is beside my father, Rynthala. It is kind of you to provide an escort for me.”

Rynthala would have erupted in rage at the Solamnic woman’s impudence—except that Tharash and Pirvan’s men-at-arms erupted in laughter first.

The heiress to Belkuthas finally joined the laughter. “Very well. It seems rescuing people from their own folly has become this days’ favorite sport at Belkuthas. Let us go and join the games!”

Pirvan had covered nearly a hundred paces before anyone noticed him—the virtue of climbing down the wall.

It helped further that the sell-swords wore many colors, except for those who wore none. In his light armor, bareheaded, and carrying only sword and dagger, Pirvan looked rather like one of the better-off foot soldiers, or perhaps a dismounted light horseman.

All of this luck took Pirvan to within thirty paces of Darin. He had just hailed the younger knight when a fresh torrent of enemies following Sir Lewin rushed up. This time they did not flow past the circle around Darin, as if it were a rock in a stream. This time many of them joined the circle, and began pressing it inward.

Pirvan looked about for a captain with some authority, or better yet, Sir Lewin. He searched with increasing desperation, in the middle of an archery duel, with the sell-swords’ bowmen and the men on the wall filling the air with shafts. Pirvan could not say if he and Darin were more likely to be skewered by friend or by foe.

The one task he had to accomplish was, fortunately, the one closest to hand—saving Sir Darin.

Honor forbade Pirvan the simplest opening, which was to stab in the back the nearest half dozen men in the circle, cut down the next few as they turned to face him, and go on wielding steel until either he went down or he and Darin joined forces.

So he filled his lungs and shouted:

“Belkuthas forever!”

Then he started slashing and stabbing, as men whirled to face this new apparition.

“Slashing and stabbing” is a very inadequate description of Pirvan’s bladework. Those qualified to judge, who lived to tell their tales, said they had never seen a man half Pirvan’s age move so quickly. He was not the most accomplished swordsman they had ever seen, but his speed and his dagger added to the sword made him formidable, even terrifying.

They also made him deadly, to at least a dozen men in less time than it would have taken them to empty a jug of wine. Of the sell-swords, some lacked skill with weapons, some lacked strength, all lacked the willingness to stand by a stranger. None had anything they cared to risk losing by facing a swordsman apparently sprung from the Abyss to hurl them down to death.

With Pirvan distracting half the circle around him, Sir Darin waded into the other half. The younger knight was an accomplished swordsman, he had a shield as both defense and weapon, and the sheer length of his reach had already slain many and frightened more into flight.

Meanwhile, arrows from the citadel continued to drop steadily into the ranks of the sell-swords. A man who thought himself well clear of these two madmen might turn to find an arrowhead through his corselet and into his lungs.

If the ground around Pirvan and Darin did not turn to mud from the amount of blood they shed, it was only because not all of the slain lay down and died on the spot. Soon, a wider circle emerged, still carpeted out to its very edges with the dead and dying.

Pirvan gripped sword arms with Darin, both arms red to the elbows with other men’s gore. Then they both looked outward. Pirvan saw Lewin still mounted, trying to rally men who were rapidly losing their zeal to storm the walls. The only ones still obeying the Knight of the Rose seemed to be Solamnic men-at-arms, a dozen or so around Lewin himself and a few others scattered here and there about the battlefield.

The clear sight came at a price. None dared approach Pirvan and Darin closely, but that meant they were now safe targets for archers. Some of the bowmen among the sell-swords were looking away from the citadel, from which the elves were picking off any hostile archer who ventured close enough to shoot accurately. Sooner or later they would start looking for easier targets. Short of sinking into the earth, Pirvan and Darin would be there in plain sight.

Pirvan had just decided that next to Haimya, there was no one in whose company he would rather die than Sir Darin, when the matter suddenly was moot.

“Belkuthas!”

“Pirvan of Tirabot!”

These shouts were immediately followed by something in the elven tongue. Pirvan recognized Tharash’s voice.

Then what seemed a solid wall of horsemen crashed into the ranks of the sell-swords between Pirvan and the citadel wall. The cavalry seemed to leap over piled rubble, ride down men as if their horses had claws instead of hooves, and shoot arrows half a dozen at a time.

The men between Pirvan and the citadel wall recoiled. They turned. They ran. Pirvan and Darin now had to wield their swords not for defense against attack but to keep from being trampled to death in the rout. Darin finally took the smaller knight behind his shield—there was ample room—and stood, again like a rock in a torrent, while the rout poured around him even faster than the advance had.

Peering out from behind the shield, Pirvan saw Rynthala leap her horse over three crouching sell-swords, slashing down at them with a scimitar she wielded with more enthusiasm than skill. She struck none of the men and nearly tumbled out of the saddle, but Pirvan supposed she could not resist taking a hand in the close fighting.

Above the rout and ruin, Sir Lewin also rose like a rock. Pirvan wondered how long this would last. Many might not recognize Lewin as a Knight of Solamnia. Others who did would still care only that he had led enemies against Belkuthas, and likewise treat him as an enemy.

Pirvan had reached Darin, and the younger knight was safe. Now he had to reach Sir Lewin, if the Knight of the Rose was to live more than a few more moments.

“On to Sir Lewin!” Pirvan shouted. Then, hoping Rynthala and—yes, Eskaia was riding with the warrior maiden—would hear him, he all but screamed: “Spare Sir Lewin! Unhorse him if you must, but spare him at all costs!”

Pirvan started running. The thought came to him that he might have condemned Rynthala or even Eskaia to death, if Sir Lewin fought, as he might. The thought departed without slowing Pirvan’s steps.

“Est Sularus oth Mithas.” The Oath of the Knights—“My honor is my life.”

Today, on his battlefield, Sir Pirvan’s honor was Sir Lewin’s life.

Zephros reined in as soon as he was out of bow shot of Luferinus’s men. This was partly to spare his horse, worn down like all his company’s mounts by the desert journey. It was also partly to let whatever comrades were ready to escort him catch up, so he did not ride into the flanking column alone.

Or ride anywhere else alone, either. He shuddered at the memory of that thin, filth-spattered, and wholly deadly figure spewed up by the earth, seeking his death and achieving Luferinus’s.

A little farther on, and he was in sight of Sir Lewin’s column. But where was Sir Lewin? The compact mass of Solamnics was nowhere to be seen, let alone their leader. Zephros saw two-score horsemen and more cutting in and out of the ranks of the sell-swords like hot knives through cheese. But they wore no colors he recognized, and some of them were mounted archers, who had not been—

Zephros had believed he was safely out of bow shot from the walls of the citadel. Had it not been for elven eyes and archery, he would have been right.

As it was, five long-range shafts suddenly filled the air about Zephros. One pierced his left arm, painfully tearing flesh. Two struck his horse, and one of those pierced through to its heart.

Zephros’s wounded arm burned all the way up to his brain as he jarred it in falling. The dying horse screamed and sprayed blood all over its rider. Zephros himself wanted to shout in pain, rage, and frustration.

If Sir Lewin had not gone the way of Luferinus, he was somewhere amid that mob of horsemen, no longer in command of his own movements, let alone an attacking column. Meanwhile the attacking column had turned into a routed mob. They were stampeding for the cover of the forest like fly-beset cattle for the cool mud of a riverbank. They threw down weapons, trampled comrades, and generally forsook the name of soldier in the hope of remaining alive.

Even if Zephros had been mounted, he could have done nothing to stem the rout. On foot, all he could do was join it. But he did one thing to prove he had not abandoned the name of soldier.

He walked away from the citadel of Belkuthas. He expected every moment, for what seemed like hours, to feel an elven shaft in his back, the last thing he would ever feel. But he did not care. If the elves wanted to shoot a man in the back, that was between them and their gods.

Zephros would walk back to his men—if there were any left.

Pirvan’s orders had reached more people than he had expected. Indeed, Sir Lewin was more mobbed than properly attacked. Two of Rynthala’s people dismounted, slipped in close, and hobbled the knight’s mount. Then Rynthala herself rode up to him on one side, and Eskaia rode up to him on the other.

“In the name of peace and virtue—”

“In the name of Sir Pirvan of Tirabot, Knight of the Sword—”

Lewin’s glare would have made cows go dry at a distance of half a league. The women ignored him.

“The ladies want you to come into Belkuthas, sit down, and talk with some people,” Tharash said.

Lewin looked down at the aged elf and reached for his sword.

“Not wise,” Tharash said. He gripped Sir Lewin’s foot with both hands and heaved.

In the next moment Sir Lewin learned that underestimating elven strength was as foolish as underestimating elven archery. He found himself in midair, then crashing to the ground, then supine while someone—he could not see who—held a lance point to his chest.

“Sorry I had to hurry,” Tharash said, “but I thought you might want to wash and change before you met with Sir Pirvan.”

Lewin found his voice. “What—is Pirvan really here?”

“Yes,” a voice came from behind. Lewin twisted, pushed the lance point away, and sat up.

“I will not say well met, because we are not,” said the figure, who looked more like a gutter-dwelling beggar than a knight. “But matters may mend, if you learn a few truths about Belkuthas. I pray you, accept the hospitality of Lord Krythis and Lady Tulia, which I offer to you by my authority as their war leader.”

“A Knight of the Sword playing sell-sword to half-elves?” Lewin exclaimed. The lance point suddenly reappeared, not only at his throat but pricking his skin. He looked at the faces around him and realized that silence would have been more prudent.

Lewin said sourly, “Very well. But I insist that my men be permitted to join me, likewise Sir Esthazas, and that we receive honorable treatment.”

Pirvan’s face twisted for a moment, and Lewin knew he had scored a point. Bringing forty new mouths into the hungry, thirsty confines of the citadel of Belkuthas and leaving them armed was perilous. The alternatives were more so. Leave Lewin and his men free, and they could rejoin the sell-swords, for better or for worse. Kill them—but not even the gutter-sprung Pirvan the Wayward would contemplate that.

Lewin had wanted to enter the citadel of Belkuthas. Why should he turn down an invitation to do so, even one so informal as this?

He stood, and tried to brush dirt and less seemly matter off his clothes.

Chapter 15

With the air of a prince visiting a petty noble, the Knight of the Rose rode into the citadel of Belkuthas. It almost seemed as if the heavy guard around him was an honor, rather than a precaution.

It was a precaution Pirvan would not have required if Lewin and his company had submitted to having their weapons peace-bonded, with leather or cloth thongs. The knight had refused, coming close to raising his voice in anger or at least offended dignity, and Pirvan had been forced to choose an alternative.

That alternative was to bring the Solamnic newcomers into Belkuthas surrounded by a guard of nearly every able-bodied mounted fighter the citadel could command. Pirvan hoped the sell-swords wouldn’t regained their courage while he was appeasing Sir Lewin’s dignity.

He had to admit, however, that the odds were long against that. The near-mob with whom Lewin had been riding had not only lost whatever leadership he gave it, it had lost near a hundred men killed or taken, never mind how many had limped off with wounds that would keep them out of the fighting for a while. None would be heard from today.

From prisoners’ tales and scouts messages, one of the other two columns had lost its captain, to what was variously reported as a kender assassin or a plot by High Captain Zephros. Zephros, leader of the other column, was nowhere to be found. Again there were assorted rumors, that he was dead, fled, ensorcelled, or otherwise not where he could command his men.

Pirvan was of two minds about the tale of the assassin. On the one hand, it would account for the two kender, who had been missing since before dawn and who deserved to avenge for Edelthirb’s death. On the other, such an assassination would hardly shrink the “lesser races” problem. Judging from remarks overheard from Sir Lewin’s men-at-arms, this problem already was almost insuperable.

Within the courtyard, Sir Lewin dismounted, without waiting for Pirvan’s permission, and began doing an arms ritual with his sword. Pirvan waited until Sir Lewin had—looking at the matter with charity—restored limberness to his body, then also dismounted.

“I must ask you and your men to give your word of honor to remain where we send you, until you and I have spoken,” Pirvan said. “I do not command this, but the Measure speaks against hindering a fellow knight, even of lesser rank, in the performance of his duties. You will certainly be hindering me if you do not—to put it plainly—stay out of the way until certain matters are further forward.”

Lewin drew himself up to his full height, which was considerable, if not as great as Darin’s. “That provision of the Measure applies only to honorable and lawful duties to which a knight has been ordered by a superior. I permit myself to doubt that your commanding Belkuthas is such a duty.”

“I permit myself,” Pirvan replied, “to doubt that you know what my orders are. They came from Sir Marod, and they were to learn all I could about the tax soldiers and whether they would do justice or not.” That was a free interpretation of what Sir Marod had said, but well short of a lie.

The mention of Sir Marod stopped Lewin, as Pirvan had prayed it might. Taking the silence for agreement, Pirvan embraced Lewin, although he would on the whole have as willingly embraced an ogre. “I rejoice in your safe journey, the valor you showed in battle, and your coming here to aid me in my duties. I am sure we shall see that justice is done once we have a moment together, but that must wait.

“Rynthala, Tharash. Find suitable quarters for these noble knights and their men-at-arms and provide them with food, water, and whatever else they may require after their journey and fighting.”

“Water?” exclaimed Rynthala, in a tone of stark outrage. “We have—”

Pirvan and Tharash both raised their voices without much caring what they said, but it was too late. Pirvan saw a smile flicker on Sir Lewin’s face.

The first impulse that swept through Pirvan was to have Sir Lewin disarmed, bound, and confined. That, of course, would lead nowhere save immediately to a brawl with Lewin’s company, and in the end, to a tribunal of the knights. The second impulse was to pretend he had seen nothing, leaving Sir Lewin believing that the gutter-knight (a name Pirvan knew well, though none used it to his face) had been thoroughly deceived. On the whole, that seemed wiser.

As the new arrivals marched off under escort, Rugal Nis approached and saluted. He was, Pirvan noted, wearing his sword, but one of Pirvan’s men-at-arms was with him.

“Wishing to report, my lord, that we lost no men in the attack. The lads are out picking up after the enemy. We met a dwarf, and he says he wants to talk to you.”

“A dwarf?”

“Aye. He gives his name as Nuor of the Black Chisel and says he needs to speak to the chief of the citadel. That’s you.”

“The chief of the citadel is actually Krythis. I know you came against him in arms, but he doesn’t eat honorable sell-swords. Neither does his lady.”

“What about their daughter?” Nis said impudently.

Pirvan mock-glared. “Where did you find this dwarf?”

“Out to the other side of the walls, near the first of the outer wells. We were seeing that no one had heaved bodies down it to poison it, when all of a sudden this dwarf popped out.”

“Out of the well?”

“So it looked.”

“Thank you. Well done, Rugal Nis. Finish your work. I will see this dwarf.”

Nuor of the Black Chisel was tall for a dwarf, and somewhat the worse for a long underground journey. He sat astride one of Pirvan’s camp stools and, with a finger dipped in ashes from the fire, sketched a map on the floor. He could have used much fouler materials without Pirvan’s protesting.

What the dwarf was offering was life itself, to Belkuthas and, above all, to those innocents who had sought the safety it could no longer provide.

“We couldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t for the wells feeding from two different underground waters,” Nuor said. “That mage—Wilthur the Turd-Colored, or whatever—”

“Has he been working the spells against us?”

“Of course. Gran Axesharp had it from our own thane himself, so if you want to call all three of us liars besides interrupting me—”

Pirvan hastily assured Nuor that he would rather commit several gross crimes (he made the dwarf laugh describing them) than do any such thing. Mollified, the dwarf continued.

“We can cut a tunnel across from the outer well to the one inside. At night, so we can dump the spoil without anyone seeing. Of course, it will mean a deal of stoop work for your people, fetching water through the tunnel, but we’ll size the tunnel for humans.”

Pirvan looked at the map. “Couldn’t you cut a new well?”

“I serve you venison and you want dressed beef as well?”

“Pardon, but—”

“Oh, I’ll explain or you’ll be fretting at me. Can’t do a new well inside the citadel, without tapping into the same water as the old one. That water’s gone, or if there’s any left, most likely it’s not fit to drink. Ask your Red Robe about that.”

Pirvan started to return to the matter, then stopped. The dwarves’ aid promised another possibility, and Pirvan would rather have cut out his tongue than foreclose it.

“Ah—pardon me again, if I’m asking for dwarven secrets—”

“Oh, we never mind being asked about our secrets. A mite flattering, even. Just don’t expect answers.”

Pirvan looked at the ceiling, trying to make a sensible choice of the words chasing themselves around in his mind. Finally he looked down at the dwarf.

“I suppose you got into the well you came out of—”

That was not going to work.

Pirvan took a deep breath and started over. “Suppose there was a tunnel from the far side of the outer well, leading clear out of Belkuthas. Anyone who wanted to come in or out of the citadel without being seen could use it.”

“And suppose there was? Who would you be thinking to see using it, besides dwarves, as it might make humans a bit stoop-shouldered?”

Pirvan told his heart not to leap before time. “Well, there are some folk here in Belkuthas who would gladly crawl on hands and knees, to be away from here. They and their children.”

“Aha. The refugees.” Nuor seemed to be waiting for confirmation, so Pirvan nodded. The dwarf continued, “And where would they go, once they went through this tunnel?”

“I think your people would have done enough by then. Many of the refugees are able-bodied. They can forage, cut firewood and timber for shelters, and wait in the forest until the fighting’s done.”

