While Chathendor’s attention was engaged, Kerian drifted over to the cart that held his and Alhana’s belongings. She removed the small leather bundle containing the poison bottle and slipped it into her waist pouch.
Turning, she realized the four Qualinesti of her new troop were standing behind her, staring. Their meager belongings were in bundles slung on their spear shafts.
“It’s mine,” she said stiffly. “I’ll take charge of it.”
They made no reply. She joined the march, and the four fell in behind her.
The Cleft was ten square miles of bog. It lay like an ulcer on the southeastern lakeshore. Moss and mold, in every shade of gray, black, and sickly green, lay everywhere. The stench was so bad, so much worse than the rest of Nalis Aren, that midday rations went uneaten. Spiders, biting flies, and venomous reptiles (of normal size) assaulted the elves. The swarms of flies were so vicious their attack drove several horses mad. The animals tore free of the hands leading them and galloped off to sure death in the depths of the mire.
Thorn creeper and cypress were abundant, but none grew more than waist high. As they crossed the Cleft, the elves were visible to anyone higher up on the hillside. Elves throughout the caravan, and especially those in the rear, kept looking back over their shoulders, fearing to see bandits at any moment. None were visible, but their pace quickened anyway.
The perpetual chill of Nalis Aren meant the elves had donned extra garments. In the Cleft, the opposite was true. The temperature climbed. Sweat poured, but removing clothing meant exposing more skin to the voracious insects. As the sun passed its zenith, elves began to stagger and fall. Some got back up, but others did not rise again. Alhana called for a halt. She, her lieutenants, and Kerian examined one of the immobile elves.
The deceased was a royal guard. A healthy lad, well fed until recently, he was younger than Kerian. His neck and face showed bug bites, but no more than what had been endured by the rest of them, The only oddity Kerian could find was a swollen neck. His throat had closed so tightly, so quickly, he had suffocated while walking.
They had no idea why. Toxic air, poisonous insects, evil spells-anything was possible. They kept moving.
Trailed by her quartet of Qualinesti, Kerian sought out Hytanthas. She was pleased to see he had improved in health despite the foul conditions.
For a time they tramped along in a silence Kerian considered companionable but which Hytanthas found uncomfortable. Finally, he nerved himself to speak what was on his mind.
“Commander. About Khur—”
“What about it?”
“I feel I’ve been derelict in my duty. My task was to bring you back to the Speaker.”
“You nearly died of fever. It’s a wonder you found me at all, and you think you’ve been derelict?” She shook her head. “I’ve told you, I can’t go back to Khur.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
She glared at him, giving the young warrior a glimpse of the Lioness of legend. Hytanthas did not back down. After a moment, she returned her attention to the uncertain footing.
“What difference does it make? The Speaker dismissed me, and I found myself hurled across the world.” She shrugged. “He didn’t need me then. He cannot have me now.”
“Would you condemn all our people in Khur to death or slavery?”
Temper flaring, she curtly told her troop to take themselves elsewhere. When they had moved away, she demanded, “Am I a goddess who can save a nation by herself? Gilthas has thousands of warriors and the combined skills of veteran generals like Hamaramis, Taranath, and Planchet. The safety of our people in Khur rests with them, not me!”
“Very well. Commander. But I must return to the Speaker. Will Orexas and Alhana forgive me if I leave once we’re clear of Nalis Aren?”
“Do as you like.”
To her relief, he said no more. He had the same failing carried by all the Qualinesti Ambrodels. Although resourceful and brave, Hytanthas was just the sort of soldier who’d follow an order to certain death simply because his name and honor demanded it. Kerian had no patience with martyrs, no matter how gallant they might be. The world needed realists, hardheaded, hard-fighting realists. The humans had a saying she liked: Wars aren’t won by dying for your country; they’re won by making the other fellow die for his.
The traverse of the Cleft claimed more lives. Seemingly healthy guards and town elves collapsed, dead. At sunset the temperature plunged. No betraying torchlight was allowed, so the terrible march continued in full dark and graveyard chill. The elves took turns climbing onto the remaining carts and wagons and napping for a short space. Kerian did not avail herself of the rest. She pulled a blanket around her shoulders and kept walking.
Alhana, clad in a white fox fur robe, moved along the caravan, speaking to everyone, and making sure all had a chance to rest in the wagons. She’d given her other furs and extra clothing to shivering townsfolk. Despite the fretting of her chamberlain, she would not stint on her self-appointed tasks.
“You must rest, lady,” Chathendor urged. “And you shouldn’t give away all your clothing.”
“Shall I ride on velvet cushions, wrapped in furs, while they walk, hungry and cold?”
“You aren’t a young girl any longer. Privation is harder at our age.”
She nearly smiled. “Our age, indeed. You have a few centuries on me at the very least,” she sniffed, returning the jest.
When they got back to the head of the column, Alhana spoke briefly to Samar, who was organizing patrols for the night. That done, she consented to rest. Chathendor led her to a wagon fitted with a canvas top. He lifted the flap at the rear of the still-moving conveyance, and she climbed inside. She reminded him to wake her in an hour. He assured her he would and dropped the flap over the opening.
She had barely settled herself next to several wrapped bundles of swords when the flap shifted again and Porthios entered the wagon.
“Peace, Alhana. It is I,” he murmured unnecessarily. She’d known immediately who he was, if for no other reason than he was faceless. Porthios was the only one in the caravan whose face was completed covered.
Chathendor did not have the luxury of her better eyesight. The tent flap flew up.
“My lady! I saw an intruder enter!” he exclaimed, short sword in hand.
“Your grip and stance do you credit, sir, but you’re facing your lady, not me.”
The chamberlain recognized Orexas’s hoarse voice. He did not lower his blade until Alhana assured him she was safe and sent him away.
Alone with her husband, Alhana lit a candle stub. She used a small incendiary stick, made by the gnomes of Sancrist and called by them a “dragon’s tooth.” When scratched smartly, it flared into flame. The sudden flare caused Porthios to recoil sharply.
“I have no liking for fire,” he said. In the wagon’s confines, he could move no farther away. “Candles and lamps can be dropped. Fires start that way all the time.”
She lit a lamp with the sputtering yellow flame. “I’ll be careful.”
Breath plumed from her nose as she exhaled. She waited for Porthios to speak. When he didn’t, she asked, “Do you believe the Kagonesti will find griffons?”
“Yes.”
“And that we can tame them?”
“Yes.”
She was impatient with his terse answers. “If we do find them, they will be wild adults, not creatures reared among our people. How can you be certain we can train them quickly enough to be of use?”