Zephros had little knowledge of magical matters and what he had was acquired more by accident than by design. However, in the circles in which he moved, it was impossible not to have heard of the renegade mage once named Wilthur. He had worn, so it was said, all three robes at different times in a life prolonged unnaturally by forbidden magic. In the end he had challenged one of the three primary gods, or perhaps all three at once, depending on the tale.
Zephros suspected it was either all three or Gilean the Neutral. Paladine would have slain him cleanly, and Takhisis would have dragged him to eternal torment in the Abyss. Gilean would have done this, transformed Wilthur to warn all who beheld him to avoid his follies, without forcing the beholder to choose any particular path.
The high captain also realized he had been staring in a manner likely to give offense, at a being-he could not call Wilthur a man-whom it might be death to offend.
Then Wilthur grew taller and paler. A moment later, a Silvanesti elven noble stood before Zephros, so exalted in manner and carriage that the Istarian felt an urge to kneel.
He did not. He even found the wits to speak.
“I had not heard you were a shapechanger as well-it is Lord Wilthur, is it not?”
“As you wish,” and even the voice had the elven musicality to it. Then the elven noble shimmered, and the robed, hideous Wilthur returned.
“I see,” Zephros said. “Or rather, I saw. An illusion spell, correct?”
“As you say,” Wilthur replied. “This, however, is not.”
A fireball materialized, a finger’s length from Wilthur’s suddenly outstretched left hand. It flashed down, scorched a dark path across the camp table, struck one of the stools, and consumed it entirely. A thin curl of green smoke rose into the air, from a patch of sand that seemed to have turned into glass.
“Nor is this,” Wilthur added. Invisible fingers of cold iron seemed to grip Zephros’s throat. He clawed at the air, felt his vision darkening, retained enough of it to see another invisible hand grip the other camp stool and crush it to powder-
– and gasped as the iron fingers vanished and he could breathe again. Zephros rested one hand on the camp table, nearly overturning it, and rubbed his throat with the other.
“I could kill you in an instant and give Luferinus the command,” Wilthur said. He might have been discussing the price of cider after a poor apple harvest. “But it would take time to make the men accept his authority, and some might fight for you, poor thing that you are. Then there would be deaths, disharmony, and delay, yet again.
“None of which we can afford in the presence of an able and numerous enemy,” Luferinus added. “We must be in order and united when the other companies of sell-swords arrive.”
“Other companies?” Zephros said. Doubting the evidence of his senses was not one of his vices, but he simply did not understand.
“Other companies,” Wilthur said quietly. “Better than the rat’s brood Pirvan took today, because you and they could not meet in time. Half of them would have turned their coats, anyway, so I suppose it is no great loss. But more and better are coming, and you may have the glory of leading them to victory. Merely do our bidding, and we shall ask for nothing to take the glory from you.”
And pigs will march into the smokehouse of their own will and come out hams without any human aid, Zephros thought. It was a more elegant thought than he could usually muster; he remembered at least three tutors who would have been proud. He also remembered that he had given up poetry in spite of the tutors, thinking it not fit art for a soldier.
It now seemed rather a pity. Poets would doubtless sing of whatever victories he won, or compose fine epitaphs if he lost. None of them would know the truth, and Branchala did not much care for verses that did not smell at least slightly of the truth.
However, the only important truth now was the two men standing before him, waiting for his answer.
“For our men, for the kingpriest, and for the cause we all serve, I agree to your terms.”
Zephros was relieved when the others merely nodded, instead of asking him to sign in blood or some such trick.
The two kender had been watching Zephros’s camp from a position far ahead of Pirvan’s most advanced scouts. However, by the time ruddy light flashed within one of the tents, Imsaffor Whistletrot was sound asleep.
His comrade Elderdrake wanted to kick him awake, if only to stop the snoring that surely must be waking half the camp, to say nothing of minotaurs in Ergoth and dragons in dragonsleep. He did no such thing. His friend and mentor had been marching and fighting for a long time, and deserved to sleep when both of them were not needed on watch.
Except that if that flash of light meant something, somebody should know about it back in Sir Pirvan’s camp. Whistletrot had told his traveling companion enough about the knight to convince Elderdrake that Sir Pirvan of Tirabot liked kender and was even willing to listen to them … almost as long as they were willing to talk.
But how should anybody know anything if Elderdrake didn’t go back and leave his friend alone and asleep, or else wake him up? It would take a while to go to the nearest sentry, and if the man did not care for kender, Elderdrake might have to go all the way back to Sir Pirvan, and that would take even longer.
Elderdrake decided he would do nothing and go nowhere until either the flash came again or Whistletrot woke up.
In fact, before either happened, Elderdrake himself had fallen asleep.
Chapter 11
The three bands, united into one, rode out in the dawn of what all hoped would be the last day’s travel to Belkuthas. Rynthala’s mounted archers, except for those acting as scouts, accompanied the Gryphons and Solamnics.
This was the logical task for them, knowing the land as they did. However, certain Gryphons were muttering that servants of the lord and lady of Belkuthas might let hurt come to the Free Riders, to win favor among the Silvanesti.
Raising his voice only a few times, Threehands subdued such tongue-wagglers without bloodshed, but as the column rode out, the Gryphon chief wore a face so long it all but dragged on the ground. He also cast sour looks at the two kender, who were riding one behind the other atop a pack horse and singing (at least Pirvan assumed it was singing.)
Pirvan dropped back to ride beside his fellow chief.
“Those cursed kender haven’t done enough damage?” Threehands snapped. “Now they want to deafen us?”
“I thought they’d done us more good than harm,” Pirvan said cautiously. If the kender were still a grievance for Threehands-
“Oh, when all is said and done, I imagine you have the right of it,” Threehands said. “But their knocking down the Cliff of Spikes, and blocking the Pass of Riomis-that will not go unpunished.”
“It was an accident-if they are telling the truth,” Pirvan added. This was partly out of tact. He also knew too well that storytelling was a fine art among kender, and practiced everywhere, even among humans who did not really appreciate it.
“Perhaps, but it still destroyed shrines more ancient than the Knights of Solamnia,” Threehands said. “It also blocked one of the easiest paths from the desert to the wells at Riomis and Felthun. Blocking the path to water is not as vile as poisoning it, but the desert-born will not think well of those who do it. Even the desert-wise like you should be slow to honor it.”
“The gods only know on what side justice-” Pirvan began.
What knowledge he was going to attribute to the gods did not pass Pirvan’s lips. A hail from the scouts up ahead broke in on the conversation.
“Elves!”