“Or until the sell-swords track them down,” Nuor said. “A bad business, that would be.”

“They’d still have a better chance than staying here,” Pirvan said. Pleading with a dwarf was like getting a kender to pay close attention: a near-miracle. But he was ready to try it.

“Well, if they didn’t mind following a few dwarves, so they wouldn’t see anything they shouldn’t—”

Pirvan held his breath.

“There’s caves aplenty we don’t use much, so they’re not connected to anything we wouldn’t want humans to know. Or if they are, we could do a bit of masonry before the refugees came out.”

“You’ll shelter the refugees in the caves?”

Nuor glared. “Of course we will. Didn’t I just say that we would? Of course there’s a tunnel into the outer well! You were wandering all over the potato patch, so I couldn’t be sure what you were driving at! You thought I walked to that well on the open ground, through all the sell-swords? I’d rather ride a pegasus!”

“I think we can spare you that,” Pirvan said, once he’d regained the breath he let out in a sigh of relief. “Besides, Belot would have my blood if I let anyone but him ride his mount.”

“Elves,” Nuor said, shaking his head as some humans would have when they said, “kender.”

Pirvan looked at the floor. While he had been watching Nuor, somehow the dwarf had contrived to add another tunnel, stretching from the outer well off into the distance.”

“Well, I think we can make it worth the dwarves’—”

“Who is this ‘we’ of whom you speak?” came a voice that was about as welcome to Pirvan as a lewd proposition from Takhisis the Dark Queen. The knight turned, to see Sir Lewin standing in the chamber door.

“Who let you out?” leapt to his lips.

“None confined me. Rynthala and Tharash departed after they found us quarters—very damp and verminous, I fear—and I said to the guards remaining that I had to speak to you. They did not dispute my word of honor.”

Strictly speaking, Lewin had broken his word, by not remaining in confinement. But if he argued before a tribunal that he had indeed desperately needed to speak to Pirvan, he would probably not be called foresworn.

Pirvan wished to call Lewin a number of things, but none would be to any purpose.

Then he noticed that Lewin was staring at the dwarf, who was returning the stare. “By Paladine! Nuor of the Black Shovel.”

“Black Chisel, Knight. I see your tongue’s as glib and your memory’s as poor as ever.”

“What are you doing here?”

“That’s for you to ask and for me not to answer, seeing as how your first question should have been about my wife.”

Lewin seemed to recall something unpleasant. “I apologize.”

“You’re doing a lot of that, but don’t wager it will be enough.”

“I trust she is well.”

“Oh, your healer was good enough. And now, by your leave, Sir Pirvan, I will go back whence I came and start putting our folk to the work I promised you. Tell your Red Robe what I said, won’t you?”

Nuor rose, and as he walked past Pirvan, he carefully scuffed the map on the floor into a series of dark smears. Pirvan hoped Lewin had not been listening at the door, but could hardly ask him that.

“Since you are here and claim need to speak to me, and I would not doubt such a claim from another knight, then sit down and speak.” Pirvan picked up a chair and set it before Sir Lewin, with as much graciousness as he could muster.

Lewin was seated before Nuor was out the door.

Pirvan searched for words to begin a conversation instead of a quarrel. He realized Lewin was doing the same.

Nuor had given Pirvan a gift almost as precious as water or the refugees’ escape. He had embarrassed Sir Lewin, something Pirvan would have sworn no mortal being could do, leaving the Knight of the Sword able to dominate the Knight of the Rose—if he wished.

When he thought of what was at stake, Pirvan decided he would do far worse to Sir Lewin than dominate him, if necessary.

“Sir Lewin, I have the right to know what has passed between you and Nuor of the Black Chisel.”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“I doubt that. What concerns one of our allies, one who has offered to see justice done to innocent folk, also concerns me. I would not care to hear callous words from you about the refugees.”

Indeed, if he heard them, Pirvan was quite prepared to challenge Sir Lewin to a test of honor, or even simply have him thrown in irons. That fact was better not put into words—but he did put it into his voice, and Sir Lewin seemed to hear it.

“Very well. It was a small matter of a mistake by one of my archers.”

It was at least not a large matter. Even after hearing all the details, Pirvan had to agree with that. The Solamnic men-at-arms were superior fighting men, but even such grew uneasy and quick to shoot or slash on unknown ground facing unknown foes.

Lewin concluded with: “I have answered enough of your questions and more. You have exceeded all the bounds allowed to a knight of your rank toward a knight of mine, by asking them at all. But I will say no more of the matter if the questions are at an end.”

“They are not.”

“Then I command—”

“I suggest you sit down, Sir Lewin.”

“That ‘suggestion’ sounds like an order. Will you tie me to the chair if I disobey?”

“Do you wish to wager our ability to work together for the good of the knights, and to avoid a tribunal, on my not doing so?”

Sir Lewin sat down. “Perhaps we should pray for less hasty tongues and tempers,” he said after a moment. “They can do as much harm as hasty archers.”

“I will not dispute that,” Pirvan said. “As to those questions, I was thinking more of your asking me, and others who can answer them to your satisfaction. You see, Sir Lewin, you are not in all respects my superior here in Belkuthas. I hold the rank of commander of the citadel by appointment of its lawful lord and lady, Krythis and Tulia. I also command those men I brought from Tirabot, and hold the rank of chief equal to Threehands in authority over the Gryphons.”

Lewin muttered something that sounded like, but that Pirvan hoped was not, “sand-eaters.”

“So you see, I am your commander in truth, except by the standard of the Knights of Solamnia. And even by those standards, you do not command here. The Measure says plainly that regardless of rank, on detached duty, the knight who has the greatest knowledge of the land has command until his superiors have equaled his knowledge. That may take you a few days, so I suggest you start asking those questions.”

“I suppose this would have to be called detached duty,” Lewin said. His smile seemed glued on, rather like a cheap seal to a letter. “But duty also implies doing what it is lawful for a knight to do.”

“What have I done that is unlawful?”

Lewin’s answer at least came swiftly to his tongue. “You have set yourself in arms against the servants of Istar—you, a Knight of Solamnia and therefore sworn to Istar. You have shed blood of comrades in fighting the tax soldiers!”

“They may rank as such,” Pirvan admitted, “but my orders were to see if the tax soldiers would seek justice between Istar and the Silvanesti. They have not as yet fought the Silvanesti, but have behaved, where I have seen them, more like thieves and outlaws.”

“You would know, I am sure.”

Pirvan took a deep breath. “I also fear that the tax soldiers, left unopposed, will provoke a war with the Silvanesti.”

“Our honor demands that we fight at Istar’s side, if so.”

“If the war comes, then so be it. But the Measure also commands that justice be sought in peace, before one draws the sword. And it is commanded that if we see those to whom we are sworn doing injustice, we consider where our honor lies. You know as well as I do the times knights have refused to keep an oath that would require them to wrong the innocent—or the times they have slain themselves after obeying such a command.”

Lewin’s eyes were on the floor. Was he trying to read the smudges that had been Nuor’s map, or was he merely unable to meet Pirvan’s eyes? Or, as likely, was he just weary from a long journey and unfit to make hard decisions?

Pirvan considered the questions, turning them over in his mind like a joint on a spit over hot coals—which seemed to rather describe his situation.

The Measure of all the orders, the True Gods of Krynn, and the common sense of any man able to find the jakes when he needed them spoke against doubting another knight’s honor. His wisdom was fair game; his honor was not.

What did you do when your own honor was deeply engaged to folk whom the other knight might endanger? What if you erred on the side of charity toward him? What happened to your honor if you ended with their lives on your conscience for the remainder of your days?

What Pirvan did was decide, yearn briefly for the days of his youth when he thought the gods and even some men knew what was just, and spoke.

“Sir Lewin, I do not beg your pardon, but say it will be a pleasure to learn I have misjudged you. I have seen far too many follies these past few days, and men have died of them. I will not stand by to see more follies and more dead.

“But I promise you this: You may feel free to go where you wish, anywhere in the citadel. We are none of us safe outside it, so I cannot allow you beyond the walls.

“Within them, however, you may see whatever you wish to see, ask any questions you wish answered, of anyone you think will answer them, and otherwise do as you please as long as you do not hinder our work of defense.

“Within days, I think you will see that the tax soldiers are not serving justice, honor, or even Istar. Our oath demands that they be kept from doing further harm, not that they be aided in doing it.

“Have I your word of honor about doing no harm?”

“I thought I had already given it.”

“No one ever swore too many oaths.”

“Except at bad wine and ugly serving wenches, perhaps,” Lewin said with a flicker of a smile that now seemed to come from within. “Very well. Upon my word of honor, I will do naught that you consider hindering the defense of Belkuthas, while learning the truth of its situation. Will that suffice?”

It would. Pirvan hastily scribbled and sealed a pass for Sir Lewin. Even so, as the Knight of the Rose departed, Pirvan felt an itching between his shoulder blades and a hollow feeling in his stomach.

I do this for you, Sir Marod, more than for Sir Lewin, he thought. But none will be happier than I if he proves he can learn from his errors, and with us seek justice among all the folk of Krynn.

Pirvan’s bodyguard was waiting outside the chamber. He had ordered that they be sent up, a man-at-arms and a Gryphon warrior, before he went to meet with Nuor. He looked at them; they tried not to look at him, sensing his embarrassment. He had never been one for keeping state, or holding his life more precious than the lives of the fighters he led.

This had changed. It was not, in his opinion, a change for the better.

“Summon an escort for Sir Lewin, and then go find the Lady Rynthala.”

“The escort is on the way,” the man-at-arms said.

“Lady Rynthala is in the stables, with the pegasus,” the Gryphon said.

Pirvan frowned at both of them. He thought they were too new to the role of guards to be undertaking the management of his comings and goings, so that he never had a moment alone.

“Very well. One of you stay here until the escort arrives. The other will be enough to keep me safe between here and the stables.”

The man-at-arm’s salute was more polished than that of the Gryphon. On the other hand, the Gryphon warrior did a better job of keeping his face straight.

Pirvan had never seen a pegasus so close as he saw Amrisha when he reached the stables. Rynthala had arranged for two stables to be thrown together to provide Amrisha enough room for her wings. Now she stood tall and proud, favoring one leg as if weight on it strained her wounded flank.

“She hasn’t tried to spread the wounded wing yet,” Rynthala said. “I hope Belot can at least exercise her in the courtyard within a day or two.” She looked at Pirvan in appeal, and the knight would have sworn the appeal was echoed in Amrisha’s almost luminous green eyes.

A shrug would have been as accurate an answer as any number of words. But Pirvan knew the requirements of courtesy.

“One—company, or maybe alliance of companies—has had a bloody nose. The other two seem to have lost their chiefs. They’ll be back, but we may be able to find fresh water supplies and evacuate the refugees while they’re sorting themselves out.”

“So said Darin.” Rynthala cocked her head to one side, a curiously girlish gesture considering that Pirvan had to look up to meet her eyes. “Is that the truth, or are you knights conspiring to deceive us—not only me, but my parents?”

“We’re only conspiring to avoid raising false hopes or throwing people into despair without reason,” Pirvan said, more sharply than he had intended. “Either kind of folly has overthrown more fortresses than siege engines, dragons, and spells put together.”

“I am sure you know better than we do,” Rynthala said. “Perhaps even as well as you think you do.” She turned and walked away. Her hips swayed naturally as she walked, rather as Haimya’s had done—and indeed, Rynthala was built like a younger, taller version of Haimya. The elven slenderness of both her parents had given way to a more human solidity of bone and fullness of hip and breast.

If she wed anyone of her own stature or taller, they might breed up a race of giants.

Meanwhile, Pirvan had completely forgotten what he had come down to the stables to say. He resolved to see if Sirbones or Tarothin could do anything to further speed the pegasus’s healing. If they could do anything for the flying mare … after they had healed the day’s wounded among both defenders and prisoners, without needing healing themselves!

The dwarves seemed to interpret “nightfall” rather generously. The sun had barely touched the horizon and the evening coolness had yet to flow over Belkuthas when Pirvan felt the ground quiver faintly.

“Good for the dwarves,” Tharash said, coming up on the wall behind Pirvan.

“I thought that was a secret,” the knight snapped.

“From men, maybe. From elves—elves with my kind of hearing, at least …” He shrugged.

“Let’s talk of this somewhere else,” Pirvan said. He tried to moderate his tone, but today his tongue seemed to have a will of its own and an edge like a razor.

Tharash followed him down the stairs and across the courtyard, past the refugees, toward the living quarters.

“Not all of those folk can shift for themselves in the forest,” the old elf said. “They’ll need guarding, maybe a few rangers to hunt for them. While they’re out, the rangers can also hunt sell-swords, I should think.”

“You are asking to lead the rangers?”

“Well …”

“If Rynthala consents, I may also.”

“If Lady Rynthi doesn’t consent, I won’t go.”

Once upon a time, long, long ago, Pirvan had read in one of the knights’ books on the principles of war about something known as “unity of command.” This apparently meant having one undoubted leader, to say yea or nay, in each body of fighters.

Pirvan wondered what the writer would have thought of the situation at Belkuthas. He hoped the man would have at least found it worthy of laughter. As for himself, he had not much laughter left.

“Knight!”

They turned, to see Lauthin marching toward them. He could certainly stride out finely, considering his age and long robes (if now somewhat smeared with smut). He bore his staff of office and wore a look on his face that drove the last traces of laughter from Pirvan. Tharash looked none too happy either.

“My name is Sir Pirvan of Tirabot,” the knight said. If Lauthin was determined to fight for dominance like a none-too-shrewd wolf, Pirvan had no intention of baring throat.

“Are you conspiring with this dark elf to seduce my guards away from their duty?”

The question actually had Pirvan goggling like a dying fish, until Tharash gripped his arm and pointed. Lauthin had brought some of his guards with him. Four of them, with short swords at their belts.

“I think we could discuss what has been done or left undone in a less public place,” Pirvan said.

“That may be your wish or your way. We of Silvanesti do justice in the light, so that all can see.”

“Well, then,” Tharash said. “The light’s going fast, and I always heard that justice should be swift to be sure. So, speak your piece, my lord judge.”

Lauthin actually gobbled wordlessly for a moment. The four guards stepped forward. Pirvan resolved that if they drew their swords, he would disarm them without bloodshed, if possible. He doubted it would be. Elves had good reason to be proud of their swiftness.

Tharash moved first. He sidestepped, then whirled on one leg, kicking out with the other. The foot hooked the high judge’s staff of office, sending it flying. Tharash dived for it, snatched it up, rolled, sprang to his feet, then rested it on his shoulder like a spear.

For all his years, Tharash had been so swift that only one of Lauthin’s guards even tried to draw his sword. Pirvan slapped the elf’s wrist with the flat of his own blade, and Tharash pushed the fallen weapon back to its owner with the end of the staff.

“Lauthin,” Tharash said. “I am no Silvanesti elf, so your high and mighty judgeship means nothing to me. I will give back your staff, though, when I have spoken.

“Lauthin, some of those elves who fought on the walls today want to go into the forest because they’re afraid you’ll punish them. Some of them just don’t like the sell-swords. I don’t blame them.

“Other elves are ashamed of staying out of Rynthala’s fight, or have lovers and friends among those going. They want to go. Oh, you can try to keep them there, and maybe they won’t desert the way humans would. Some will, though, wandering out in twos and threes, likely to their deaths.

“If you force them to that, Lauthin, their blood will be on your hands and their kin before your seat, demanding that you step down from it. If you don’t see that, you are the biggest fool the gods ever allowed to walk the face of Krynn!”

Lauthin stepped back as if slapped, his mouth working. After a while a sound came out, then words.

“How many?”

“A good half. They’ll need folk who know the land with them, but I and my lads and the dwarves could help them there.”

“Half,” Lauthin murmured. “My embassy—it needs to be guarded.”

“Your precious person may need guarding, but you do not here and now have an embassy. Until somebody comes along who’s interested in talking rather than shooting, your guards can do better guarding what’s more useful than you, which is just about everything and everybody in Belkuthas, starting with the midden-heap gully dwarves!”

Tharash sagged, rather out of breath and to Pirvan’s eyes somewhat astounded at his own boldness. Then he handed the staff back to Lauthin, who nearly let it drop to the trampled ground from nerveless fingers. He finally gripped it with one hand, and used a corner of his robe to wipe off the smears of dirt.

He stood motionless for a time, hardly even breathing. Then he turned and marched off, striking his staff rhythmically on the ground ahead of him. His four guards fell in behind him, although Pirvan saw one look briefly back; he could almost imagine that the elf had winked.

Perhaps he had. Perhaps Lauthin would see reason. His archers would certainly be taking to the walls and the woods whether he did or not. Even Silvanesti elves could not forever pass by those in need. Even Silvanesti elves could succumb to the love of a good fight.

If there was such a thing. Pirvan remembered the face of one of the men he’d killed today—hardly more than a boy, and too slender to really wear armor. The soldier hadn’t worn anything except a helmet, which helped him not at all when Pirvan’s dagger ripped open his neck—

He remembered another dead opponent—a man who was as much too old for the field as the boy had been too young. Gray in his beard, wrinkles on the face above the beard, probably a sell-sword to keep his farm or earn a dowry for his daughter … No dowry now, and his family turned out on the road like the refugees, without dwarves or elves or Knights of Solamnia to help them.

