Alhana asked if they’d seen Orexas. Kerian had. She’d been dozing on the ground when he ghosted by her, heading straight down the road.
It was time to follow him. No heralds cried; no silvery trumpets trilled. Alhana gave the word and it was passed through the royal guards to the Bianost militia. She led them forward. Kerian and Chathendor followed half a horse length behind, and Samar rode a few yards back, at the head of the royal guards.
A walking pace was the best they could manage, given the state of the road. The once smooth, well-tended way was cut by fissures. Mud, stones, and boulders from higher up the steep hillside had washed down onto the road. The town elves were not experienced drovers, and many of their beasts were not suited as draft animals. Frequently, elves had to jump down and push the wheels by hand to help the laden wagons over rough or muddy spots. Progress was so glacial, the lead riders were forced to stop and wait for the caravan of wagons to catch up.
“At this rate Samuval will die of old age before our revolt gets under way,” Kerian observed.
The encouraging words Alhana meant to say died on her lips. Instead, she gasped, “Merciful E’li. Look!”
Above this end of the lake a sizable cloud of vapor had collected. It writhed as if stirred by contrary winds, yet the air was perfectly still.
“Do you see it?” Alhana cried.
“The fog, lady?” asked Chathendor, confused.
“Yes! It looks like a dragon!”
Kerian squinted, staring hard. “It does?”
“Its jaws are opening!”
The cloud dissolved, ribbons of mist snaking apart. Alhana turned sharply to her companions, but they reported seeing only an amorphous bank of fog. Chathendor murmured, “You are very tired, lady. You haven’t rested properly since leaving Bianost.”
Kerian was not so dismissive. “It may have been a vision, an omen meant for your eyes only.”
“An omen of what?”
Kerian could not guess, but once the mist had thinned, she saw an odd yellow gleam over the lake. Alhana saw it as well, but neither of them could say what it was. Only Chathendor, whose aged eyes were too weak to pick it out, realized what it was.
“The Tower of the Sun,” he whispered.
Formerly the seat of the Speaker of the Sun and the center of every Qualinesti’s life and heart, the great monument was awash in the foul waters of Nalis Aren, the sunburst glory of its golden peak reduced to a faint ocher smudge.
Trying to dispel the murk before their eyes and in their hearts, Alhana called for torches. Branches were hacked from the skeletal trees. Kerian feared they would prove rotten, but it was not so. The wood was dry and very hard, almost petrified. It burned readily, with a flame so pale it was nearly white, and gave off little smoke.
Two riders went ahead, carrying torches. Almost immediately their light fell on Porthios, standing in the middle of the road. All of them flinched in surprise, and Kerian looked as though she had a choice obscenity for him, but she glanced at Alhana and stifled it.
“We cannot continue on this road,” he told them. “The bridge that once spanned the White-Rage is destroyed.”
The White-Rage River flowed north out of Nalis Aren. They could not continue their course unless they could cross it. Locating a ford suitable for the wagons would require a long journey north.
In the bleak silence, Porthios said, “Another bridge still stands.”
Kerian slapped her thigh with one hand. “Why didn’t you just say so? How much farther north?”
“Not far, but the only way to get there is”—His ragged robe swung like a tattered banner as he pointed up the hillside. The way was not only steep, but the ground was torn up and strewn with boulders, making for a difficult climb.
Once more the map was called for. Studying it, they determined that the bridge Porthios had found was reached by Birch Trail, a narrow track that more or less paralleled Silveran’s Way.
Hardly had they decided to ascend to Birch Trail when a rider came galloping recklessly down the broken road. He clattered to halt before Samar.
“My lord! The enemy is behind us!” he cried. “Less than an hour away!”
“In what strength?” Kerian demanded.
The Silvanesti guard didn’t like answering a question from a Kagonesti, but Samar impatiently told him to get on with it.
“Five hundred horse and a thousand infantry.”
Alhana quickly sent Samar off to organize their defenses. He and Kerian galloped away together, trading rapid-fire thoughts on how best to meet the threat. The two of them recently had discovered common ground: neither approved Porthios’s plan to attack Mereklar.
Once the two warriors were out of sight, Alhana realized Porthios had come to stand by her left stirrup.
“We must protect the weapons cache,” she said.
“You must keep out of the way. Let the warriors defend the arms.”
Lifting her chin, she replied, “I choose my place, and my place is with my people.”
Urging her mount forward, she moved into the whirlwind of activity filling the road. Kerian had gotten all the townsfolk who weren’t actually driving wagons to clear off the conveyances and arm themselves. The first cart was beginning the climb up the hillside. Its driver stood on the box, reins in hand, and whistled and shouted to his horses. They started up gamely, but within a few yards, slipped on the thick, loose surface. The cart skidded sideways and overturned. Wrapped bundles of spears and swords spilled out.
Porthios directed the reloading of the cart. Once it was done, he told the driver to cut loose his team.
“What?” the driver and Kerian demanded together.
“With this uncertain surface, elves will fare better than horses. The carts must be dragged up by hand.”
“That’s madness!” exclaimed Kerian.
“Yes. Proceed.”
The elves proceeded. Once the horses were cut loose, two elves grabbed the traces and two more got behind to push. Straining, they hauled the cart up eight feet. The wheels sank into the loose ground, but by heaving and rocking, the elves advanced the cart to a level spot above Silveran’s Way.
Those watching cheered until Porthios snapped, “Why are you standing? There’s work to do!”
Kerian watched in amazement as elves seized wagons and carts and started up the sharp grade. The first cart was dragged a further twenty yards. Its elves announced the discovery of another road, narrower than Silveran’s Way but in better condition. They had found Birch Trail.
The caravan comprised thirty-one carts and thirty-five wagons. There weren’t enough elves in the militia to haul all of them up at once, so as teams reached Birch Trail, they had to slide back down the hill and take another turn.
Kerian left them to it and headed down the road to find Samar and the guards, preparing to defend against five times their number of bandits.
“Orexas has them hauling the wagons up by hand,” she reported. “The horses can’t make it.”
Samar glanced at his own mount. “How do we get up there?”
“We don’t.” Kerian drew her sword and rested the flat of the blade against her shoulder. Another rider joined them. Her eyes widened. “You’re in no shape to fight!”
Hytanthas Ambrodel, pale and wan but sitting straight in the saddle, shifted the sword he carried. “I’ll not be carried up a hill like freight,” he replied testily. She could not argue with that.
Soon enough the tramp of many booted feet reached their ears, loud even in the deadened air of Nalis Aren. Another sound played counterpoint: the high crack of whips. Kerian knew the meaning of that.
“Goblin infantry! Stand by to receive an infantry attack!”