Threehands muttered something about scouts who said the first thing that came into their hitherto empty heads, and spurred his mount ahead. Pirvan joined him.
They caught sight of the elves, who were mounted but moving at such a slow walk that Pirvan could easily count them. A dozen or so older elves-one of them as close to elderly as a Silvanesti elf could be and still appear outside his homeland-rode amidst some fifty archers. The archers had no armor save silvered metal caps, and few had any weapons except their bows. No one in his senses, though, despised elven archery. Pirvan matched the elves’ pace. Some of them rode very slowly, indeed, and were poor horsemen, as well.
An angry shout echoed across the hillside.
It did not echo as loudly as it would have a day before; they were up into the forest now, and the trees swallowed much of the sound. But the elf was shouting with the strength of righteous indignation, and could have made himself heard in the middle of a battlefield.
“Rynthala! You do us no honor to meet us only now!”
Pirvan’s head jerked about, looking for the source of the voice. Instead, he saw Sir Darin pull his horse around and ride toward the elves. At the slow pace he needed to maintain on rough ground, this took some time, but the elves seemed so completely bemused by Darin’s size that they kept silent until he was within speaking distance.
“Your pardon, worthy elven counselors and warriors. I am Sir Darin Waydolson, chief of scouts to this band under Sir Pirvan of Tirabot and Threehands, son of Redthorn of the Gryphons.”
Darin had the elves’ attention, and Pirvan was now able to pick out their speaker and leader. He was the eldest one, although his stooped and slight frame seemed to hold a youthful voice.
“Rynthala met us on the field of battle against renegade sell-swords,” Darin explained, “enemies to the peace of all in this land. Because she knew the land, Sir Pirvan and Threehands commanded her to be our guide. So, if you wish to accuse anyone of misconduct, let it not be Rynthala, who also thought you would be in less danger if our band was strong.”
“No danger can come near fifty Silvanesti archers,” the old elf snapped. “It was a matter of duty, not safety. Unless perhaps Rynthala feared to ride alone, and wished to remain in your company.”
Sir Darin at this point turned a color that the two kender found vastly entertaining, judging from their shrieks of laughter. Pirvan had the notion that Darin was about to lose his temper. Though he knew why and did not doubt the justice of so doing, Pirvan could not call it wise.
He spurred his horse to join Darin. “Sir Darin speaks the truth, and with my voice. Make your quarrel with me, if you feel that you truly have one. Or, more honorable to the name of the Silvanesti, let us all be march-friends until we reach Belkuthas. Then weary bodies will not cloud our wits.”
The elven leader looked ready to continue the conversation, but a companion gripped the shoulder of his robe, and the gesture brought him to silence. This gave Pirvan a chance to close with Sir Darin.
“So be it,” the elf said.
Pirvan turned his horse, staying close enough to Darin to be able to speak to him in a whisper.
“Well done, for the most part, but why did you speak out so quickly?” Pirvan asked.
“I did not doubt your honor,” Darin said. That was a rare remark from his lips; commonly he would be silent for hours even when he should have spoken, rather than cast doubt on another’s honor. His upbringing by a minotaur, among whom honor was a matter of life and death, had much to do with this.
“Thank you,” Pirvan said. He hoped his voice did not bleed sarcasm.
“I doubted your swiftness, and did not doubt Rynthala’s,” Darin added.
This did not seem the best time for speaking in riddles, and Pirvan said so. Darin actually flushed.
“She seemed ready to ride at the elves, or at least say things no Silvanesti of such rank would forgive. I felt honor-bound to save our host- and hostess-to-be from such an embarrassment.”
“Also their daughter.”
“Of course.” The flush did not deepen, but neither did it depart.
Pirvan trusted Darin to do nothing improper, regardless of his feelings for Rynthala, or hers for him. He still hoped Darin felt no more than the desire to defend a battle comrade’s honor from slanderous attack, such as would have meant a death challenge among minotaurs.
Which of the True Gods, Pirvan wondered, does one pray to to keep young folk from falling in love at times inconvenient for themselves and others? Pirvan was not sure if any god had power over this, but thought Mishakal-healer of mind and body, as well as Paladine’s consort-might be a good place to start.
Before Pirvan could phrase a prayer, however, a cry again interrupted him. This time it had no words in it and needed none, for Pirvan could see for himself.
Tarothin the Red Robe was swaying in his saddle, and the eyes he turned up to the sky were glazed and unseeing.
In the first moments of the spellcasting, Tarothin sensed the magic working to fuddle the wits of his companions. But something about it-something for which there were only arcane words, but that might be compared to the bouquet of wine-was so alien to him that he did not at once begin a counterspell.
It was nearly his undoing, and that of the others, too. He felt the spell touch the elderly elf’s-High Judge Lauthinaradalas’s-mind, and also Rynthala’s. He heard the words forming in their so-slightly disarrayed minds before they reached their lips or the ears of others.
But, not having begun his riposte, Tarothin could not halt the elf’s words. Nor, when he struck back, could he be subtle.
He ripped the spell from Rynthala’s mind with all the subtlety of a field healer tearing a bandage from a clotted wound. The woman’s cry remained internal, fortunately, and Tarothin knew what Darin did thereafter.
Before Pirvan joined Darin, however, the Red Robe’s entire awareness focused completely on turning aside a second attempt to cast the spell. This time he succeeded; no one but himself noticed the attack, and this time he learned the identity of his opponent.
That stark knowledge and the effort of the counterspell made Tarothin cry out and reel in his saddle. It felt as if he had been struck hard with a club, in the ribs and on the back of the head. For a moment, even his breath came short.
Then Pirvan was beside him, holding him up, and Gerik was riding to do the same from the other side. Tarothin fought air into his lungs once more and gripped the saddlebow until he was sure his hands were equal to holding reins again.
At last he was able to speak.
“Magic. Enemies-close. And-Wilthur fights us.”
Before Pirvan could answer, a ripple of movement in the trees drew everyone’s eyes. Then the whine of descending arrows struck upon everyone’s ears.
From the back of a horse already responding to the pressure of his knees, Pirvan saw the arrows, a fleeting dark shadow against the blue sky. His mount was not the only one in movement, either. Nobody within sight or hearing of the arrows was so green that they did not know the most elementary tactic to defeat an archery ambush: the arrows are aimed at where you are when the archer shoots, so before they strike, be somewhere else.
This meant a great many riders and horses all moving in different directions at the same time, in a comparatively small space of none-too-smooth ground. There were collisions, falls, and a few arrows that struck home.
But the united bands had ceased to present a helpless target before the first arrow fell. Now they were forming for battle, and were as much a menace as a target.
It helped that the hostile archers had shot at extreme range for anyone except seasoned elven bowmen. Some arrows actually fell short, and some that struck home lacked the power to penetrate and do grave hurt.
Pirvan realized that one reason the enemy had shot at long range was to avoid hitting or even confronting the elves. Whatever reason they had for being enemies to Pirvan and his companions, they were not yet foes to the Silvanesti.