Before a third face could present itself, Pirvan turned and stumbled blindly toward the stairs to the keep. He wanted to be alone for a while …

 … alone when somebody brought him the news that Threehands and Rynthala had come to blows and needed him to counsel peace!

Haimya found Pirvan, sitting on the bed in the dark chamber. His hands dangled between his knees, and his eyes stared at the floor, or perhaps at nothing.

“Pirvan?”

He recognized the name and even the voice, but the name was not his, and the voice was a stranger’s.

“Pirvan. The dwarves have almost finished the tunnel. Tarothin helped them.”

Tarothin? He was a Red Robe wizard, wasn’t he? Where was this tunnel?

Oh, he was in the citadel of Belkuthas, which needed water. The tunnel would bring it.

As a matter of fact, he commanded the citadel of Belkuthas. He was Sir Pirvan of Tirabot, Knight of the Sword, and this day he had with his sword slain—

“Gods!”

Pirvan wept. Presently the woman who was no longer a stranger, whom he remembered sharing joy and sorrow with for twenty years, sat down on the bed beside him. She took him in his arms and held him as he had seen her hold their children.

After what seemed half the night, the tears ended.

“Don’t talk,” Haimya said. “Unless you want to,” she added.

Pirvan knew there was one person in the world who would listen to anything he had to say. That was one more person than most people had. Moreover, she was right here on the bed with him.

He still feared to sound—not like a coward; he had heard too many noble confessions of weakness to fear that—but like a witling. Belkuthas needed him in his right senses.

He needed himself in his right senses.

Pirvan began to talk.

“It was the men I fought today—the men I killed.”

“Everyone speaks of your valor. You see it—otherwise?”

“Tonight, the word ‘valor’ chokes me.”

She stroked his hair. “Go on.”

“They started coming to me. I could see them in front of me as clearly as I can see you now. I started thinking about how each one had a life of his own that I had ended. For what I thought—I think now—is a good reason. But they’re still dead, all of them. I hoped one of them would speak.”

“To forgive you?”

“No. I—no, not that. Just to show that we could talk to each other. If—I thought of apologizing, but that would have been silly. Many of them probably couldn’t even speak Common.”

Pirvan became aware that his head had begun resting on cloth, and now rested on bare skin. Then he became aware of hands at work on his own breeches, his only garment.

“What are you doing?”

“We are going to talk in an old language, that we have spoken for twenty years. Do you remember it?”

Pirvan’s reply lacked words.

“It was the language we spoke that night, when I came to your house in the village. I said that we had stood far apart long enough and now it was time to stand close.”

“We aren’t standing now.”

Haimya pulled off the last of her husband’s garments and the last of her own. “No, we are lying down on the bed.”

On that bed, in that language, they had a long conversation. Pirvan fell asleep quickly afterward, and Haimya was slower getting to sleep only because her husband started to snore as she had never heard him do, and she had to stifle her giggles to keep from waking him.

Chapter 16

While Pirvan slept, the dwarven tunnel between the wells broke through. A line of sweating, weary, smiling soldiers and refugees began replenishing the water.

Two days later, the first party of refugees left the citadel of Belkuthas, for whatever safety the forest might offer. They were fifty, all the dwarves could promise to shelter at the moment, mostly women and children, but with enough men to keep watch and hunt.

With them also went Tharash and twenty-five scouts and rangers. They were a mixture of Lauthin’s guards and Belkuthans. It was noted that while Lord Lauthin said nothing in favor of their going, he also said nothing against it. He kept very much to his chamber, and except for the guards actually on duty there, his archers began to take their turns on the walls.

On the fifth day, the lines around the citadel drew tight again—at least tight enough to make it fortunate that the water carne in and the refugees out by means no sell-sword could discover. Some of the Gryphons thought the siege lines were so thin that a brisk mounted sortie would shatter them all over again. Then everyone could ride for home.

“This is the home of Krythis, Tulia, Rynthala, and their folk,” Pirvan reminded Threehands. “If we leave, they can only go with us by abandoning their home and becoming wanderers.”

“Yes, eldest son of Redthorn,” Hawkbrother added. “Remember also that our fighting for half-elves greatly annoys Lauthin. You once said that you would love to be a leech on a part of his body that he has probably not used for centuries. This is even better. We can be a worm in his guts.”

So there were no wild raids, only scouts slipping in and out through the tunnels and sometimes on the surface when rain or clouds made the darkness thicker than usual. The men on the walls kept the besiegers out of bow shot, the scouts took an occasional prisoner to gain recent knowledge of the world outside Belkuthas, and Tarothin and Sirbones healed the sick and the handful of wounded.

The day the last refugees squeezed themselves into the tunnel to the forest, Tarothin came to Pirvan with a frown on his face. The Red Robe seemed to wear moroseness like a cloak these days. It certainly fit his gaunt frame better than any of the warm garments Haimya had made for him over the years. But this was more than Pirvan had seen.

“I fear Wilthur the Brown has not finished with us.”

This seemed likely enough. The nightmares and the ghosts of his slain no longer troubled Pirvan much, but he had small patience with being told what he already knew. He said so plainly.

Tarothin shook his head. “I believe he has withheld his major spells for two reasons. One, he exhausted himself emptying the old well. That had to have been brutal work, mixing all three colors of magic. Such sorceries are even more wearying to the spellcaster than spells of only one shade.”

That Pirvan knew to be true. The conflict between white, black, and red could be overcome by a mage with sufficient power and a sufficient lack of scruples. A dire tension remained, which had to be constantly fought lest it sunder the spell—and probably the mage—in midcasting.

“The other is that I think someone—perhaps our friend Zephros—has command of the besiegers. He may be waiting for reinforcements so that he can exploit any opening Wilthur’s magic may give him. Or he may fear that Wilthur will reduce Belkuthas to blackened rubble. That would make Zephros’s name stink even worse and for far longer than our corpses.”

“Your good cheer knows no bounds,” Pirvan said. “When did you last eat?”

“My good cheer, you could bound in a thimble,” Tarothin said. “My appetite, you could pass through the eye of a needle.”

Gildas Aurhinius wadded up the parchment of Carolius Migmar’s latest letter and threw it at the door. He had moved his quarters into a rough stone building, and the parchment struck the wood just as it opened to admit Nemyotes.

“What does Migmar think he is doing?” Aurhinius exclaimed.

“I become more and more persuaded that not as much thinking is being done in this campaign as has been the case with past ones.”

Aurhinius glared. “Do you include me in that remark?”

“Well, my lord, you did say that you would give much to find a way of lifting the siege of Belkuthas. But what have we done here?”

“Not enough, I admit. But from this letter, Migmar will throw an iron wall around Belkuthas within the month. Thousands of sell-swords, siege engines, the gods only know what magic if the kingpriest turns a blind eye—enough to finish the work.”

“Perhaps, if you are not there.”

“And if I were? Migmar has years of rank over me, apart from favor in Istar. Also my orders are to remain here, to hold the Silvanesti in the front.”

“We are a long way from the nearest elf, if the reports are true. The desert riders will leave us alone if we return the favor, and the cliff-dwellers have not come out of their holes in living memory. As for orders—did you not once speak of establishing a line of outposts, between this camp and Belkuthas? Would not that be work so important that you had to command it yourself, and report to Migmar afterward? I acknowledge that Carolius Migmar will still have command when you are together. But much may happen when you are at Belkuthas, things that cannot happen when you are here.”

“You speak of what could well end our service, or even our lives, Nemyotes.”

“I know that, my lord.”

Aurhinius laughed softly. “And to think I was being so careful to remain loyal, for the sake of you and others who might fall with me. Who else thinks as you do?”

“A good many captains. Enough that the camp will be safe if you march west.”

“Then I shall do so. Nemyotes, arrange matters for that purpose, and also bring me writing material. No, forget that. This must remain a surprise, even to Migmar and our kin.”

“I would say, especially to Migmar.”

“Don’t cut them that way, you dolt! If the horses don’t charge aright, they won’t hit the sentries! Who do you think you are?”

Horimpsot Elderdrake glared at his companion. It was plainly a glare on his face, even in the darkness and under the dirt of many days in the forest. It was fortunate that kender grow no facial hair, or both of them could have had beards well down toward their chests. The hair on their heads was frightful enough.

“I am someone who has learned much about horses. And you are making too much noise.”

It said much about the changed relationship between the two kender that Imsaffor Whistletrot was silent. He remained silent, as did the night, until all the tethers were cut. Then the two kender stationed themselves behind the horses, and went to work with hoopak and whippit to make as much noise as possible.

Suddenly breaking the silence of the night, the moans and whistles were enough to frighten spirits, let alone horses half starved for many days. As fast as their strength allowed, they bolted.

The sentries in their path did not stand their ground. They ran off in all directions so quickly that Elderdrake feared some of them would fall and hurt themselves. He and Whistletrot wanted Zephros’s blood as much as ever, but they had scruples about shedding anyone else’s.

They had even less wish to hurt horses. When they followed the trail of the mounts, over ground trampled by hooves and feet and littered with discarded weapons and equipment, they were alert for any fallen animals.

They found only one, but the gray mare was in dire case. She had fallen into a ditch and badly broken one leg. They looked, they frowned, they climbed down, and they tried to both calm the horse and heave her to her feet at the same time.

This understandably did not improve the mare’s disposition. They had just leapt out of the ditch to avoid the mare’s third attempt to bite them, when a soft voice spoke behind them.

“I always knew kender were thickheaded and stubborn, Tharash. If we leave them, they will be here until the day dawns or the enemy comes upon them.”

The kender turned to see Tharash and another elf, a woman in a robe that was either dark-colored or even filthier than they. “If you want to help the mare, let me see what can be done,” the woman said. She lifted her robe, revealing well-formed legs, and leapt down into the ditch.

Tharash handed her a staff that the kender recognized as bearing the signs of Mishakal. They also recognized her as someone who had come with Lauthin.

“Elansa came out with Lauthin’s men. Said they needed a healer,” Tharash added. “She’s good-hearted and strong.”

From his tone, the kender judged that the elven healer had been good-hearted enough to share Tharash’s bed—if they could find such a thing in the forest. He thought yearningly of having Hallie Pinesweet out here with him.

Elansa’s hands and staff moved over the mare’s leg. At last she whispered, “Find cloth and sticks. We shall need to splint the leg, if she is to walk safely away from here.”

They settled for two sticks and one of Tharash’s sheathed knives, tied in place with strips of cloth torn one apiece from everybody’s garments. It was a ragged party that finally trailed the mare away from a camp where either none had heard their noise or all were too afraid to come out and learn what made it.

“I’m going inside in a few days,” Tharash said. “I can take you lads—ah, gentlemen—with me, if you wish.”

“I hate dwarf tunnels,” Whistletrot said.

“Odd, seeing as how you fit in them better than I do,” the elven ranger said. “But no matter. If you want to stay out here until you have Zephros’s head, I will help all I can. For the gods’ sake and your friends,’ though, take a bath. Your clothes must already stand up by themselves, and soon sentries will be able to nose you out from upwind!”

Then the two light-treading elves were gone.

Carolius Migmar heard the rumble and squeal of wagons climbing a slope, the crack of whips, and the shouts of teamsters. He would go out to inspect the arriving siege train in a few moments, but he would not hasten unduly.

He also had to ponder whether to reply to Zephros’s letter—which should not have been written in the first place. Admitting dealings with Wilthur the Brown was a sufficient addition to Zephros’s crimes to give him a death sentence. Also, the letter revealed something that might still have been a secret to some of their enemies, if the letter had been read by unfriendly eyes. Still, a Red Robe of Tarothin’s skill would have already discovered Wilthur’s presence and even countered some of his spells.

Migmar decided that for now there would be no reply to the letter—which, he hoped, would make further discourse unneeded when he reached Zephros’s camp. The less recognition he could give the self-styled high captain, the better.

As for helping Wilthur the Brown back into the graces of the kingpriest, or even the Towers of High Sorcery—Migmar would rather become a eunuch!

A pity that, in this campaign, kingpriest, virtuous soldiers of Istar, and the Knights of Solamnia formed three factions like the sides of a triangle, rather than a single straight line facing their common enemies. Victory at Belkuthas, Migmar hoped, might help build that line.

Then the question of the “lesser races” would cease to excite such passions. Confronted with the union of such human powers, they would find reason to yield with honor, and with just treatment they would not again be a source of danger or even dissension.

To his own mind, Migmar had always been a soldier who worked to make his profession unnecessary. Victory at Belkuthas might be a fair step in that direction.

It would also be an easier step than many realized, including Wilthur the Brown. What need was there for sorcery when the siege engines were assembled? Indeed, what need for a fight when the defenders of the citadel would likely see the wisdom of yielding honorably to overwhelming force?

It was time to go out and inspect the newly arrived wagons carrying the ironmongery and tools for the siege train. Not only would this flatter the sappers, it would also be wise to see how robust the wagons were.

This was a land of many rocks and slopes and few broad roads. That had not mattered before, when Migmar’s three thousand men (picked sell-swords and a thousand of the regular host of Istar) carried everything they needed on their backs, their saddles, or their pack animals. Even the host’s meat rations walked.

Heavily laden wagons, on the other hand, required roads and time. There might be skirmishing as deluded folk tried to halt the siege train with petty ambushes. Even so, the summer was not half gone, and Belkuthas would not endure once the siege train was at work.

There was ample time.

Migmar drew on his cloak, set his helmet straight upon his balding head, and marched out to welcome his most important reinforcements.

Tharash was following his own advice given to the kender half a moon before—taking a bath before he grew too noisome for civilized company—when Sirbones entered the chamber.

“Alas, that you are not Elansa,” Tharash said. He pretended to squint nearsightedly at the priest of Mishakal. “No, too old, too wrinkled, and much too bald. Also wearing far more clothes than Elansa would, if she came to a man in his bath.”

“I am not here to feed your dreams, Tharash,” Sirbones said.

“Do you even feed yourself?” Tharash said. The priest shrugged. “Well, do so. Otherwise you and Tarothin will both be dead of hunger before the siege is done. It is not as if you take food from starving children by eating enough to keep your spirits and flesh together! Not when I remember the weight of venison I just helped haul through the tunnels. My shoulders still ache from that journey.”

Sirbones now neither moved nor spoke. “Out with it, Sirbones,” Tharash said. “I honor you more than most humans, but that does not make me ready to have my time wasted.” He stepped out of the bath and wrapped himself in a towel. “Speak before I am clothed, or be silent.”

Sirbones sat down on the edge of the bath. It rocked and nearly spilled him, as well as the cooling water, on the floor.

“Lauthin is beginning to think,” the priest said.

“What has he been doing all the while before?” Tharash said, “besides insulting my lord and lady beyond measure, playing despot over his own followers, and withholding strength from battle so that innocent men died?”

“He has said a good deal, in plain words,” Sirbones said.

“So,” Tharash said, pulling out a comb. Elves did not often go bald by nature, but he suspected that he would be nearly as bare-skulled as an aged dwarf by the time he had taken all the snarls from his gray locks.

It took Tharash as long as he had expected to finish his hair, and longer than he had expected for Sirbones to finish quoting Lauthin. The ranger had to admit that Lauthin seemed to have a glimmering of wisdom brightening the hitherto dark expanse of his narrow mind. However, none of what Tharash expected was in the words.

“What do you expect?” Sirbones asked. He seemed truly curious.

“A formal apology to my lady, my lord, and their daughter. A further apology to all the other captains here. Forgiveness of all those elves who marched out into the forest. Restitution from his own purse to the kin of those who died because he held his strength back from battle.”

“Dream, Tharash.”

The ranger’s anger flared. “That is little enough, from one who has been sitting on his bony arse while I drag mine, not much better-fleshed, through the forest. From one who thinks Solinari shines out of his—”

“I understand, Tharash. But it will take time before Lauthin says much more than he has already.”

“Very well. Let him hesitate until newly planted saplings are stout trees. We are both elves. We have time.”

“You are both old elves,” Sirbones said. “And we are all, young and old, in the middle of a war.”

“So?”

“Can we not have peace among ourselves, if only to better face our enemies?”

“Folk like Lauthin are the enemy, Sirbones. Even when they are not in arms against us.”

The fireball was just large enough to draw Zephros’s undivided attention to the door of his tent, but not to be seen outside. With his foot, Zephros pushed aside filth on the floor. Unsteadily, he stood to greet Wilthur.

“I have heard of no reply from Migmar.”

“There has been none.” Zephros was pleasantly surprised to find that he could speak clearly. “But there is another message. Aurhinius is coming.”

“To take command?”

“Only if he reaches us before Migmar, and that he probably cannot do.”

“Then what is to be feared from him?” asked the mage in his steel and brick rasp. “You seem downcast at his coming.”

“He is old, shrewd, and no friend to the kingpriest, to evil wizardry—”

“I am not evil!”

“How you see yourself is one thing, how Aurhinius will see you is a second, and what he will do when he comes is a third. Let me tell you about the ways of old intriguers like Aurhinius, even when they do not command.” Zephros had not found a chance to talk to anyone for so long in nearly a month. He went on so long, he suspected any common listener would have been bored to rudeness long before he was done.

