This did not tell Pirvan nearly as much as he wanted to know about the attackers. The Silvanesti, after all, were not without enemies. It strongly suggested another band of sell-swords-this time with some potent wizard named Wilthur working among them.
Haimya screamed, louder than she ever had, save in labor. She was screaming curses; she was not the only one. Almost together, the elves were turning their mounts and riding out of the line of fire. They were not even unslinging their bows, let alone shooting back. Pirvan was charitable about that last; some of the elves struggled even to stay mounted. They rode away from Pirvan’s fighters, not toward them. As plainly as if they had written it across the sky, the elves were saying this was not their battle, and whoever had shot at Pirvan’s folk could go on doing so.
Pirvan was about to join the general cursing, but noticed the elven withdrawal had cleared the hillside for an advance on the woods. He was not the only one to see that.
Hawkbrother and some twenty Free Riders were on their way uphill, working from a trot to a canter. Pirvan prayed they would not try to gallop, or they would be falling faster than the elves, some of whom were now trying to catch their loose mounts or stay on the backs of bucking ones.
Hard upon the Free Riders’ heels came Rynthala and her mounted archers. They had their horse bows ready, and some of them were already shooting. Pirvan hoped they had as much sense as their enemies, and avoided hitting friends.
Then a sleet storm of arrows swept down from the forest. Again, the shooting was not good, but it was against an easy target. At least five Free Riders and six of their mounts went down.
One of the fallen was Hawkbrother.
Gildas Aurhinius placed the letter he had just read on the pile to the left of him, and drew the next letter off the pile of unread ones to his right. His eyebrows twitched slightly. This letter bore the seal of Carolius Migmar, one of the highest-ranking commanders in the host of Istar. He was also a brave fighter and excellent rider … and had once been a good friend and drinking companion, when they were both young captains. Reportedly, Carolius was somewhat the worse for years and much the worse for wine, though the red eyes that greeted Aurhinius each morning while he shaved reminded him he should not fault others’ drinking.
Migmar was also more than somewhat the worse for his alliance with the kingpriest, if other tales ran true. Or rather, as with so many, his alliance with the men who had served the old kingpriest. The old guard spent its time intriguing with sympathizers all over Istar’s realm, hoping to put on the high seat another such harsh, chill soul.
Aurhinius wondered how long it would take before some of them conceived the blasphemy of making the seat vacant, by steel, poison, or magic. He hoped it would be many years, not only after his death, but after the death of all those he cared about.
If the kingpriest was truly the repository of virtue, compassing his death was blasphemy. If he was not, claims that he was were also blasphemy.
Being a soldier rather than a scholar, Aurhinius put the question aside. He would never come up with an answer that made sense, even to himself. Also, he would waste time needed for reading letters, seeing to the camp middens, and scouting the desert to guide further bands of recruits to the main camp.
Aurhinius opened the letter, using a dwarven-work knife that Nemyotes had given him on the tenth anniversary of the man’s becoming the general’s secretary. What the letter told him nearly made him drop the knife on his foot.
Carolius Migmar was coming south with reinforcements and would assume command of the tax soldiers and all Istarian regulars when he arrived. Meanwhile, Aurhinius was highly commended for sending his vanguard northwest. Numerous bands of sell-swords with Istarian captains would be sent to strengthen the vanguard, which would make its base the citadel of Belkuthas.
This would put a strong force on one flank of the Silvanesti, while the main body held the elves in front. With such strength arrayed against them, they would surely see reason on the matter of taxes, and could be punished severely if they did not.
Migmar wished his old friend well, hoped he was in health, and looked forward to having again the old pleasure of serving with him, this time in high rank for a cause blessed by all who loved virtue, gods and men alike.
A list of the sell-swords said to be marching on Belkuthas came with the letter. It was scant on details of numbers, training, and weapons, but suggested Belkuthas might shortly play host to five thousand men.
Aurhinius used a coarse word. He suspected the lord and lady of Belkuthas would use the same or a stronger one when they learned of what as about to befall them.
“My lord?”
It was Nemyotes, drawn by his commander’s unwonted language, thrusting his head into the tent.
“Thank you, but I need no help.” Aurhinius hoped his voice was not shaking.
Nemyote’s look killed that hope, but he did withdraw before Aurhinius could say more.
Aurhinius muttered another coarse word. He mastered his impulses, which were to ride back to Istar posthaste and ask Migmar if this folly came from too much wine or from orders. If it was orders, Aurhinius would then ride to the palace of the kingpriest and smite all of his counselors with the open hand, if not with cold steel.
Assuming, of course, he did not drop dead in the saddle, halfway to the Mighty City.
Aurhinius thought longingly of a drink-a drink of ice-cold water, with just a trace of lemon in it. Wine might make him actually commit follies instead of just imagining them.
Also, it was likely that some of the Istarian captains coming south would be senior to Zephros. They and their men could bring him to heel. While this might delay establishing the flanking camp, it would be worthwhile if it meant peace with all the folk about Belkuthas.
Unless those who ruled Istar were now openly seeking to turn the tax-gathering campaign into a provocation for war against the “lesser” races?
What appeared to be utter confusion followed Hawkbrother’s fall. However, Pirvan’s war-honed eye could make out underlying patches of discipline and purpose.
Most of the Gryphons rode on to close the distance and reach the cover of the trees rather than turning about under arrow-fire. A few dropped behind, to guard the fallen from a sortie on foot and recover those fit to move. These dismounted to take shelter behind the fallen horses.
Rynthala’s mounted archers were also dismounting, to make smaller targets and unleash their more powerful longbows. They were badly outnumbered, though, and two of them went down even as Pirvan watched.
Then Sir Darin charged up the slope. As before, he went afoot, but his shield was on his left arm instead of slung from his pack horse. It was a shield taller than most, scarred and dented from where scores of lances had struck it in practice jousts, but none had ever penetrated, nor had Darin ever been unhorsed.
As Darin approached the tree line, the hostile archery subsided. Either the archers were not quite ready to shoot down a Knight of Solamnia, or they judged him to be an unrewarding target behind that massive shield.
The archers were not long in learning their error. Darin did not shout, wave his sword, or even blink. He merely nodded-and ten of Pirvan’s men-at-arms flung themselves into the tree line on the heels of the Gryphons.
The uproar that followed the second attack made speech impossible. Pirvan saw that the Gryphons of the rear guard were following Darin and their comrades in among the trees. He also saw Eskaia sitting her saddle, her lips paler than he had ever seen them, and her free hand twitching.
“Eskaia. You and Gerik take five of our men and go help the wounded Gryphons.”