“Do you have any suspects?” asked Tamanier. “Officially, no. Personally, yes,” Sithas said grimly. “I suspect my own wife, Lady Hermathya.”
“Your wife!” Tamanier was so shocked he could hardly believe what he had heard. “Surely, noble prince, your wife loves you. She would not betray you to the humans!”
Sithas rubbed his hands slowly together. “I only have suspicions. All I can say about Hermathya’s motives is that she so loves attention and the cheers of the people, that she spends huge amounts of money to keep their favor. I do not give her coins to scatter in the streets, yet she never seems to lack for money.”
Shocked, yet pitying the prince at the same time, Tamanier asked, “Do you suspect anyone else?”
“Yes, and perhaps he is the stronger candidate. His name is Vedvedsica. He is a sorcerer and a priest, he claims, of Gilean the Gray Voyager. My father sometimes uses his clairvoyant skills, but Vedvedsica is a greedy conniver who would do anything for gold or power.”
“The emperor of Ergoth has plenty of gold,” Tamanier said sagely.
They talked for several minutes more. Tamanier vowed to detect the traitor, and Sithas listened approvingly, nodded, then walked away. The newly created chamberlain was left in the east garden, surrounded by fallen petals and singing birds.
The farmers were apprehensive when they first saw the column of armed warriors ride by, but when they realized who the Wildrunners were, they came to greet these newcomers. Along the way, Kith-Kanan sent troopers to help one farmer to fell a tree, another to free an ox from a boggy ditch, and a third to mend a fence. Word of these kindnesses spread ahead of the Wildrunners’ march and increased the number of enthusiastic elves—Silvanesti and Kagonesti—who came out to greet Kith-Kanan and his troops.
For the next few days, the way of the march was lined with grateful farmers and their families, bearing gifts of new nectar, smoked meat, and fruit. Wreaths of flowers were hung around the Wildrunners’ necks. Kith-Kanan’s mount Kijo was draped with a garland of white roses. At one point, the prince ordered his pipers to play a lively tune, and the Wildrunners passed through the countryside in a swirl of music, flowers, and smiling settlers. It was more like a festival than a military expedition. Some of the more veteran warriors were astonished.
Now, ten days from Silvanost, sitting around the blazing campfire, warriors asked Kith-Kanan why he was making such a show of helping the farmers and herders they met.
“Well,” he explained, stirring his soup with a wooden spoon, “if this militia idea is to succeed, the people must see us as their friends and not just their protectors. You see, our ranks will be filled by the same farmers, woodcutters, and herders we help along the way. They will be the troops, and all of you will be their leaders.”
“Is it true we’re to take in humans and dwarves in the ranks?” asked a captain with some distaste.
“It is,” said Kith-Kanan.
“Can we rely on such fighters? I mean, we all know humans can fight, and the dwarves are stout fellows, but will they obey orders to attack and slay fellow humans or dwarves if those orders come from an elf?” asked one of the older sergeants.
“They will, or they’ll be expelled from the militia and lose its protection,” Kith-Kanan responded. “You ask if humans will serve us by fighting humans. Some will, some won’t. We’ll be fighting elves, too, I expect. I’ve heard tales of robber bands made up of humans, Kagonesti, and even mixed-bloods. If they rob, if they kill, then we will bring them to justice. We make no distinctions out here.”
Sleep followed dinner, and guards were posted. The horses were corralled in the center of the camp, and one by one the lamps went out in the Wildrunners’ tents.
Mackeli usually slept at Kith-Kanan’s side, and that night was no exception. Though the boy often slept soundly, the months he’d spent out of the old forest hadn’t completely dulled his senses; he was the first one to sense something amiss. He sat up in the dark tent and rubbed his eyes, unsure of what had roused him. He heard nothing, but he saw something very odd.
Pink shadows wavered inside the tent. Mackeli saw his own hand, washed pink by an unknown light. He slowly raised his head and saw that a red circle of light showed through the tent’s canvas roof. A glare of heat on his face, Mackeli had no idea what the red glow portended, but he was sure it wasn’t friendly. He shook Kith-Kanan awake.
“Wha—What is it?” mumbled the prince.
“Look!” hissed Mackeli.
Kith-Kanan blinked at the red glow. He brushed the long hair from his eyes and threw back his blanket. In lieu of the sword he’d broken in the wildwood, he’d brought along a fine new weapon. Mackeli drew his own sword from its scabbard as, warily, Kith-Kanan lifted the flap on the tent with the tip of his blade.
Hovering over the camp, about twenty feet in the air, was a ball of red fire the size of a cart wheel. The crackling red light covered the camp. Kith-Kanan immediately felt a prickling sensation on his skin when the red glow touched him.
“What is it?” asked Mackeli wonderingly.
“I don’t know…”
The elf prince looked across the camp. The sentries were frozen, one foot raised in midstep, mouths open in the act of giving the alarm. Their eyes stared ahead, unblinking. Even the horses were rooted in place, some with hooves raised and necks arched in odd angles.
“They’re all paralyzed somehow,” Kith-Kanan said in awe. “This is evil magic!”
“Why aren’t we paralyzed?” Mackeli asked, but Kith-Kanan had no answer to that.
Through the line of tents shadowy figures moved. Bloodcolored light sparkled on naked sword blades. Kith-Kanan and Mackeli ducked down behind a tent. The shadow figures came on. There were five of them. By their clothing, features, and coloring, Kith-Kanan saw they were raffish Kagonesti. He held a finger to his lips, warning Mackeli to remain silent.
The Kagonesti approached the tent Kith-Kanan and Mackeli had been sleeping in minutes before. “Is this the tent?” hissed one of them.
“Yeah,” replied the leading elf. His face was heavily scarred, and instead of a left hand, he had a cruel-looking metal hook.
“Let’s be done with it an’ get outta here,” said a third Kagonesti. Hook-Hand made a snarling sound in his throat.
“Don’t be so hasty,” he advised. “There’s plenty of time for the kill and to fill our pockets besides.”
With sign language, Kith-Kanan indicated to Mackeli that he should circle around behind the band of magic-wielding killers. The boy vanished like a ghost, barefoot and wearing only his trousers. Kith-Kanan rose to his feet.
Hook-Hand had just ordered his men to surround the prince’s tent. The killers slashed the ropes holding the tent up. As the canvas cone collapsed, the five killers waded in, hacking and stabbing through the tent cloth.
Suddenly, with a shout, Mackeli burst from concealment and bravely attacked the gang. He ran the first one through, even as that elf was turning to face him. Kith-Kanan gritted his teeth. Mackeli had attacked too rashly, so the prince had to rush his own attack. With a shout, Kith-Kanan entered the fray; he felled a mace-wielding killer with his first stroke. Hook-Hand kicked through the slashed canvas of the fallen tent to get clear. “That’s him, boys!” he shouted as he retreated. “Finish ’em!”
From five, the villains were now down to three. Two of the Kagonesti went for Mackeli, leaving Hook-Hand and Kith-Kanan to duel. The scar-faced elf cut and thrust with deadly efficiency Snatching up a cut length of rope with his hook, he lashed at Kith-Kanan. The knotted end stung hard against the prince’s cheek.
Mackeli was not doing well against the other two. Already they had cut him on his left knee and right arm. Sweat sheened his body in the weird crimson glow. When the killer on his left thrust straight at him, Mackeli beat his blade and counterthrust into his opponent’s chest. This moment of triumph was shortlived. The other attacker stabbed Mackeli before the boy could free his blade. Cold iron touched his heart, and he fell to the ground.