Wilthur, however, did not know war, soldiering, or Aurhinius, and therefore did not know the menace they faced. “It seems best that we strike before Aurhinius arrives.”

“Without Migmar?”

“Do you want the glory of victory?” Wilthur countered.

“To the Abyss with the glory! I want—” What Zephros really wanted was to erase the stain of the name “deserter” or “mutineer,” and then never put on armor again. But Wilthur was the last person on Krynn he would honor with that confession.

“Well?”

“You are asking that I turn you loose on Belkuthas? Against its two wizards—at least two?”

“You inherited my loyalty from Luferinus. Did you inherit also his fears of me, so that you will quiver and quail when I propose—?”

“Luferinus was a brave man! You put the fear into him, you brown-robed windbag! That is the only way you know to deal with others!”

“Fear is the gods’ gift, like everything else, Zephros. It is through fear that I will enter the divided mind of one within Belkuthas. Divide his mind further, and what he will do will divide the folk of Belkuthas one against another, so that we shall be able to walk in long before Migmar or Aurhinius are within a day’s march.”

“Such sublime confidence!” Zephros wondered if Wilthur would throw a larger fireball for such a sneer, and hardly cared.

“You will learn that it is not unjustified,” Wilthur said. He marched out with as much dignity as was allowed by his increasingly rank robe and still more emaciated frame.

Rynthala had watched from the walls as Belot mounted Amrisha and the great wings lifted them both from the courtyard. They vanished swiftly into the clouds—this night had been especially chosen for its darkness.

Rynthala frowned and considered inspecting the sentries.

Air boomed, then whispered. Amrisha plunged out of the clouds, gliding so fast that Rynthala feared the pegasus was flying away. Then the great wings flared wide again, breaking the plunge just above the level of the walls.

The pegasus circled the castle twice while Rynthala ran down the stairs from the wall. Pegasus and rider landed in a flurry of dust as Rynthala reached ground.

She ran toward them. “That was asking much of Amrisha, to put that kind of a strain on her wings the first flight!”

She expected Belot to flare back at her, as he had several times since he recovered his health. Instead, she saw what might almost have been a shy smile.

“I confess. This is not the first flight. Closer to the fourth.”

“Without my knowing?”

“When you were asleep. Rynthala—Lady Rynthala—I—well, I thank you for all you have done for Amrisha. It has been—more than generous, with all the rest you have had to do.”

He was standing closer than he ever had, and she was more aware of him than before. He was tall for an elf, able to look her in the eyes, and as graceful in his own way as Darin, for all his elven slenderness.

“It is a poor gift, but all I can offer now,” he went on. He reached into his belt pouch and drew out a silvery collar. It looked to be dyed leather, until Rynthala touched it and realized it was a gorget of exquisitely fine elven mail. Running her fingers over it, she realized that the point of a needle, let alone a blade, would be hard put to find a way through it.

“You must think very well of my poor work, which was mostly done by others,” Rynthala said before she realized it sounded ungracious. “Do you wish to put it on me?” she said, then realized that sounded flirtatious.

Belot meanwhile stepped behind her, laid the gorget around her neck (a stiff neck, her father had once told her), and fastened the catches. The links were so fine that it felt like a caress. She half expected that the next thing she felt would be a caress.

Instead, she looked about, to see Belot leading Amrisha toward the stable. She almost ran after him. If he had been Sir Darin, and had stood that close and given her such a gift, she would have. Except that she would have been in his arms long before now.

Marvelous. She could draw responses she did not want from Belot, and not draw them from Darin, when she did want them. Or did she really want a man who did not seem to want her, instead of an elf who did?

Too young for war, and now she felt too young for love—or at least for both at the same time. Both had come at their own convenience, rather than hers.

She turned toward her quarters. Behind her, Amrisha whickered. To Rynthala, it sounded almost as if the pegasus was laughing at her.

With Amrisha healed enough to fly, the citadel of Belkuthas now had its own aerial scout. Belot made at least one flight every second day, trying to stay high enough to be out of arrow range and low enough to see clearly what lay below.

“Of course, spells can strike at any height without warning,” he said. “I doubt Tarothin could endure one of the scouting flights, however.”

He said this to Lauthin, with Pirvan present. The high judge had yet to apologize to the Belkuthans, but he seemed to expect the knight to forgive and forget. Pirvan vowed Lauthin would be surprised one day, but only after the fighting was done.

“Then by all means do not put him in danger,” Lauthin said. “The honor of the Silvanesti demands holding Belkuthas.”

After Lauthin departed, Belot and Pirvan looked at each other. The pegasus rider tossed up his hands in a gesture that made Pirvan want to smile, except that the elf was still prickly with everyone except Rynthala.

“I would like to think that means he has summoned aid,” Belot said quietly.

“Can he?” Pirvan’s knowledge of Silvanesti law and statecraft was more limited than he wished.

“As a high judge, he can summon any number of fighting elves to observe. He cannot order them to fight without the approval of two other high judges. But there would likely be that many or more if any good number of elves came north.”

“Will they?” Pirvan knew he must sound like a child begging for his naming-day treat a month early. Belot actually smiled at the knight.

“I can fly to the south and see if any are coming,” Belot said. “My eyes can spy out what Lauthin’s lips may not reveal. And do not ask whether I shall do it, for I will, or why I do it, because I will not tell you.”

He strode off, the cloak he had come to affect flowing dramatically behind him.

Pirvan rejoiced in Belot’s turning useful and Lauthin’s turning almost civilized. He hoped that in return for his aid, Belot would not make a claim on Rynthala that would offend her, her parents—or Darin.

Belot found no elven hosts advancing, but that proved little. The Silvanesti were masters of woodscraft, and five thousand of them could hide under a canopy of trees and not be seen by even a fellow elf. Belot had landed twice, but in the north, elven settlements were few and far between.

“They are also mostly old warriors or rangers, sworn to the king and the high judges and as clannish as the Kagonesti,” Belot said. “They would not tell a strange elf descending from the sky the price of hazelnut bread if they doubted his right to know it.”

More useful was another flight, to the north. On this scouting foray, Belot sighted a wagon train with an armed escort. He returned, reported its position, guided some of Tharash’s ground scouts to it, and returned with their message.

Upon hearing the message, Pirvan immediately called a council of war.

“The Istarian commander Carolius Migmar comes against us with three thousand fighters. They are more skilled than any we have faced, and a thousand of those still lurk around Belkuthas. Migmar also brings the fittings and men of a siege train. Give him a few days in the forests about Belkuthas, and we will face siege engines of the best Istarian kind. This plainly puts a new face on our battle. We do not know yet if we have help coming.”

“ ’Fore anybody says yea or nay to fighting on, I’ll say this,” Nuor of the Black Chisel put in. “I think we can have some help from the Lintelmakers and their friends. They fostered Krythis and Tulia, even if maybe they only think them pets.”

Krythis and Tulia tried to glare at the dwarf, then broke up in laughter. It was the merriest sound that Pirvan had heard in some while.

The only one who did not join the laughter was Sir Lewin. This was the first council of war on which he had been permitted to sit. It had taken until now for Pirvan to persuade the others to offer Sir Lewin’s honor that last accolade, and he had done everything save threaten to surrender the castle to move some of the rest of the council.

“But they’ll need to be formally appealed to if they’re to send enough dwarves by the underground ways, and soon enough.”

“Amrisha can carry two,” Belot said. “She will need a rest at the far end of the flight, but she can do it.”

“I rejoice,” Krythis said. “Sir Pirvan, with your permission, I shall pen the appeal. I had hoped our courage would outlast our enemies’ folly, but if this cannot be, we must ask, beg if need be, for aid.

“Belot may not be the right messenger, so—” His eyes searched the room, rested briefly and fondly on Rynthala while Pirvan sweated within his tunic, then nodded to the dwarf himself.

“Nuor. It’s a good idea, and you’re a good one to carry it out.”

“Me? I can’t fly!”

“Have no fear, Nuor. Amrisha will do all the flying for us,” Belot said.

“But—I mean—if I fall off—”

“You won’t,” Belot said. “Trust me.”

“I’ve no head for heights.”

Pirvan realized that Nuor must be really uneasy about the flight, or he would hardly have shown such naked fear in Sir Lewin’s presence. The knight vowed that if Sir Lewin so much as twitched an eyebrow, he would be put out of doors.

At last, Nuor heaved a gusty sigh. “Can I have a good drink of dwarf-spirits before I go?” he asked.

“You can have any we have left,” Pirvan said.

“Just don’t drink so much that you’ve no thirst when we land,” Belot said. “Or when we have the victory feast.”

As much as he tried, Pirvan remembered very little of the rest of the council. It was as if everyone was trying to remember only Belot’s cheerful admonition to the dwarf and forget how many pitfalls lay on the road to that feast.

He did remember that Sir Lewin’s face bore a strange, set expression as he left afterward. He also remembered asking himself whether it would be questioning the honor of the other knight to ask how he was faring under his burden of a divided mind.

Chapter 17

It was a spell known to only a few wizards in the history of high sorcery. It was one that still fewer renegades had actually performed.

Yet in spite of this, Wilthur found it admirably simple to put another shape on a man in Belkuthas and a few new thoughts in his mind. After having spent much of his years trying to balance white, red, and black spells within his mind and magic, almost anything else was simple.

Still, Wilthur the Brown would admit in the privacy of his camp quarters that the man himself might unwittingly be making the work easier.

A spell divided among the three aspects of magic had, it seemed likely, a natural affinity for a mind divided more ways than its possessor had fingers and toes.

Wilthur cast another handful of redwort pickled in honey vinegar into the charcoal of the brazier, and the smoke rose thicker. Outside, the scent escaped on the breeze, and men made gestures of aversion. They also held their noses or, if they had no work close by, tried to find a place upwind of the tent.

Within Belkuthas, Tarothin muttered uneasily in his sleep, without waking.

Sirbones was not asleep—healing a dwarf who had slipped descending the cellar stairs. Even dwarven bones could crack if they struck stone hard enough, and Sirbones knew the dwarf had to be not only healed by tomorrow but ready to fight within days. This required a healing spell of such potency that, for Sirbones, everything beyond himself and the dwarf might as well not have existed.

A third man was asleep when the spell began, but soon afterward awoke and dressed. He did not look in the mirror as he went out, although he was (at least by daylight) careful of his appearance. It would have unsettled his mind to see his ensorcelled self in the mirror, and his mind was already uneasy. Sir Lewin of Trenfar would probably not have cared to wander about the castle wearing the aspect of Belot the elven pegasus-rider.

At least not at first. By the time he reached Rynthala’s quarters, the spell had sunk far enough within him that he would not readily doubt anything that happened—or hold back because of it.

Rynthala had undressed for bed and was pulling on her night robe when the knock came. Her father coming back? She hoped Krythis had nothing more to say to her; he had begun to look like a corpse.

She wished the ill-omened thought out of her mind and prayed briefly to Mishakal to heal or at least order her thoughts and her father’s body and spirit. The knock came again. She drew the night robe down to her knees and went to open the door.

Belot stood there. His hands hung empty at his sides, and his face was blank with—what? Surprise that she had opened her door?

She could not let him think so ill of her as that. “Come in, Belot. It is late, but I will not keep you standing in the hall. How fares Amrisha?”

Belot said nothing, but stepped forward. He closed the door behind him.

Rynthala felt less easy. The blank look was still on Belot’s face. Even when he had been hostile, his thin face had been wonderfully mobile.

Had he been drinking, to gain courage to come to her as he had? That promised ill. But again, it also spoke ill of her.

She bent down, to pull a stool over to him. He also bent down, so that their foreheads bumped together.

She laughed. Then the laughter died on her lips, as he took a firm grip on her night robe with one hand and clamped the other even more firmly over her mouth.

The sound of ripping cloth and Rynthala’s cry came together. But it was only a mewling cry; Belot’s hand was as hard as iron, and not much weaker.

High Judge Lauthinaradalas was approaching Rynthala’s door when he heard her cry out. He was no judge of the sounds from the throats of near-humans, but it did not sound to him like a cry of passion.

Even if Rynthala was wanton—and this was hard to believe, in a chamber next to her parents, who were as chaste in their conduct as clerics of Paladine … even if she was, he still had the duty he had sworn to earlier this day. He would go to her and apologize for his conduct, as both common elf and high judge.

It would be easiest to speak to her. Although the quickest to anger of those who must forgive him, and the likeliest to break his head, she would also be the quickest to calm herself. Then she could intercede for him.

For now, it sounded as though somebody needed to intercede for her. Lauthin gripped his staff and pushed hard on the door, with both hand and staff.

Being unlocked, the door flew open. Lauthin halted, appalled at what he saw within. Rynthala was bent over backward in the grip of Belot, who had a hand over her mouth and was holding her arms behind her back with the other. Where had such strength come from?

Lust and madness, it seemed. Rynthala’s eyes were wide, with fury rather than fear or desire, and she wore only the rags of her night robe.

Then Belot moved. He struck Rynthala on the jaw and in the stomach. She collapsed on the bed, gasping for breath, her lip bleeding. As he whirled, a knife sprouted from his hand.

The next moment, it was sprouting from Lauthin’s chest.

The elven lord also fell backward with the force of the blow. He was on the floor, looking up, by the time Belot snatched the dagger free, then thrust again, lower down.

By then, the first wound was starting to hurt. It would hurt a great deal, if he lived long enough. With two such wounds, he did not fear that danger.

But where had Belot gained such strength? He was fighting like a trained warrior, which he certainly was not. Also, Lauthin had never to his memory seen such a long knife in Belot’s possession.

This is not Belot—Lauthin held that thought, because it meant that one of his own people was not so vile and treacherous.

That was his last thought, before his mind became unable to hold any thoughts at all.

As blackness took him, Rynthala regained the breath to scream.

Krythis was sitting on the bed, wondering if he had the strength to even wash his face and hands before retiring, when Rynthala screamed.

His daughter’s scream gave him the strength to leap from the bed, snatch his sword from the peg by the door and his dagger from under the pillow, and run out into the corridor.

Tulia had been sound asleep, but she was only moments behind him.

In the corridor, they discovered their daughter’s door locked from within. Meanwhile, the screams continued—more rage than pain, and no fear whatever, Krythis told himself firmly—proving that Rynthala was very much alive and fighting.

Unfortunately, she was also fighting on the far side of that locked door. Krythis slashed at it with his sword, which only nicked the edge of one of the door’s iron bands and did not even relieve his rage.

What might have happened if Rynthala’s screams had not roused everyone in the family quarters could never be known. Several guards ran up, elven and human, as well as one dwarf wearing a loincloth and carrying an axe.

The dwarf had just taken his first swing at the door when Grimsoar One-Eye appeared. He carried an even bigger axe than the dwarf. With a nod to the other axe-men, he took his swing.

Then the two axes were biting into the oak at a rate that made Krythis stand back to avoid being hit by flying splinters. He would be no use to Rynthala until the door was down, and from the sounds within, she was still fighting. The gods willing, the men chopping through the door would distract the attacker and give Rynthala a chance to strike him down even before her kin entered—

The door flew inward, the lock chopped completely free of the wood. Krythis shouldered his way through the last standing planks, ripping skin from his limbs and shoulders as he did.

Rynthala lay on the bed, trying in every way she could to injure the man atop her. He seemed unharmed, however—and Krythis would not have withheld his blow even if the man had been dead on the floor at his feet.

His dagger plunged thrice into the man’s lower back. Then he gripped the man’s tunic to pull him off the bed. As Krythis heaved, Rynthala snatched up her pillow dagger and drove it into the man’s chest.

He crashed to the floor, and Rynthala stood up unsteadily. For a moment she wore nothing save the man’s blood; then she wrapped a blanket around herself and sat down, shaking.

Krythis sat beside her, and took almost as much comfort as he gave when she put her head on his shoulder. If she had recoiled at his touch—

“He tried, Father. But he either would not or could not. He certainly did not.”

“Even if Belot only tried—” Krythis said. He could not find words. He wanted to spit on Belot’s corpse.

“Father. That is not Belot.”

Krythis looked. “Impossible. He must have thought you—”

“You are not thinking, Father. Look at that dagger. Belot never carried one like it. And he was strong. Strong as a trained warrior—strong as a knight—oh, Paladine!”

Krythis wanted to say more, thinking of Sir Darin made mad by lust or, more likely, magic. Either would drive between him and Sir Pirvan a wedge that only Paladine could remove.

“Rynthala! Lord Lauthin!”

Belot stood in the doorway.

But Belot was dead on the floor, after attacking Rynthala and—yes, Lord Lauthin lay dead in a corner of the room. Three stab wounds in his chest and stomach—

If Belot is standing in the doorway, wondered Krythis, then who is lying dead on the floor?

No, not quite dead. Improbably but truly, the man was still breathing. This would not last for long, but any illusion spell bound upon him would not depart until he died—or until it was removed by a wizard.

“Summon Tarothin,” Krythis said. Someone vanished. Krythis hoped the eager messenger was a fast runner and not afraid of the wrath of a weary wizard freshly awakened.

“Send for Sirbones,” Krythis went on. “Turn out all the fighters—everyone—guard all the gates and tunnel mouths. Double the wall watch, and—Rynthala!”

Rynthala had stepped forward, and taken Belot in her arms.

