He changed the subject, gossiping about politics within the Order. Breetan listened with impatient politeness until she could return the conversation to the topic that interested her.
“My mission is to find the rebels’ leader,” she said. “I can’t follow in Gathan’s wake. No elf in his right mind will be found within twenty miles of that mob!”
Ellimer agreed. He rang a silver bell, and a servant appeared. To Breetan’s astonishment, the lackey was a Qualinesti elf, neatly livened in blue velvet. The envoy sent him to fetch a map case.
“You’re surprised by Azar, Lady?” Ellimer said to her. “Don’t be. He’s been my body servant for more years than you’ve lived. I beat him in fair combat thirty years ago, and he’s been my faithful servant ever since.”
“He’ll put a knife in you one day,” Jeralund observed.
Ellimer laughed. “I hope so! What a tragedy it would be for an old campaigner like myself to die in bed, withered and infirm! One day, when I’m tired of life, I’ll invite Azar to finish our duel. He’ll still be agile and strong, and I, a fat old man, so I’m sure he’ll win!”
Breetan shook her head. She couldn’t understand knights who were so cavalier with their lives. She’d grown up with the example of her father, and Lord Burnond never left anything to chance.
Azar returned with soundless tread. He bore a long, leather-wrapped cylinder. Ellimer dismissed him then pried the cap off one end of the case. He drew out a fistful of parchment rolls, tightly wound. Thumbing through the cryptic annotations on the end of each, he found the scroll he wanted.
Jeralund moved the dishes and goblets aside, and Ellimer opened the map over the knee-high table. With his dagger, he tapped a spot on the coast, east of Nalis Aren, where the angular shoreline bent from southeast to almost due south. “The elves will turn south here,” he said.
Ellimer was convinced the Scarecrow intended to lose his bandit pursuers in the fogs and uncharted ruins and swamps surrounding the lake. The worst terrain lay between the lake’s eastern shore and the coast. The land was low there, and Beryl’s impact had caused a major subsidence. The north shore of the lake was treacherous, but the east was a deathtrap.
“It’s not a route I’d care to take,” Ellimer said, “but even changed as it is since Qualinost’s drowning, it’s still elf country and the most likely spot for them to go to ground.”
Breetan was pleased. Gathan’s huge army would be hampered by the terrain. This would allow her time to track down the elusive Scarecrow and carry out her instructions.
“I shall go to the south shoreline and let the enemy come to me.”
“An excellent plan, Lady.” Ellimer sat back, leaving his dagger on the map. He folded his hands across his round belly. “Don’t be too sanguine about the route, though. That’s perilous country. No one, neither elves nor bandits, rules there. It’s infested with all manner of wild things.”
“And wild rebels,” the sergeant added wryly. Ellimer lifted his cup in acknowledgment. Fired with excitement for her new plan, Breetan was eager to depart. Declining Ellimer’s offer to pass the night in his home, she declared her intention to ride on at once.
“May you succeed for the glory of the Order.” Despite the formal tone of his words, Ellimer grinned widely, his eyes nearly vanishing in the folds of his skin.
Breetan frowned. How in Chaos could she judge the man’s sincerity when he was so unrelentingly jolly? She took up her glass and returned his toast.
“Glory to the Order,” she said and gulped down the last of her wine.
Chapter 16
The bridge on Birch Trail carried the elves across the White-Rage River. On the other side, the royal guards who’d separated from the column to lead their horses up from Silveran’s Way rejoined the group. Porthios ordered the bridge destroyed after all were safely across. That would delay pursuit only slightly. No more than a quarter mile north, the river was fordable enough for determined riders. Still, any obstacle they could throw in their pursuers’ path, no matter how small, was worthwhile.
Birch Trail ended a quarter mile beyond the bridge. From there, on the eastern side of Nalis Aren, the land descended in giant, staggered steps, like the stairway of a colossal temple. Broken tables of stone jutted from the ground. It was not marble thrown up from Qualinost, but bedrock shattered by the tremendous impact. A single misstep meant death, and a handful of the Bianost militia were lost. Exhaustion, the exertion of combat, and the debilitating atmosphere of the region had all of them reeling. Upon reaching a stone slab more than fifty yards wide, they dared to pause and rest.
Nalis Aren was roughly triangular in shape. The White-Rage emptied it, flowing north from one of its “points.” Narrow tributaries filled it at the southwestern and southeastern points. Below the elves, near the lake’s southeastern corner, lay the lakeshore’s lowest point. Known colloquially as the Cleft, it was shadowed by greenish yellow fog. The elves panted in the cold yet humid air and watched for signs of pursuit. Water was distributed. The wounded were settled more comfortably in their litters.
The few guards Samar had left to watch their rear came rushing in. They bore ill news: the bandits were definitely following them. Mounted humans, as well as goblin skirmishers, could be seen, but they took care not to get too close to the elves.
“The main army isn’t here yet,” Kerian observed. “Just the vanguard.”
“They still outnumber us,” Alhana said. She’d quit her litter to walk on her own.
Porthios for once was staying close. He didn’t relish wandering too far in the noxious environs of Nalis Aren.
“You said the bandits wouldn’t follow us around the lake,” Kerian said to him. “You’ve miscalculated.”
Porthios stood on the edge of the cracked bedrock slab—he never seemed to sit—and stared down at the Cleft. “It’s good they follow on our heels,” he said. “What lies ahead will strike the clumsy goblins and humans, not us.”
Alhana exchanged a worried look with Kerian then asked Porthios, “What lies ahead?”
“I don’t know, but there’s a reason people and beasts shun this place. We’ll encounter it, or the bandits will.”
He stepped off the slab and dropped down to the next, and the next, gradually slipping from sight. Silence followed his pronouncement. Alhana stood, dusted herself off, and declared, “The only way to go is forward.”
She and her two champions set out. The royal guards, leading their horses over the uncertain ground, came next, then the Bianost elves.
“Our leader is mad,” Kerian muttered as the Qualinesti passed. They eyed her uncertainly, wondering whether they should take her words as joke or warning.
At Alhana’s request, Chathendor had done a head count as they rested. Slightly fewer than two thousand elves, Qualinesti and Silvanesti, had departed Bianost, with about four hundred horses and thirty tons of armaments and supplies. The head count revealed only eight hundred and some odd elves remained, with a hundred fifty horses and twenty-seven tons of weapons. The balance had been lost or left behind.
Casualties had fallen heavily on the Qualinesti volunteers from Bianost. Half had perished or been wounded thus far. With Theryontas slain, leadership of the volunteers had fallen to Vanolin and Geranthas. As the leading edge of the caravan neared the fog-shrouded Cleft and the angle of descent eased, the two Bianost elves came to talk with Alhana.
“Lady, we offered ourselves to fight for the freedom of our people, but so far all we’ve done is run away,” Geranthas said.
Vanolin nodded vigorously. “Why didn’t we disperse in the woodland, dividing the swords and such, each of us to raise new companies of fighters?”