The sailors lined the beach below to watch the duel. They cheered Voltorno and jeered Kith-Kanan as the two duelists circled each other warily. The half-human’s blade flickered in, reaching for Kith-Kanan’s heart. The elf parried, rolled the slim Ergothian rapier aside, and lunged with his stouter elven point.
Voltorno laughed and steered Kith-Kanan’s thrust into the ground. He tried to stomp on the prince’s blade, to snap the stiff iron, but Kith-Kanan drew back, avoiding the seafarer’s heavy boots.
“You fight well,” Voltorno offered. “Who are you? Despite the rags you wear, you are no wild elf.”
“I am Silvanesti. That is all you need to know,” Kith-Kanan said tightly.
Voltorno smiled, pleasantly enough. “So much pride. You think I am some renegade.”
“It is easy to see which race you have chosen to serve,” Kith-Kanan said.
“The humans, for all their crudity, have appreciation for talent. In your nation I would be an outcast, lowest of the low. Among the humans, I am a very useful fellow. I could find a place for you in my company. As I rise, so could you. We would go far, elf.”
Voltorno spoke in an increasingly obvious lilt. His words rose and fell in a sort of sing-song intonation that Kith-Kanan found peculiar. The half-human was only a few feet from Kith-Kanan, and the elf prince saw that he was making small, slow gestures with his free hand.
“I owe my allegiance elsewhere,” Kith-Kanan stated. His sword felt heavy in his hand.
“Pity.” With renewed vigor, Voltorno attacked. Kith-Kanan fought him off clumsily, for the very air was beginning to seem thick, impeding his movements. As their blades tangled, Kith-Kanan lost his plan of defense and Voltorno’s steel slipped by his hilt and pierced his upper arm, The half-human stepped back, still smiling like a beneficent cleric.
The weapon fell from Kith-Kanan’s numb hand. He stared at it in dawning horror. His fingers had no more feeling than wood or wax. He tried to speak, but his tongue felt thick. A terrifying lethargy gripped him. Though in his mind he was yelling and fighting, his voice and limbs would not obey. Magic…it was magic. Voltorno had bewitched Arcuballis, now him.
Voltorno sheathed his own sword and picked up Kith-Kanan’s. “How splendidly ironic it will be to kill you with your own sword,” he noted. Then he raised the weapon.
And it flew from his hand! Voltorno looked down at his chest and the quarrel that had suddenly appeared there. His knees buckled, and he fell.
Mackeli stepped out of the dark ring of trees, a crossbow in his hands. Kith-Kanan staggered back away from the half-human. His strength was returning, in spite of the wound in his arm. Like a river freed from a dam, feeling rushed back into his body. He picked up his sword and heard shouts from the beach. The humans were coming to aid their fallen leader.
“So,” said the half-human through bloody lips, “you triumph after all.” He grimaced and touched his fingers to the quarrel in his chest. “Go ahead, end it.”
Already the humans were running up the steep path toward them. “I’ve no time to waste on you,” spat Kith-Kanan contemptuously. He wanted to sound strong, but his narrow escape had left him shaken.
He took Mackeli by the arm and hurried to Arcuballis. The boy hung back as Kith-Kanan removed the muzzle from the griffon’s beak and cut the leather pinions from its wings. The fire was returning to the griffon’s eyes. The creature clawed the ground with its talons.
Kith-Kanan touched his forehead to the beast’s feathered head and said, “It’s good to see you, old fellow.” He heard the commotion as the humans came roaring up the cliffside. Mounting the griffon, Kith-Kanan slid forward in the saddle and said, “Climb on, Mackeli.” The elf boy looked uncertain. “Hurry, the spell is broken but Voltorno’s men are coming!”
After another second’s hesitation, Mackeli grasped Kith-Kanan’s hand and swung into the saddle behind him. Armed sailors appeared on top of the cliff, and they rushed to Voltorno. Behind them came a tall human with a full, red-brown beard. He pointed to the elves. “Stop them!” he cried in a booming voice.
“Hold on!” shouted Kith-Kanan. He slapped the reins across Arcuballis’s neck, and the griffon bounded toward the men. They dropped and scattered like leaves in a whirlwind. Another leap and Arcuballis cleared the edge of the cliff. Mackeli gave a short, sharp cry of fear, but Kith-Kanan yelled with pure joy. Some of the humans got to their feet and loosed arrows at them, but the distance was too great. Kith-Kanan steered Arcuballis out over the foaming surf, turned, and gained height. As they swept past the site of the duel, he saw the red-bearded fellow raise Voltorno to his feet. That one wasn’t going to die easily, the prince noted.
“It’s good to see you!” Kith-Kanan shouted over his shoulder. “You saved my life, you know.” There was no response from Mackeli and Kith-Kanan asked, “Are you well?”
“I was weller on the ground,” Mackeli said, his voice high with anxiety. He tightened his fierce grip on Kith-Kanan’s waist as he asked, “Where are we going?”
“To fetch Anaya. Hold tight!”
The griffon gave voice to its own triumphant cry. The trilling roar burst over the wildwood, announcing their return to the waiting Anaya.
11 — Early Autumn, Year of the Hawk
The traditional way across the river to Silvanost was by ferry. Large, flat-bottomed barges were drawn back and forth across the Thon-Thalas by giant turtles. Some time in the distant past, priests of the Blue Phoenix, god of all animal life, had woven the spells that brought the first giant turtles into being.
They had taken a pair of common river turtles, usually the size of a grown elf’s palm, and worked their spells over them until they were as big as houses. Thereafter, the priests bred their own giants, creating quite a sizeable herd. The vast green domes of the turtles’ shells had become a common sight as the placid beasts gave faithful service for many centuries.
Lady Nirakina stood on the riverbank, watching a barge of refugees, pulled by just such a turtle, arrive from the west bank. Beside her stood Tamanier Ambrodel, his arm still in a sling. A month had passed since the Trial Days, and during that time more and more settlers from the western plains and forests had retreated to Silvanost for protection.
“How many does that make?” asked Nirakina, shading her eyes to see the crowded barge.
Tamanier checked the tally he was keeping. “Four hundred and nineteen, my lady,” he said. “And more coming all the time.”
The settlers were mostly from the poorer families of Silvanesti who had gone west to work new land and make new lives for themselves.
Though largely unharmed, they were footsore, exhausted, and demoralized. Their stories were all the same: bands of humans and Kagonesti elves had burned down their houses and orchards and ordered them to leave. The Silvanesti, unarmed and unorganized, had little choice but to pack their meager belongings and trek back to Silvanost.
Nirakina had received her husband’s blessing to organize relief for the displaced settlers. A field along the southern end of the city was set aside for them, and a shanty town of tents and lean-tos had sprung up in the last few weeks. Nirakina had persuaded many of the city guilds and great temples to contribute food, blankets, and money for the care of the refugees.
Sithel was doing all he could for the refugees, too, but his job was made far more complicated by the demands of the state. The Tower of the Stars was filled daily with petitioners who entreated the speaker to call together the army and clear the plains of the raiders. Sithel quite rightly realized this was not a practical solution. A big, slow-moving army would never catch small, mobile raider bands.
“Our neighbors to the west, Thorbardin and Ergoth, would be very unhappy to see an elven army on their borders,” Sithel told his more bellicose nobles. “It would be an invitation to war, and that is an invitation I will not countenance.”