“Rynthala, what are you doing?” Krythis exclaimed. “Even if Belot—”

“Oh, hush, my lord,” Tulia said, prodding him in his bare buttocks with her dagger. She would have sounded light-hearted, but for the quaver in her voice. “If Belot is innocent, Rynthala can do as she pleases with him.… Your pardon, daughter, that was not what I meant to say—”

Rynthala rescued her parents from confusion. “Plainly speaking, whoever lies there is half again Belot’s size and strength.”

“A shapechanger?” Krythis said, appalled.

“Whatever he is,” came a familiar voice from behind Krythis, “he has killed Lord Lauthin and attacked Rynthala. Now, can we cease bickering and wait for this man to die or else for Tarothin to ready himself to take off the spell?” Sir Pirvan stepped forward. He wore trousers, sword and dagger, helmet, and nothing else. Haimya was not with him.

“Why not Sirbones?” Rynthala asked.

Another familiar voice floated into the chamber. “Because taking a potent spell of illusion off a dying man will overtax a weary healer.”

Krythis turned. “I suppose you are a hale and hearty wizard, friend Tarothin?” The Red Robe sat in a sedan chair borne by two Gryphons and two men-at-arms, all well beweaponed. Several more of each flanked him, led by Haimya and Sir Darin.

Krythis felt his knees turn to half-congealed grease and he would have fallen but for his daughter and wife steadying him on each side. A third set of helping hands turned out to belong to Belot. Sitting with his head down did not restore Krythis’s wits. In that position he had to look at the bodies, until he also put his hands over his face.

At last he could stand. Meanwhile, Tarothin had touched his staff to the dagger, the dead false Belot, and Lord Lauthin.

“The dagger was his, and killed Lauthin,” Tarothin said. “Learning any more waits on breaking the spell, and for that I would ask to be alone. If someone will bring the green embroidered saddlebag from the sedan chair—”

Several pairs of eager hands departed on eager feet. Sir Darin and the true Belot were not among them. They stood on either side of Rynthala, as close as propriety allowed them to stand to a young woman wearing only a blanket. Neither was looking daggers at the other—or indeed, looking at the other at all. Both, however, were looking at Rynthala, as if she was a rare and precious thing that might crumble to powder at a harsh word.

It was probably the first time in years that anyone save her parents had looked at Rynthala in that way. Krythis hoped his daughter could get used to the experience.

A loud groan echoed around the chamber just as the messengers returned with Tarothin’s apparatus. He knelt beside the false Belot, resting his staff on the body.

“This may keep the illusion spell from crumbling the body to powder when it passes off. If it does not, we face more potent magic than I had feared.”

“Black?” someone asked.

“That is the problem,” Tarothin said in his lecture-hall tone. If he was capable of that, waked from sleep at this hour of the night, perhaps he was not so feeble after all. “If this is the spell I think it is, we face a unique combination of magic, drawn from black, white, and red. It—”

At this point the false Belot died, and the illusion spell departed with his spirit.

Krythis would have gladly been somewhere else when all recognized the bloody corpse. The best he could do was not join the gasps of horror, and not look at Sir Pirvan.

After a moment, he could even raise his voice. “Rynthala, you may leave or not, as you wish. The rest of you, I ask that you come with me. It would be well to leave Sir Pirvan and Master Tarothin with Sir Lewin’s body.”

Rynthala was neither awake nor asleep as she sat on the wall and watched the sun touch the battlements of the keep.

She also watched a few intruding besiegers scuttling for safety, across the still-shadowed ground outside the walls. Since the dwarves cleared away most of the old rubble and wall stubs, there was scant cover within bow shot of the citadel. Anyone caught close in by daylight was likely to be a banquet for the carrion birds by nightfall.

She wanted to take away the memory of this whole night. Not only from herself, for she had suffered more harm to her dignity than to her body, but from everyone else. What her father had felt breaking into the room and seeing her, what Sir Pirvan had felt when he recognized the body—those she would have gladly blotted from the record of events, even if it meant burning Astinus the Chronicler’s entire library to ashes!

That power was not likely to come to her, any more than the power to revive Sir Lewin. To do the knight justice, he probably would not wish to live once he learned what his body had done in the guise of another, with his mind turned from the path of honor by a third creature, a mage of immense evil.

It did not matter what Tarothin said. Evil had been wrought this night. Rynthala wanted some way of purging her parents’ home of it, until death itself drew back from the cleansing fury abroad in the citadel of Belkuthas.

“Your pardon, Lady Rynthala.”

She turned, and realized only then that it was daylight and the sun was glinting on Belot’s fair hair. No, it had not turned white overnight—that was a trick of the light.

“If I wanted to punish you,” she said wearily, “the best way would be to keep you up on the wall. Let us go down.”

They descended the stairs and crossed the courtyard. “Lady Rynthala—”

“You have not called me ‘lady’ for a while. Please do not start again.”

She realized then that Belot was at his wit’s end for what to say to her. Perhaps she could begin the purge of Belkuthas by purging him.

So she took him in her arms and kissed him.

He was at first as rigid as wood, and she heard his breath whuff out. Then he relaxed a trifle, and returned the kiss, in a brotherly manner. Finally he stepped out of her arms, and smiled.

“You did not find me—horrible?”

“You were not attacking me last night. I have a bad memory, or so my nurse said, but I can tell you from—the sorcerer’s puppet.” Then an appalling thought struck her. “You did not find my kiss dreadful, I hope?”

“No.”

“Good. I would hate to think I had unmanned you.”

“I doubt that any—woman—has that power.” Some of his old fire was back.

“I am told that all men feel that way when they are young, whether elven or human.”

Belot smiled. “I came to say farewell. I am about to give Nuor of the Black Chisel his first lesson in not falling off a pegasus.”

“I thought you would be leaving tonight.”

“I think it would be best to fly now. Then we can be outside the reach of our enemies by nightfall, or even in time to find a safe landing place.

“I also wanted to say this. Whatever you are, you are a whole—a whole being. Not half this or a quarter that or seven parts of one thing and six of another. You are Rynthala, and that begins and ends what you are.”

Then he kissed her again, longer but just as brotherly.

Rynthala gripped Belot’s shoulders. “If you say that often enough, Belot, you will be kissing many women. Most of them will make you better wives than I would.”

“Is that your answer?”

“It would be if you asked.”

“I was not asking.” He actually grinned, though he could have had no sleep the night before and was facing a long day now. “Do not worry about any noises you may hear from the stable. It will just be me stuffing Nuor into a saddlebag and tying it shut.”

Chapter 18

Well to the north of Belkuthas, a pegasus skimmed over the pine tops, circled, and landed in a small clearing. An elf dismounted and started undoing a bundle slung to one side.

“Ugh,” came from within the bundle. Then other sounds, indicating distress, dismay, and a reluctance to move.

Belot undid the last binding. The bundle fell to earth with a thud. Eloquent dwarven curses replaced the other sounds.

Nuor of the Black Chisel rolled out of the carrying bag and stretched his limbs. Then he stood up. He looked down at the ground and up at the sky, then shuddered.

“Never thought I’d feel ground under my feet again. Are we at the Lintelmakers’ caves yet?”

“Hardly. We have two more flights, each as long as this one.”

Nuor groaned. “That can’t be.”

“It is.” Belot laughed. “Of course, I admit that we have not flown directly north. I swung to the south, and this time I found elves. A good many, and on the march—I think.”

“You mean, they may just be going for a picnic in the forest?”

“It could well be.”

Nuor groaned again. Belot relented. “They had all the marks of an elven host prepared for war. I did not go low enough to be able to ask whom they intended to fight.”

“It won’t be dwarves, will it?”

Belot shook his head. “No dwarf laid a hand on Lord Lauthin or any other elf. Our quarrel is with the Istarians, unless they are very quick to withdraw from Belkuthas.”

“Men with the kingpriest breathing down their necks will not give up a victory over lesser races before Hiddukel’s priests give honest measure!” groused the dwarf.

“Then we must fly again, as soon as Amrisha has drunk.” Belot turned away, then halted. “Oh, and don’t call her ‘that confounded feathered pony’ again. She is sensitive.”

He walked away, leaving Nuor alternately cursing and laughing, the latter mostly at himself.

Pirvan studied the map hung on the wall of the keep chamber. This chamber, one level below his and Haimya’s quarters, had become his post of command, where they held councils of war. The councils had become so numerous and so large, and the messengers going to and from Pirvan so continuous, that he had not wished to intrude on Krythis and Tulia.

Particularly not Krythis. Since Sir Lewin’s death, something had broken within the lord of Belkuthas. It seemed to load on him as great a weight as if he had slain the Knight of the Rose by treachery or in cold blood.

Pirvan hoped Krythis would not forever treat the horrible mischance as a crime. No man’s body or spirit could bear the weight of such guilt for long. Krythis needed both in good order. Belkuthas needed him with both in good order—and Pirvan not least among those in Belkuthas.

He realized he had been exceedingly fortunate, not to be as alone as commanders commonly are. Krythis had done much to make this so. When he stood straight and unburdened again, he could do more.

Tulia and Rynthala had said that words did nothing to lighten Krythis’ burden. Pirvan assumed they spoke truth. What next? Time was lacking. Sirbones? He might have scruples. Also, guilt was often a sickness that did not respond to healing spirits.

Tarothin? He might have more scruples than Sirbones, and even less strength. What strength he had would be needed for the day of the assault. Fireball spells, for example, drew much from a Red Robe—more than from a Black Robe—and of course for a White Robe …

Pirvan turned back to the map. A knock made him realize he had turned his back on the door, which was well guarded, but still—

“Enter!”

It was Sir Esthazas. “Message for you, Sir Pirvan,” he said briskly. “It came in with the salt shipment through the tunnels.”

“How much salt?”

“Five barrels.”

“Good.”

That should be enough to salt down the meat of the milk cows and goats that, in days, would have to be slaughtered. Fodder for them had run out. The other livestock of the refugees had long since been slaughtered and either roasted or salted, which had exhausted Belkuthas’s supply of salt.

Sir Esthazas coughed, reminding Pirvan he had not yet asked about the message. I will make a good steward for somebody, when this is done, he thought.

“Speak.”

“Ah—some of the able-bodied refugees—they’ve been training in arms since they left. They sent a message. Can they come back and help in the final fight?”

“No!”

Sir Esthazas flinched.

Pirvan shook his head and continued more quietly. “The better-trained in arms they are, the more their families need them. If they come back and we fall, they are lost and their families defenseless. If they remain in the forest and we fall, they can at least try to lead their families to safety. We will have dwarves and elves aplenty before much longer, so that safety will not be far off.”

“As you wish, Sir Pirvan.”

Sir Esthazas’s turning away was slow, and Pirvan saw the young knight’s broad shoulders slumping. He sighed. Esthazas was barely two years older than his son Gerik. He probably had the same reluctance to admit that something was troubling him, even to one who might help him.

“Sir Esthazas. I will not force help or advice on you, but feel free to ask any question you wish answered. If I can answer, I will.”

The young knight turned back toward Pirvan and almost managed to look him in the eye. “What will our place be, when the fight begins?”

“Have your men not been taking their turns of duty, even on the wall?”

“Yes. But always with an equal or greater number of other fighters watching them. The Gryphons, particularly. Their distrust is—it reeks, to be plain about it.”

In their place, mine would too, Pirvan thought, but did not say.

“It would take time to persuade Krythis and Threehands that you and your men should fight together—more time than we have.” It would take even longer to persuade his own men-at-arms. They felt the shame of Sir Lewin’s dishonor even more keenly than the knights. “But on the day of battle, whatever has been said before, your men will fight as one band, and you will lead them.”

I can’t use the argument about not doubting the honor of a fellow knight again, thought Pirvan, considering what nearly happened to Rynthala because of it. I’ll have to think of something else.

Pirvan did not expect to have time for that, either. At least Krythis’s being apathetic meant fewer allies to persuade that Sir Esthazas should fight at the head of his Solamnics. But Threehands was as tenacious as ever, and Tulia and Rynthala were not only as stubborn as their husband and father, they were much less polite.

But Sir Esthazas would fight. The trail of dishonor Sir Lewin had left behind would end on the day of battle.

Zephros felt rather as he had when, as a small boy, he was summoned to his father on the complaint of his tutor.

Carolius Migmar’s round, ruddy cheeks did not reduce the grimness of his expression as he sat behind the camp table in his tent. “I trust you have an explanation for being late, in addition to your other offenses?”

For Zephros, the truth allowed him to speak without stammering. That had also been the case when he was a boy. “We became lost, trying to avoid trails watched by Belkuthas’s rangers.”

“There are more folk than those of Belkuthas prowling these forests, Zephros. Many of them may be laid at your door. Had your contemptible little host not foraged—to be polite—on the country as it did, fewer folk might be desperate or furious.

“As it is, we have had to kill or execute a fair number of folk who, if they are not Silvanesti subjects, are probably Istarians, or even humans under dwarven protection. I am not grateful for this.

“However, I am grateful that you have done as much against Belkuthas as you have. Without you and your men, much less would have been done. The place might be impregnable.

“My gratitude extends to keeping you at the head of those you have led the past two months. I will also recommend a formal pardon—although I think it would be as well to resign after you are pardoned.”

“I do not think the host of Istar and I will miss each other, my lord.”

“Speaking for the host, I agree. But there are two conditions. One is that you lead your men at the walls on the day of our assault.”

“Consider that done.”

“The second condition is that you have no further dealings with Wilthur the Brown. I am informed—how, I shall not say—that if you do, the Knights of Solamnia will demand your head. I will probably give it to them.

“I do not ask that you seek and arrest him. You could probably do neither successfully. I only ask that if you learn of his whereabouts, you tell those fit to take him and stand aside while they do so.”

Zephros felt modest displeasure in discovering how much Carolius Migmar had learned. He felt great pleasure at leaving the tent a free man, and at the head of soldiers.

There would be a price for that pleasure—the head of a column advancing on the wall of Belkuthas would be a deadly place, no matter how many siege engines battered the citadel for however long. Yet if he fell, all who saw him fall would know of his end, and perhaps in time those who knew of his life would be shouted down.

At least he would not have those cursed kender on his trail any longer!

Pard Lintelmaker sat on a stone bench at the end of a long, low chamber. Several other dwarves shared benches on either side of him.

Before him, Belot, Gran Axesharp, and Nuor of the Black Chisel squatted on moss-stuffed deer-hide cushions. They could practically reach out and touch Pard Lintelmaker’s beard, for the “audience chamber” was mostly taken up with a museum of dwarven work.

Belot had thought dwarves were robust but clumsy, shrewd but lacking elegance of taste or execution. He had ceased to think that the moment he saw the chamber.

Every sort of rock and mineral was there, carved into lace, polished until it shone like mirrors, smoothed until it was as silk to the touch. There was gold, silver, copper, and jade jewelry and ornaments, some of it set with jewels. Some of the jewels were intricately faceted, while others were raw chunks of blazing color.

There was enough to keep anyone who was interested in beauty wandering the aisles of the chamber until snow piled high at the mouth of the Lintelmaker tunnels. However, if Belot was not out of here before the leaves began to turn, let alone before the trees were bare under a weight of snow, irreparable harm would come to all the folk of this land.

Therefore, while elven calm usually made humans look as fidgety as kender, Belot struggled mightily to keep his body quiet and his face expressionless. Before this day was over—whatever day it was in this underground world without sun—they would learn the fate of Belkuthas.

Pard Lintelmaker coughed.

“It seems pretty plain that folk we fostered and therefore have a duty to are in serious trouble. Do you say that they’re innocent in the matter of Lord Lauthin’s death?”

“I have described what I saw and what I have been told by those I trust,” Belot said. “If you do not trust them—”

“Easy, lad, Nuor said. Belot wanted to bristle at being called “lad,” and suspected Nuor was paying him back for the pride-bruising flight on Amrisha. But Nuor also might be able to persuade Pard Lintelmaker that Belot could be trusted.

What Nuor said was virtually the same as what Belot had said, in slightly different words. In the end, silence came, then seemed to swell until it filled the chamber like steam filling an elven winter-bath.

“It’s as well that Lauthin’s blood is on nobody’s hands,” Pard said. “Frankly, Belot, your folk aren’t always the best of neighbors, and they might take on a trifle over our helping Lauthin’s killers. But if we’re not doing that, we’ll come.”

Belot was so relieved, he missed the dwarven lord’s next few words.

“—underground. Walking in the sun’s no faster, and we won’t do it unless there’s friendly fighters in the woods the last few days before Belkuthas. Are they?”

When Belot had translated those mutterings, he had to shake his head. “Scouts and some refugee guards, but our folk are still marching up from the south. If you were coming that way—”

“If we were taking a tooth out by way of the bellybutton,” Pard Lintelmaker growled. “No, the tunnels it will be, and Gran Axesharp will have the chief’s hammer if I can’t find anyone who’s a bigger fool.”

“You find that bigger fool, Pard, and I’ll use the hammer on him before we march,” Axesharp said.

Belot did not feel this was entirely a jest.

The dwarves did not seem particularly concerned about the renegade wizard Wilthur the Brown.

“Just because we aren’t much for the high towers or parading around in fancy robes so long we’d trip over them, doesn’t mean dwarves don’t know anything about magic. We know enough to get done what we think needs doing, and how much that is, is our affair.”

Also, Tarothin probably knew enough about dwarven magic as he knew about the other kinds. If he had not exhausted the last of his strength before the dwarves came. If, if, if—

The dwarven chief was speaking again. “We’ll need to give warning. I’ll reply to Krythis’s message, and Nuor, you can ride back with Belot to deliver it.”

The look on Nuor’s face amply repaid Belot for being called “lad.”

Nemyotes came up to Gildas Aurhinius, on foot, leading his horse, and looking so much like a soldier that for a moment the general did not recognize his secretary.

“Well?”

“The Pass of Riomis has completely collapsed. Shrines, springs, everything. It would take five thousand men or more magic than we command to clear it swiftly enough.”

Aurhinius cursed. “There goes our last chance of reaching Belkuthas before Migmar settles in around it.” He looked at the mountains ahead, dark ripples along the desert horizon.

“Maybe our tale about setting up outposts will turn out to be the truth after all.”

He half hoped Nemyotes would come up with another way of turning futility into hope. But the secretary was tending to his horse, like any good mounted fighter ought to do.

“The scouts have reported finding a centaur, ridden to death,” Haimya said.

Pirvan turned his head on the pillow to look at her. The rest of his body was too heavy to move. At least looking at her was pleasant enough. It was a hot night, and neither of them wore night robes.

“Ridden to death, or driven to run wildly?”

“They say they found marks of a rider on the centaur’s flanks. That elven healer with the scouts—”

“Elansa?”

“Yes, and by the way, I think she and Tharash are bed-mates.”

“Get to the point, woman!”

“Really?” Haimya drew out her pillow dagger and held it up.

“You were saying?”

Pirvan had given up jesting since Lewin’s death. Haimya, on the other hand, seemed to be making more jokes than ever. It helped lift others’ spirits, but it did not deceive her husband. She was whistling as she led the march past the graveyard.

“Elansa found traces of spells on the centaur. And the last prisoner the scouts took said that they—our friends outside—were looking for an escaped wizard.”

“Wilthur?”

“No doubt.”

“I doubt this means we’ve seen the last of him.” Pirvan rolled onto his back, his hands behind his head. “I could ask Tarothin, but Sirbones says he could barely counter one of Wilthur’s major spells, let alone find the man if he is trying to hide.”

“One day Tarothin will tell Sirbones to stop playing nursemaid. Then where will you be?”

Pirvan sighed. “Where I want to be is where I need not fear losing any more friends—or even people I am bound to.”

Haimya rolled on top of him. “Even more than you want to be here?”

“Well, this place has much to commend it—yes, indeed, very much.…”

Which was as far as Pirvan could go before words became, if not impossible, at least unnecessary.

Tharash awoke to the squeal of a night-flying insect in his ear. He swatted it into silence, and for a moment lay still, forgetting why he was here.

Then he felt Elansa’s sweet-scented warmth beside him under the furs, and remembered. Briefly he wanted to forget again and go back to sleep.

Instead, he crawled out from under the furs and dressed himself, careful all the while not to wake Elansa. She had moved by the time he was done, lying on her side with one bare arm reaching toward where he had lain.

She might awaken swiftly, if she sensed that he was gone. That would never do. Tharash snatched up bow and other gear, and went outside to put it on.

By the time he was done, his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, likewise his ears. There were more insects like the one he had swatted, whining about—something new in these forests, at least in this season. Probably too many unburied bodies.

He looked around. The only people awake were the sentries, and they would probably think he was going out in the trees to answer a call of nature.

Close by his feet, the two kender slept, each under a separate blanket (cut from one of Sir Darin’s cloaks, which made three or four kender-sized blankets). Horimpsot Elderdrake had an arm thrown protectively over Imsaffor Whistletrot.

I wish you a safe return home, thought Tharash formally. And for you, young one, your Hallie Pinesweet’s goodwill, if no more.

Then he went through his final wishes for all the folk he was leaving behind, ending with Krythis, Tulia, and Rynthala.

I wish that all of you learn why I did what I did, and that I did not die a traitor. But I could not live on, knowing Lauthin died unforgiven.

Besides, I may not die.

It occurred to him that he also might die, his honor sullied, without succeeding in his purpose. But that was a thought to take away the courage of a minotaur. He would not dwell on it, lest his feet refuse to take him out of the camp.

Tharash turned and walked into the night.

Rynthala was sitting in the same spot along the wall where Belot had bid her farewell. Tonight, though, it was Sir Darin’s splendid head that rose from the stairs. There was enough moonlight to show it plainly, and not for the first time Rynthala wished he had not followed the custom of the Knights of Solamnia in growing a mustache. It was a fine mustache, but she thought he would look better without it.

“May I join you, Rynthala?”

“Certainly.”

He sat at a polite distance, which to her seemed rather far away, and remained silent so long that it began to oppress her.

“What do you think of this tale about Tharash?” was all she could think of to break the silence. “If it is a tale. It might be true.”

Small comfort you are to one whose oldest friend has run mad or turned traitor, she thought.

“It might be true that Tharash has vanished. On the other hand, reports that he has gone over to the enemy—those I cannot believe.”

“I can believe it. We have too much reason to believe that anyone can turn traitor. I do not want to believe it. But what I or you want makes but little difference to telling truth from falsehood.”

His words might lack comfort, but his voice was so soothing that Rynthala almost felt ready to sleep—if she could sleep in Darin’s arms, with that voice calming her as she drifted into slumber …

Abruptly, she realized she had fallen asleep, and was in Darin’s arms. He was holding her with a gentleness that belied his immense strength—but did not hide the steel under the gentleness.

“Please do not beg my pardon, Rynthala,” Darin said. “You might have fallen off the wall otherwise. Perhaps whatever preys on your mind—perhaps we could talk about it in your bedchamber.”

Rynthala swayed to her feet. She hoped he would realize the swaying was fatigue, not enticement.

“Will you carry me there?”

Darin did her the courtesy of staring before he smiled. He did not laugh at all. “I would be honored. Save that if I tried to carry you down these stairs, I might well fall. Then Belkuthas would be short two more captains, and your father and Sir Pirvan would be more at odds than they were over Sir Lewin.”

“The gods forbid! But—will you carry me on level ground?”

“If you wish.”

“I wish.”

Darin actually did carry her across the courtyard. Somebody—a dwarf, from the voice—shouted something at them. Rynthala suspected it was bawdy and did not care at all. The sensation of actually being carried as if she was as light as a child or a kender was new and not at all disagreeable.

The knight opened the door of her chamber with his foot and laid her on the bed as if he had been returning a kitten to its mother. Then he straightened.

“You have sacrificed enough dignity for one night. I will not undress you and tuck you in bed. But if you wish, I can brush out your hair.”

Rynthala looked in the mirror. Even in the guttering lamplight, her hair looked like an empty bird’s nest after a long winter. “I did not know you knew the ways of women so well,” she said, which nearly tangled her tongue.

“I am not so much a stranger to women as some might think,” Darin said. “Not even to women who endured what you suffer. I am neither a paladin nor unduly forward.”

“You are a wonder,” Rynthala said, but she tried to kiss him as she said that, missed, and fell forward on the bed, so that the words were muffled and (she hoped) lost in the bedclothes.

She was falling asleep by the time he finished her hair. Her last waking memory was of his immense hands gently smoothing it, and his long sword-callused fingers touching her temples and cheeks.

Chapter 19

To the delight of his allies and disquiet of his foes, Carolius Migmar reached Belkuthas two days early. Within ten days, the first siege engines were erected, though parts of them had been living trees on the first day. They began to play against the walls of Belkuthas, and its defenders began to die.

Not in great numbers, to be sure. Belkuthas was large and stout, its hiding places numerous, its defenders adept at dodging, and the siege engines none too accurate or swift-shooting, even under the best circumstances. The defenders made sure Migmar’s forces were not working under the best circumstances.

The scouts and rangers had lost Tharash’s leadership, but by now even the Silvanesti who had come north with Lauthin knew the land better than the besiegers. Also, for whatever reason, it seemed Tharash had told his new friends little or nothing of the hiding places and tactics of his old ones. The swift-moving, swift-shooting rovers remained unmolested in their secret camps, and could approach as close as ever to the enemy, despite the fact that Migmar’s troops were far more alert than Zephros’s raggle-taggle sell-swords.

Sappers, sentries, and servants all died from arrows that came out of nowhere. Tents full of supplies burned. Soldiers lay writhing with fluxes after drinking wine that had been wholesome the day before. Essential forgings that had been solid iron the night before greeted the daylight as smoking puddles of molten metal, which not even dwarven smiths could have turned back into usable form.

Messengers vanished with their messages, mounts, and gear. It became necessary to escort men going to the jakes, if it was dark and the jakes were more than a few-score paces outside the line of sentries.

The elves, humans, and kender had help in this. Tarothin gave modest assistance, though he was saving his strength to find and, if need be, ward off Wilthur the Brown. Even more, he rested up for the grand assault.

The centaur family dwelling near Belkuthas had lost two of its kin to the citadel’s enemies; that made its enemies theirs. Giving singleness of purpose to centaurs was normally as difficult as giving it to kender, but the besiegers had succeeded—and paid the price.

The price was not great, in lives or anything else material. It was different in the realm of the spirit. Somewhere in a scroll of the Measure that was not considered quite authentic, Pirvan had read the dictum: “In war, the spirit weighs three times as heavily as the body.”

Unauthentic, perhaps, but not unsound. Even as their engines struck flying shards of stone from the walls of Belkuthas or crushed men to death, the besiegers were more and more looking over their shoulders for enemies in unexpected places. They eyed each other suspiciously, hoarded supplies and weapons, drank too much though Migmar did his best to maintain discipline, and generally took several steps down the trail from formidable host to the well-armed mob.

Pirvan hoped they would finish that march before they laid Belkuthas in ruins about its defenders’ ears. Either that, or that the dwarves and elves would arrive in numbers sufficient to give pause to the united hosts of Istar.

Nuor said that the dwarves would do all they had promised, but would not say what that was. Pirvan understood the desire to keep prisoners from revealing dwarven plans to the enemy, but thought they could at least pay him the compliment of assuming he would not fall into enemy hands alive.

All that drew from Threehands the comment, “Dwarves will pay compliments when Dargonesti swim in the desert.”

Belot’s flights brought sightings of the approaching elves, and of the besiegers throwing outposts farther south, as if to watch for their coming. But the pegasus rider could not learn anything from speaking to the elves, even those willing to be polite.

“I’ve told them they owe it to Lauthin’s memory to at least say which side they’ll be fighting for,” Belot said, driven to exasperation after one wearying but futile excursion. “If they are foes, then we can at least arrange to surrender in good order to Migmar!”

“You do not think they come to fight us, do you?” Tulia asked. She seemed to Pirvan to have aged ten years since Lewin’s death—mostly from watching her husband age twenty.

“No,” Belot said. “But if this is my people’s notion of showing friendship, we hardly need enemies!”

Though he’d sworn to turn Amrisha loose to fly to safety, Belot kept scouting and carrying messages. He had just soared out of sight on the seventh day of the siege-engines’ work when they inflicted their first grave loss of Belkuthas.

Krythis was on the walls when the stone soared above the timber palisades protecting the siege engines. He watched it grow steadily larger without turning to either the left or right.

This, he knew, was the sign of a projectile that was going to hit him, if he did not move. However, he had ample time to move out of the path of anything save perhaps flying shards. Compared to arrows from elven bows, the siege-engines’ stones ambled across the sky.

It also seemed to Krythis he had good reason for not moving. He would be mourned, and not only by Tulia and Rynthala. But if a man will be mourned greatly, that is a sign he has lived well and can depart when he feels his work is done.

Krythis thought he had reached that moment. It seemed unlikely the Knights of Solamnia could ignore his part in Sir Lewin’s death, if he remained alive. Even if Pirvan labored to explain or even excuse, there would be knights who would not accept it. Such might become enemies to Pirvan, who needed no more, or seek to strike at Krythis outside the law, endangering Tulia and Rynthala.

It was likely that even the most wrathful knight would pursue the matter beyond the grave.

So Krythis took the opportunity fate had presented him. He stood calmly while the stone grew until he could see nothing else. Then there was a brief, brutal moment of pain, and he saw nothing at all.

Some people had seen the stone coming at Krythis and shouted, even screamed warnings. Then came the thud of the stone striking, and the lesser thud of Krythis’s broken body flung to the paving of the courtyard.

Then came a fearful silence.

Without a word, Rynthala walked across the courtyard, stepping as prettily as a doe in the spring over the shards of the stone and the splatters of blood. She knelt beside her father’s body and closed the one eye that the stone had left intact.

This done, she stood. “Lay him in an honorable place, but with the other dead,” she said in a voice that rang like the trumpet played beside a knight’s pyre. “He would not wish to be apart from them.”

Then she turned and walked away, toward Sir Darin.

If Rynthala wept for her father, she let no one know it—again, save perhaps Sir Darin. Others who witnessed Krythis’s death lacked his daughter’s self-command.

Pirvan remembered particularly seeing Eskaia with her face buried in Hawkbrother’s shoulder—and Hawkbrother’s own broad shoulders shaking as he held his intended. It took much to make a Gryphon warrior shed tears in the light of day, but Krythis’s death sufficed.

It did not, however, take the heart out of the defense. Pirvan never feared that. What he began to fear within hours was defenders so determined to glut their vengeance with the besiegers’ blood that they would in rage leave themselves vulnerable to a cooler opponent.

Tarothin and Nuor together finally explained to him what the plan was for the day of the assault. Pirvan decided his fighters would not be facing a cool-headed opponent at all—at least not for long.

Gildas Aurhinius reined in as his mount approached another curve in this downhill trail. A cloud of dust ascending the trail proved to be Nemyotes, much as he had expected.

They had watered their mounts only an hour ago, so Nemyotes did not bother dismounting. “The going is easier, from another half league onward,” he reported. “Also, we saw a pegasus with a rider.”

“Did they see you?” Aurhinius asked.

With both hands, Nemyotes made his impossible-to-say gesture. He could now control a cantering horse with his knees, whereas ten years ago he had been hard put to stay on a trotting one.

“More, please. If you wish to keep your own counsel, become a spy. If you wish to serve me, speak.”

“The pegasus was staying low above the trees. Within arrow range, which I judge means the rider thought the forest was held by friends. I am sure the rider was a scout, and there have been so many tales of a pegasus at Belkuthas that I doubt we need ask for whom.”

Aurhinius also doubted. He had learned a good deal about the situation at Belkuthas in the last few days, mostly from deserters. The deserters in turn were mostly from Zephros’s companies, one and all half starved, half naked, and less than half armed.

His way of dealing with them was to offer them food, arms, and clothing, in return for information and joining his colors. If they would not join his colors but would talk, he would give them a pardon, but no more.

The few who would neither talk nor serve now decorated pine trees higher up the mountain. Only a few examples had been enough to encourage the rest to be more forthcoming.

“Best we pick a flying column and send it on ahead,” Aurhinius said.

“Indeed,” Nemyotes said. “Floria Desbarres suggested that very thing this morning.”

“She did, did she?”

Aurhinius was hardly surprised. He had come to feel Desbarres was about the best of the sell-swords under his command, and worthy of high rank in the regular host. Not that she would ever receive it—that was not for women—but he could give her something she would value almost equally.

“Tell Floria to pick three other companies besides her own, no more than five hundred horsemen in all, and take them forward to Belkuthas. She suggested it; she shall do it.”

“Yes, my lord.” Nemyotes was grinning as he rode off.

The sun did not write in the dawn sky, in letters of golden fire, any such message as TODAY THE ASSAULT COMES.

It would not have been necessary. The defenders of Belkuthas needed help from neither gods nor men to know what they faced this day.

The walls of the citadel showed two breaches in the walls, each surrounded by barricades and entrenchments against those attackers who might break through. Both breaches were “practicable,” according to the conventions of siege warfare.

Also according to the conventions of such warfare, Belkuthas had been summoned to surrender, or face being stormed and sacked. Pirvan had been allowed to reply to the herald, as he was the one most trusted to keep his temper.

“We have no quarrel with the men of Carolius Migmar, or indeed with anyone else who is lawfully besieging this citadel,” he said. “As we have no quarrel, it is your duty to depart, bringing peace to the land.

“If, however, it is the wish of Carolius Migmar that his honorable soldiers fight shoulder to shoulder with rebels, mutineers, and common thieves, these good men shall pay the penalty for keeping bad company. We shall regret having to administer it, but administer it we shall.”

Pirvan then made an extremely rude gesture he had learned in the back streets of Istar, one that made a good many people on both sides roar with laughter. The herald departed in haste, with an air of affronted dignity.

That night, everyone made their farewells, bequeathing this ring to one comrade and that pair of second-best sandals to another. No one spoke aloud that which was in everyone’s mind, that by the laws of war, Carolius Migmar could sack Belkuthas to the bare walls and put everyone within to the sword.

“Which he probably won’t do,” Pirvan told Haimya. “He has to know that the Silvanesti and the dwarves are out in more strength than he has. Even if he has orders to provoke a war with them, he is unlikely to interpret those orders in a way that will begin the war with two massacres, one by Istarians and one of Istarians.”

“Given a choice, I would rather drink the victory toasts as a living woman than be avenged as a dead one,” Haimya said.

“I agree,” her husband replied. “There is very little that one can do with a dead woman, and much to be done with a living one.”

It would also have been hard to write letters of fire on the sky because the sky that morning was gray from horizon to horizon. It was hot, with a hint of moistness in the air that in this hill country meant more than a hint of rain was to come.

Pirvan had taken his post atop the great hall, the building least battered by the siege engines. He intended to stay up here no more than necessary to make sure that he saw everything and sent all the proper orders. After the death of Krythis, the people on the fighting line would need his orders in person not to run wild among their enemies.

Now drums rolled, trumpets blared, and colored smokes swirled up until they were lost in the clouds. The storming parties marched out of their entrenchments, three of them, each about five hundred strong. Two were Migmar’s people—Istarian regulars in one band and picked sell-swords beside them—and the third, judging from its ragged formation, was plainly Zephros’s men.

Fifteen hundred men, coming against not more than three hundred defenders. More than enough to do the work, if they penetrated the breaches.

To either side of the columns marched archers, covered by men with shields, some so heavy they rolled forward on wheels. The archers lofted their arrows high over shield and wall, both, to plummet down within Belkuthas.

Picked archers replied. Some of them were elven, as the survivors of Lauthin’s embassy guards were now all part of the citadel’s defenders. The honor of the Silvanesti demanded no less, and Pirvan pitied any sell-sword who thought the elves could be persuaded to yield once the fighting came inside.

The elven archers also lofted their arrows, and they knew more about fine shooting than most humans could ever learn. Screams soon rose from behind the shields, and while they continued their advance, they left a trail of writhing or still forms.

Others on the wall were dwarves. Not at their best in fast-moving close combat, because of their short stature and limbs, dwarves still knew how to strike powerful blows. The ones on the wall had fortress crossbows, such as were used against the gryphon the day of Belot’s arrival, and these could send a bolt clear through a shield and the man behind it.

At other times, they used the flat trajectory and high velocity of the fortress bows to send the bolts whistling out five or six hundred paces. Men carrying wounded back or running forward to replace the dead and wounded, died before even reaching the battlefield—died without knowing what hit them, their bodies flung twenty paces through the air.

All of which diminished the numbers and perhaps the ardor of the attackers, but did not slow them enough for Pirvan to take hope. Well, Zephros’s men were even more ragged than usual, but they were still coming on. Pirvan saw one reason for that—a line of Istarian regulars just behind them, with swords and halberds ready to strike down any laggards. Just what Zephros’s men deserved—steel in front and behind.

Pirvan measured distances with his eye. The people on the wall had started shooting at long range. Now the enemy was within close range.

It was time.

Pirvan signaled to Nuor of the Black Chisel, then pointed with both hands.

The dwarf hefted his axe, turned it, and with the blunt side of the head struck a gong bolted to the stonework.

Before the echoes died, the ground crumbled in a nearly complete circle around Belkuthas. Suddenly Migmar’s two columns were completely bisected by trenches wider than a man’s height and of unknown depth. Pirvan heard screams as unlucky men on the edges overbalanced and fell into the dark, to join their comrades already buried alive.

Then flames roared from the trenches. Men within or close by screamed as they turned into living torches. Some of them ran, trailing smoke.

Down there, in the tunnels dug around Belkuthas by the dwarves under Gran Axesharp, fire spells were at work. The dwarves had loaded the tunnels with grease, rock oil, pitch, dried thundermoss, wood, and other burnable stuff.

Burning naturally, these loads would not last long. Neither would any fire spell that Tarothin could cast. But with a fire spell and burnable stuff to feed the flames, a circle of fire would nearly surround Belkuthas for hours.

Nearly, because in front of Zephros’s men, the ground remained firm and fireless. They had an open path to one of the breaches—if they chose to take it, or if the Istarians in the rear could discourage them from taking the path to safety and flight.

Pirvan was prepared to watch the spectacle with some interest. This was a trick that the citadel could use only once, but with luck it would be needed only once, before the elves arrived. Then, whatever happened, it would not be the citadel falling under fire and sword.

Pirvan saw that he had left matters a trifle too late with the two disciplined columns. They had many men down and more singed and frightened. They also had hundreds who’d been beyond the trench line when the fire blazed up. These included a few with scaling ladders and more with bows. They were coming on, shooting as they went.

It looked rather as if the Belkuthans would have to defend both breaches, and one of them against disciplined soldiers, in spite of the fire spells.

Carolius Migmar did not know how long the Istarian regulars and picked sell-swords close to the wall would be able to hold. He doubted they could storm their breach, but they ought to last long enough to keep the defenders occupied there. He only hoped some would survive to share in the victory.

He was going to have to move everyone outside the fire circle to reinforce Zephros’s column. Reinforcing Zephros was rather like pushing an uncooked sausage; slow going, and with the possibility that the cursed thing would fall apart before it had gone very far. But even uncooked sausage could choke a dog if you shoved enough of it down the dog’s throat. Migmar did not like to fight this way; the lives of his men were a sacred trust.

The victory of virtue was an even more sacred one.

He cut in among the ranks of the Istarian regulars, waving his sword toward Zephros’s men and shouting: “Rally to Zephros’s column. They have open ground clear to the breach! Rally to Zephros’s column and follow me!”

Thunder rumbled in the south, loud enough to be heard over the battle din of shouting. Shouting—and screaming, as men on the walls or the ground fell, with longbow shafts or crossbow bolts tearing their flesh as their screams tore their throats until life fled.

Pirvan wondered if any of the men who died today would come to him in nightmares. He doubted it. This was the kind of fighting where one drew steel with, if not an easy conscience, an unburdened one. Men would not be dying because they had been in the wrong place at the wrong time; they were dying because they had chosen to come to you with murderous intent.

Pirvan was not one of those rare people who could face such a threat without replying in kind. No doubt such people had their uses in the True Gods’ plans—but those plans would have to go forward without Pirvan’s assistance.

Not so the fighting at the breaches. It seemed Carolius Migmar—probably that figure on the big gray war-horse—was trying to shift men around to join Zephros’s column on clear ground. Meanwhile, those inside the ring of fire were mounting their own attack, on the other breach.

The best tactic now would be to hammer the lesser attack flat at once, then move his own men to hold the other breach against the greater one, for as long as necessary.

Which meant it was time for the commander of Belkuthas to show himself on the ground.

Today half his guards were Gryphons, the other half sell-swords under Rugal Nis. He beckoned to them.

“Follow me. We’re going to fight at the lesser breach.”

Tharash had “deserted” to an ill-ordered company of dubious sell-swords under Zephros’s command. There were more men here who hated and feared the “lesser races”, but fewer who asked questions about anyone who joined up and did his share of the work.

It also helped that Tharash had exchanged his elven bow for a human longbow. He thought it was a disgrace to the good name of archery, in truth, but he had used one often enough before that his skill came back. Within a few days he knew he would be able to use any opportunity that came his way, to good purpose.

The problem was finding the opportunity. He had more chances to shoot Zephros than he could count on his fingers and toes, but that would merely warn the enemy. It might even lead to Zephros’s men being broken up and placed under other captains—who might ask more questions about archers with pointed ears.

Thus far, Tharash had been lucky. Those who had noticed his ears reasoned—if one could call it such—that no elf would lower himself to use a human bow.

Now the last battle had come, and since dawn Tharash had been hoping to find himself within range of his principal target. However, the warrior seemed even more reluctant to come around Zephros’s men today than he had been during the siege.

All this changed, however, within minutes after the fire circled Belkuthas. Tharash heard shouts and cheers, then drums and trumpets. He saw banners waving, one of them the standard of his target.

Then, over the helmeted heads of his comrades, he saw the banner approach. The warrior rode up to the head of Zephros’s column and drew rein beside Zephros himself. Tharash could not hear what either said over the shouting, but he could see from gestures what the plan was.

Reinforced, Zephros’s column would have the honor of carrying Belkuthas. Reinforced, and led by Tharash’s target, who would have his face to the foe and his back to his own men throughout the assault. And who also might die without Tharash’s assistance. But with Tharash in the press of battle behind him, the man would die.

Pirvan led a solid body of fighters toward the lesser breach. Overhead, the archers had turned their shooting in the same direction. Zephros’s men were not yet threatening the greater breach, or the wall to either side.

Behind and around Pirvan moved Gryphons, Rugal Nis and the survivors of his half score sell-swords, Solamnic men-at-arms (both Pirvan’s and the newcomers, led by Sir Esthazas), and a double handful of Belkuthans with Tulia at their head. Had anyone told Pirvan that such an unlikely array of fighters would ever follow one man, let alone him, against a common foe, he would have laughed.

But he led, they followed, and he realized that even if only one Belkuthan survived today’s fighting, they would still have won a victory of sorts. That one survivor could say that he or she had seen humans of half a dozen homelands, both men and women, full elves, half-elves, dwarves, kender, pegasi, and centaurs fighting in a common cause, living and dying beside one another.

Every time that tale was told, it would be one more blow to the “lesser races” vileness.

As they approached the smaller breach, Pirvan saw men appearing in it. So did Sir Esthazas—and from the howl of rage he let out, some of them were no pleasant sight. As if his feet had grown wings, he dashed forward, passing through the ranks of the Gryphons and sell-swords ahead of him, leaving Pirvan behind as though the senior knight was rooted to the ground.

“One of my men is there with the enemy!” the young knight screamed over his shoulder. “He is mine!”

It seemed to Pirvan doubtful who would be whose. But arrows and bolts chose this moment to fall heavily among the enemy’s ragged ranks. They were more ragged still after a dozen men went down.

The burly red-bearded man-at-arms that Sir Esthazas sought was not among the fallen. He stood his ground, with shield and mace, as Sir Esthazas charged him. Then he swung the mace and raised the shield.

He was too clumsy with the first and too slow with the second. The blow barely grazed the knight’s helmet. The knight’s sword found its way around the shield, deep into the flesh over the man-at-arm’s ribs. He reeled, Sir Esthazas opened his thigh, a crossbowman shot Sir Esthazas in the back, and then both the knight and his dishonored foe toppled together down the stony rubble of the breach.

They landed just far enough from Pirvan that before he could reach them, several more attackers leapt down around them. Pirvan started to draw his dagger, then altered his draw and came up with his throwing knife. He was not as deft with it as in his younger days, but one of the men facing him was unarmored. The man fell with Pirvan’s knife in his throat, and a gap opened in the circle around the bodies.

There were still too many for Pirvan alone to wipe aside. There was also as strong a duty as ever not to let a fellow knight’s body fall into enemy hands. That Sir Esthazas had certainly died of his own folly, and perhaps his own wish, made no difference. The Measure was strict.

Pirvan feinted to the left, hoping to draw at least one man into the open and create flanks in the circle. He wanted to break up the circle regardless of the bodies inside anyway. The longer it stood there, the more attackers could shelter behind it, well within the breach and ready to swarm down into the citadel at the least opportunity.

Nobody took his bait, but someone ran past him on the right, straight at the circle. The runner stumbled, regained his footing, and threw himself—no, herself—on the point of both a spear and a sword at once.

Pirvan did not question a heroine’s gift. He flung himself on the two momentarily weapon-bound men, and cut both of them across the neck and face. The circle gaped wide. Pirvan burst into it, leaping over Sir Esthazas’s body to attack the men to either side of him.

Those men died with steel both in front and behind, as the rest of Pirvan’s fighters swarmed up the rubble and over the attackers upon it. Only when there was not an armed enemy on the inward side of the rubble did Pirvan have the time to look at who had given her life to hold the breach.

He wondered afterward that he was surprised to see Tulia. Only some dust and a trickle of blood from her mouth disfigured her face, otherwise as fair in death as in life.

The surprise passed. In its place came rage. If Pirvan had been surrounded by fifteen men, he would have cut them down without a thought. If he could have turned the rubble in the breach into molten lava and sent it pouring over the retreating attackers, he would have sung a victory song loud enough to drown their screams.

Then he became aware that someone was screaming—many people, judging from the noise. Not in this breach, though. Over toward, even beyond, the greater breach.

Pirvan turned and had his feet in motion before his eyes reported what they saw. All he could think of was that the enemy had forced the greater breach, and Belkuthas had only moments to live.

If so, he had hardly longer. He hoped Tulia had died for a better reason than to make that his duty. It would have been his, whether she lived or died.

Chapter 20

Tharash waited a long time for his shot, letting several merely adequate chances pass by.

Surviving this day hardly mattered. The elf considered himself a corpse with the use of its arms and legs. Indeed, the prospect of dying for nothing chilled him far more than the prospect of mere death ever had, let alone today.

But now his man was riding almost directly ahead. The back of the neck was a small target, but one Tharash knew he could hit at this range. It was also one where a long-point arrow, striking deep, killed so quickly that no healer’s simples or spells had any power.

Tharash waited until the man reined in to instruct his standard-bearer. The standard-bearer moved a trifle to the side. That improved the shot further. Now the banner would not flap into the path of the arrow. Not that there was much breeze, but when one had only a single shot—

Now.

Tharash’s body, mind, bow, and arrow ceased to be separate entities. They became four aspects of a single creation.

The arrow flew. Tharash saw it dwindle, as if it moved at the pace of a child’s crawl. He saw that it was flying true, but held down exaltation. In this moment he was as close to the Abyss as to a more rewarding future.

The arrow struck home.

Carolius Migmar dropped his reins and reeled in the saddle, then toppled from his horse.

The commander of the host was dead before he struck the ground.

Zephros was close enough to Carolius Migmar to see the arrow sprout from the back of his neck, so he knew why the commander fell out of sight.

He also knew that the arrow had come from the rear. He tried to turn his horse, to look back without facing his mount’s rump. He had a sense of ponderous doom impending, but knew he could hold his own panic at arm’s length by action.

Others could not, or perhaps did not even try.

“Treason!” someone howled.

“Migmar’s dead!”

“Shot from behind!”

“Kill the traitors!”

From what happened then, Zephros concluded that either every man thought his neighbor the traitor, or every man saw that the traitor was some twenty paces off, on the other side of the thickest part of the column.

The column writhed like a snake with a broken spine. Men pushed, shoved, cursed, punched, and with increasing frequency and fervor slashed and thrust at one another.

From the walls, arrows sleeted. Whether aimed so or not, they fell thickest among those crowded around Migmar, trying to at least carry his body to safety. They had just lifted him in their arms when half a dozen of them fell to a single flight of arrows. The dead commander dropped back to the ground, with more than a few of his men now keeping him company.

Ahead of Migmar, several hundred men were bolder than the rest, or else trusted their enemies more than their comrades. They surged forward, scrambling up the rubble, falling to arrows and broken legs but advancing nonetheless.

Zephros rode forward. If he put himself at the head of these men, he might die. That would at least solve the problem of being suspected of Migmar’s death. He might also lead the vanguard into Belkuthas—and whatever might happen there, he could say that on one day of his life he had really been a soldier.

He overtook the vanguard before they reached the rubble. A balding man turned and stared at Zephros. The captain glanced over at the pale, scarred face—and he remembered seeing that face on a day when it had not been scarred.

The man hefted a short spear.

“For Luferinus!” he shouted, and threw.

The spear took Zephros in the stomach. He was in the air long enough to remember that belly wounds took a long while to kill you. Then he struck the ground, except for his head, which struck a rock.

The rock saved Zephros from a long, painful death.

A good half of the men who climbed the rubble in the greater breach made it to the top and started down. Some of them were wounded, but they were either the bravest or the most insensate of the attackers. It would take a good deal to stop them.

They were halfway down the inner slope of the breach when that good deal appeared. Its name was Grimsoar One-Eye, and he rushed forward at the advancing besiegers, an axe in one hand and a dwarven hammer in the other.

Ignoring friendly arrows from the flanks, he waded into the nearest half dozen men. He split skulls and lopped limbs with the axe, crushed skulls and chests with the hammer, and let out war cries that were remarkably penetrating for ones coming from a man with weak lungs.

They certainly penetrated the minds of the attackers. They began to realize they could die. Would die, if they came within reach of this madman, wielding dwarven weapons with a giant’s strength.

They began to try staying out of his reach. This left gaps in their line.

Into those gaps drove the next counterattack—Haimya, Eskaia, Hawkbrother, and Gerik, at the head of a few Gryphons and a number of dwarves.

The two women seemed sprung from the Abyss, nothing less. Those who did not give way before them soon wished they had, in the few moments allowed for wishing anything. Haimya was a more finished sword fighter than her husband, and carried a shield as well. Eskaia preferred sword and dagger, and enjoyed much of her father’s speed.

Hawkbrother’s leg was not healed enough for him to have his full swiftness, but he put down one man with a flung spear, charged into the gap with his scimitar, and widened the gap on either side until the blade ran red. Gerik followed close behind him, and the Gryphon found himself wishing Gerik would not follow too closely.

It would be an evil omen if, in the first battle he and his betrothed’s brother fought side by side, the brother was killed.

Gerik’s principal danger in this battle, therefore, proved to be not finding an opponent left alive long enough for him to kill. Hawkbrother saw to that, with some assistance from Threehands, as soon as the elder Gryphon joined the fight in the breach.

Meanwhile, the dwarves were busy, glad to at last be able to get to close quarters on their own terms. Dwarves on foot have certain advantages over opponents who do not think to look down. While the opponent is looking over the dwarf’s head, an axe that the dwarf may well have used to trim his beard that morning will chop off the human’s legs. When his skull is down within the dwarf’s reach, the axe will then crack it like an egg.

Soon after Threehands joined his brother, Pirvan came at a run with the survivors of the men he had led at the lesser breach. All were determined to avenge Sir Esthazas and Tulia on the nearest enemies. They charged with a fervor that nearly trampled some of their friends into the rubble, and swept their enemies up the rubble like a storm tide carrying flotsam up a beach.

As the attackers retreated down the outer side of the breach, archery from the walls played on them again. They quickened their pace. The sight of them breaking into a run finished the work of turning confusion and fear among their comrades into panic.

Pirvan did not need to lead his men down the outside. He was able to stand—prudently close to cover from hostile archery—catch his breath, and watch man after man in the enemy column fight his way to the outside of it, then start to run.

Not all or even most of them dropped their weapons or threw away their armor. They were not giving up soldiering, but they were giving up the cause that had brought them to Belkuthas.

This being a very bad cause, Pirvan—despite his three minor wounds and breath that rasped like a dragon’s exhalations in his throat—was glad to see them going.

He had enough wind to call back a few eager fighters who wanted to chase the enemy all the way to the forest. He did not have enough for all of them, but he recognized the two who ignored his calls.

The kender would have gone their own way, no matter how much breath he used calling them back.

Imsaffor Whistletrot was the first to find Zephros’s body. He called to Elderdrake, who was contemplating the wake of the retreating attackers, a manor-broad expanse of trampled ground strewn with bodies, parts of bodies, and everything those bodies or their living comrades had been carrying when they advanced, but had dropped when they died or retreated.

Under other circumstances, the two kender would have found the debris a treasure trove for handling. Whistletrot, however, had never felt less like handling anything in his life. He wondered if that reluctance, in a kender, was a sign of impending old age.

Zephros lay facedown. The kender recognized his armor, but turned him over to be sure. They looked at the staring eyes and the ghastly spear wounds in belly and back, then looked away.

Whistletrot knew he had spent whole waking minutes constructing elaborate fantasies of how Zephros would look when he was dead. He had even imagined how he and his friend would feel when Edelthirb’s debt was paid in full.

Now Zephros looked neither happy nor sad, angry nor peaceful. He merely looked—absent was the word that came to Whistletrot’s mind, after considerable pondering.

Since Zephros was absent, he would never hurt kender or anyone else again.

Whistletrot realized that he was rather relieved not to be responsible for Zephros’s absence.

He turned back to the breach, thinking Sir Pirvan might be interested in hearing the news, and sincerely trying to think of a way of saying it quickly.

Before he could do that, however, the loudest clap of thunder yet rolled over the battlefield. Then, from clouds that had more black than gray, rain began to fall.

By the time Pirvan descended from the breach to organize a mounted scouting party, the rain was pouring down so hard he could barely see across the courtyard. He did not really mind the poor vision, however. On his way to the breach, he had passed Grimsoar One-Eye’s body, and would be as happy not to see it again until it had been decently laid out.

Except that the body was no longer there. At least it was not where Pirvan had seen it. The dead were lying where they fell, for now, as the healers worked on the wounded.

If it had been Grimsoar, and he had been picked up—

Pirvan ignored a commander’s need for dignity and sprinted for the healers’ quarters, armor and all.

He found Grimsoar on a pallet in a corner reserved for the mortally hurt. From the size of the roughly dressed wound in the big thief’s chest, Pirvan did not quarrel with the verdict. The wound must have gone into his good lung, and with one lung decayed and the other destroyed, there could be little hope for him.

“Hello,” Grimsoar said. At least Pirvan was able to translate the wheezes and gasps into that word.

The knight said nothing, merely gripping his old friend’s hand.

Grimsoar took a deep breath and managed to form words. “Serafina and I—we started a baby. Last month. Take care of it. Promise!”

“You don’t even need to ask. But don’t be sure you won’t be dancing at the babe’s name-day celebration.”

“Won’t—won’t dance unless—unless you’re there. So—be careful. Waste to give up being—good thief—for dead knight.”

Grimsoar did not speak after that, but when Pirvan rose to go the older man was still breathing. Also, a dwarf with a load of vials and bags hooked to a leather harness was making his way toward Grimsoar.

“Tarothin and Sirbones, they both have hands full,” the dwarf said with a dreadful accent as well as poor diction. “I come help you friend.”

Pirvan looked at the dwarf, who was short even for one of his race and not particularly clean, either. However, he had to be better than nothing, even if he spoke the common tongue like a gully dwarf.

“Just as long as you don’t make him worse—”

“How make worse? No help, he die. Help, maybe live.”

Which was, though ill-phrased, an exceedingly cogent reply.

Pirvan walked away, hoping the mounted scouts could be on their way before the battlefield turned to a marsh and all the gullies to streams. As far as he could tell, a good half of the attacking host had withdrawn from the field in good order. A scouting party with mired horses might tempt them to strike another blow.

For this and other reasons, Pirvan was leading the scouts himself.

Darin and Rynthala sat on one of the last bales of fodder, in the nearly empty stables. Nearly every horse left to Belkuthas was outside now, waiting for the scouts to mount.

Rynthala would be leading the scouts, along with Sir Pirvan. Darin would remain behind, as commander of Belkuthas along with Threehands. So the chance of battle might yet silence forever words that Rynthala wanted to say or hear said now.

“You are very quiet, Darin,” she said.

“I can be silent or speak, at your command.”

“You give much thought to others, in spite of your own burdens.”

Darin’s face twisted. “What are my burdens, compared to yours? I have long forgotten my blood kin. You have seen both your parents die before your eyes.”

“I have not had to endure any dishonor, among kin or comrades.”

“Not even Tharash?”

“I told you, I think he had intentions that were no dishonor to him. I think he carried them out today. He killed Carolius Migmar, or I’m an irda.”

“You are as fair as they were said to be,” Darin said. He ventured to stroke her hair. His touch was light, but held no shyness. “Fortunately you are not mythical or long-lost, as well.”

The moment stretched out, until delight turned to a pain that reminded Rynthala horribly of a bad toothache. Something had to be said, to end this moment and its pain. Darin, it seemed, was not going to say it. The burden therefore fell to her.

Rynthala coughed. “Darin. I do not know if there are any Solamnic customs that forbid—that forbid—”

Her stammering finally seemed to spur Darin into speaking. “That forbid our being wed?”

“Yes. Darin, could you bring yourself to take as your bride a—what I am?”

“I can very easily see my way to wedding the most splendid and lovable woman I have ever known.”

None of the kisses that followed were at all chaste, and the embrace only ended when several dwarves clearing up rubble started making rude remarks. Even then, Rynthala sat on Darin’s lap, her head on his shoulder, until the dwarves started singing.

It was a dwarven wedding song that Rynthala recognized. Her mother had once translated it for her, when she was telling her daughter about the ways of man and woman. It went into considerable detail about the wedding night, and Rynthala thought the dwarf who wrote the words must have been either very lucky or extremely optimistic.

Perhaps that was not altogether unreasonable. Certainly she felt the same way now.

She hoped that her parents’ spirits were not far away and could have seen and heard her and Darin.

The forest was as dark and wet as an underground river or an Istarian sewer, except when lightning flared overhead. Then it became as bright as day—and the crash of thunder battled with the shrill neighing of uneasy horses.

It was Pirvan’s opinion that the scouts might have some trouble finding anything, and much trouble fighting it if they did. The people they sought, however, might well be sitting snug under their cloaks, behind bushes and trees, waiting to leap out and reverse the verdict of the day’s fighting.

They could not do this completely. Migmar’s host had departed Belkuthas in such haste that it had abandoned the siege engines, which the dwarves were busily reducing to firewood and scrap iron. Zephros’s men had even abandoned their camp, leaving everything they had not carried into battle.

Still, two-thirds of the enemy had withdrawn in order, not in rout. They would lick their wounds, move men to fill gaps in hard-pressed companies, then be ready to fight another day. Without having to play nurse to Zephros’s rabble, Migmar’s survivors might still be formidable.

Formidable enough, anyway, that Pirvan had lost his ardor for thrashing about in the wet, wild forest until he learned all about the enemy by encountering them again. He had to be sure they were not lurking close, ready to slip in by darkness and surprise the citadel—

A soft “Ho!” came from ahead. Hawkbrother cantered back—or at least his horse tried to canter on the impossible ground. The Gryphon motioned Pirvan forward.

Dismounting, Pirvan saw what had drawn Hawkbrother’s attention. Hoofprints, of large or heavy-laden horses, moving toward Belkuthas. More reinforcements for Migmar?

The thought of a force of heavy cavalry between him and the battered walls and weary defenders of Belkuthas chilled Pirvan more than the rain.

The rain, however, was slacking off. Pirvan thanked appropriate gods for that small favor, then heard a horse blow. A moment later, two riders pushed their way through a clump of bushes.

Pirvan knew that Rynthala’s archers would have these folk well-covered, so made no sudden moves. As lightning blazed again, he saw that one was a woman in armor and the other a less-accoutered man, both on large Istarian war-horses.

“Are you Sir Pirvan of Tirabot, commander of Belkuthas?” the woman asked.

“I might admit that, if I knew to whom I was admitting it,” Pirvan said. Fatigue nearly tangled his tongue in his own words.

“Pardon. I am Floria Desbarres, high captain of mercenaries in the service of Istar, under the command of Gildas Aurhinius.”

Pirvan felt like holding his breath to make time stop. Aurhinius’s coming certainly meant a decision, but for good or for ill?

“I am Nemyotes, son of Suringar, secretary to Lord Aurhinius,” the man said. Pirvan saw that he combined the spindly limbs of a clerk with the confident seat of a trained warrior. “I am directed by Aurhinius to say that all of the late Carolius Migmar’s men are now under his command and behind his scouting line. There they will stay while you and he negotiate for peace and the safe withdrawal of his men from this land.”

It took Pirvan longer than it should have to realize what the man was saying—what he was offering.

Victory.

Victory too late for too many, but in time to save many more.

Victory leaving Belkuthas unmolested, if it would do the same to Aurhinius’s men. Not that the citadel’s defenders had much power in that matter, but Aurhinius doubtless knew about the Silvanesti host and perhaps dwarves and armed refugees as well.

“You may bear the message,” Pirvan said, “the message—that I will honorably and swiftly meet Gildas Aurhinius, in any suitable place, to discuss those matters.”

Instead of sending a messenger, Nemyotes turned his horse and rode off at a trot. He had a clumsy but efficient seat on his horse.

Pirvan stared at Floria Desbarres. She as the best-known female chief of sell-swords in Istar; Haimya had once served under her. She was also a tall woman with silver-shot brown hair, with something of the air that Haimya might have gained had she remained a sell-sword to her present age.

The rain had almost stopped. Pirvan felt the silence oppress him. “I am Sir Pirvan, as you may have guessed,” he said. “Allow me to introduce Hawkbrother, son of Redthorn of the Gryphons—”

Another horseman trotted into the clearing.

“—and Lady Rynthala—” He stopped before he could say “heiress,” and instead concluded:

“—lady and holder of Belkuthas.”

“Ah,” Desbarres said. “Then your mother is dead, too.”

Rynthala nodded mutely.

“I would like to honor your parents, if I am allowed to,” Desbarres went on. “But Nemyotes had some news that he bade me give you the moment I saw you.

“We overtook some of Zephros’s men who held an elven ranger prisoner among them. He had been tortured. When we demanded his release, they tried to kill him. But, chained though he was, he killed two of them and forced the rest to kill him. We killed five more before we had them in order.”

Rynthala forced speech. “Did—did you learn his name?”

“Tharash. And we had witnesses saying that he had slain Carolius Migmar. I—my lady, are you well?”

Rynthala had thrown her head back and was laughing. Her mouth was so wide open that, had it been raining, the water would have poured into it.

For her sake, though, Pirvan wished it had been still raining. Then no one might have noticed the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Epilogue

It was well into autumn, even on the north coast around Vuinlod. Lady Eskaia met Gildas Aurhinius in the Tapestry Room, where layers of colored wool, linen, and silk not only brightened the long evenings but stood between the chill of the walls and the air she was trying to keep warm.

She listened to Aurhinius’s tale of Pirvan, Haimya, and all who had been with them at Belkuthas, and watched him briskly reduce a full wine jug to an empty one. He seemed to hold it well, however.

“I trust none in Istar will hold it against you, for telling me so much to the dishonor of the Mighty City,” she said at last.

“They may, if they wish. But it will not harm me. I am no longer in the Istarian service. Indeed, my resignation was one condition that they made for not protesting Sir Pirvan’s being elevated to Knight of the Rose.”

“I have not heard that the knights are wont to let others say whom they may honor or not.”

“This time, I think Istar would have tried. So when it was a matter of my leaving a service I no longer enjoyed, or Sir Pirvan’s being denied an honor he had earned thrice over, I took the more honorable course.”

Eskaia sipped her wine. It was sweet wine, stronger than what she had served Aurhinius, but her cup was still two-thirds full.

“Does the Order of the Rose no longer demand that its knights be of royal blood?”

“I doubt they do, seeing as how Sir Marod wears the Rose. But as I understand it, the rank the Silvanesti gave Pirvan in their nobility commonly only goes to those with a blood tie to the kings. So Pirvan is a kind of honorary elven royalty. Which makes all his kin and comrades members of his household, and honorary Silvanesti.”

Eskaia pondered the light dancing in her wine. “That could well prove more burden than blessing.”

“It certainly will, if the knights want to use him and them to deal with every problem that may arise from the Silvanesti.” Aurhinius shuddered.

“So how fare the others?”

“Sirbones decided to go back to his temple and take Tarothin with him. After all, the healer had only been on his journey for twenty-seven years. Tarothin was worn to a nub after blowing open the Pass of Riomis, so he will need a good long rest in the temple before he can do magic again.

“Hawkbrother is going to train as a Knight of Solamnia. This puts off his wedding to Eskaia for two years. Pirvan and Haimya are trying not to look too happy about this.

“Meanwhile, they are making a great fuss over Serafina, who will stay in Tirabot until the babe comes. Not that Serafina needs that much help. Dwarven healing seems to agree with Grimsoar. He says his wounded lung that the dwarf healed is better than the other one that was never wounded!”

Aurhinius looked at his empty cup. “May I have another drink?”

“Have you not had enough, my lord?”

“Do you presume to speak like a wife to all your male guests? I was going to ask for something I could only dream of in the desert. Cold spring water, with a tinge of lemon to it.”

“That you may have, with my blessing.”

Belkuthas was cleaner than it had been for some while, but the darkness did not hide the scars of the siege. Rynthala drew the shutters and turned to the bed, where her husband sat cross-legged in a pose of meditation.

She sat down with her back to him, and he lifted her hair and began to brush it out. She now wore no night robe or anything else, not even the bow she had worn to their bed on the wedding night. (She had heard of the wager, and wanted to see what Darin really would do. He had laughed so that it nearly unmanned him—for a moment or two.)

He was freer with his strength now, but never overbearing. Waydol, Pirvan, the Knights of Solamnia—all who had taken a hand in composing him had not intended to make the ideal husband for an unborn woman when Waydol took in the shipwrecked orphan … but to Rynthala’s way of thinking, they had certainly done so.

She arched her back, until her hair hung straight down, then arched further, until her lips could brush the underside of Darin’s chin.

He laughed—a low, contented noise.

She thought he could not have done much laughing for the first twenty years of his life, and not enough for the ten years thereafter. If she could make him laugh, it was the best gift she could bring him in return for his keeping away the darkness of her memories.

She kissed his throat again, nibbling gently at his firm flesh. He shifted, and his lips came down on hers, while his arms drew her tight against him.

To those familiar with it, Krynn is a world that evokes images of mighty dragons and powerful magic set against the ravaged landscape of the War of the Lance. It is a land where the wizards are distinguished by the color of the robes they wear and the type of magic they practice. But the lives of the peoples who inhabit Ansalon are not so easily categorized. Good and Evil are not white and black, but many shades of gray. As the lands are torn asunder by war and strife between the races, heros are born and legends are made.

These are the heroes and legends of the DRAGONLANCE® saga: warriors, mages, and clerics; ordinary folk who struggle in their day-to-day existence to do what is right, though it brings them no glory and may well result in violent and sudden death; reluctant heroes, who find fame forced upon them; brash, young knights who consider only the glory of war and none of its horror. These are but a few who find their places in the annals of the world.

Not all are human. They may be elves, or dwarves, or gnomes, or even—gods forbid!—kender. Heroes come in all shapes and sizes, in either gender, and from many races.

They have but one thing in common: action.

They act, to the best of their abilities, when others would only sit and let the conquerors come. The evil dragons, the mutant draconians, the Dark Queen Takhisis, who with her minions would take Krynn and make it her own. With the help of the gods or without it, it is the individuals who stand against Evil, whether bravely and of their own free will or because they are left with no other option, who are the true heroes of the DRAGONLANCE saga.

It is of them our stories are told.

About the Author

Roland Green lives in Chicago and is the author of the Jannisaries series with Jerry Pournelle, numerous Conan novels, and the Peace Company and Starcruiser Shenandoah series.

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