The problem was, very simply, that to an experienced soldier like Pirvan, Belkuthas was still hardly defensible against a serious attack. This was in spite of all the work already put in by its defenders-human, dwarven, and otherwise-of which they were justly proud.
The original citadel had covered several times the area of the one presently inhabited. Krythis and Tulia had put in a state of defense only the inhabited one, which might have supported a garrison of two hundred. It had only one well, but would otherwise require either a long blockade, heavy siege engines, or potent spells to bring it down.
The potent spells might lie ready to the enemy’s hand. Pirvan resolved to speak with the Red Robe on this matter. Meanwhile, the inhabited citadel was now holding more than five hundred refugees, most of them useless mouths, in addition to its defenders, some of the refugees’ livestock, and the gods knew what else.
Pirvan hoped Krythis and Tulia did as well.
Outside the inhabited area were old walls and the stubs of towers. Many of them had been quarried for stone for centuries, so that it would have taken a thousand men two years to restore them to their original state. As they were, they were totally indefensible, offering no protection for the citadel’s other two wells. They did offer plenty of hiding places for an attacker to sneak up on the defended walls and try rushing them by surprise.
With time short and men abundant, Pirvan wagered that this was exactly what any attacker would do. He resolved to array his fighters to protect at least his side of the citadel from that particular menace, and to keep so much as a mouse from getting through unchallenged.
Then it would be time to speak to Krythis and Tulia.
Pirvan gave Threehands, Darin, and Haimya their orders. Rynthala being back home, she was under her parents’ authority again, Pirvan hoped with some counsel from Tharash. Then he went to visit the wounded, saving Hawkbrother for last, partly out of politeness, partly because the Gryphon warrior hardly needed encouragement.
For a man with a bloody gash in his scalp and torn muscles and cracked bones in one leg, Hawkbrother was in singularly good spirits. Pirvan thought part of this might be an act, to keep up Eskaia’s spirits and those of the other wounded, but also knew that the Free Riders were as firm about making light of pain as they were about showing honor.
Having his scalp half shaved and most of the shaved half dressed did not improve Hawkbrother’s appearance. From the way Eskaia stared at him, he might have been the avatar of a god.
“Eskaia, would you mind fetching me some water, now that there is someone to relieve you,” Hawkbrother asked. “Don’t wait for herbs. I would drink horse piss if I thought the horse was healthy.”
Eskaia patted him on the cheek opposite his scalp wound, then went off. As she left, Pirvan noted she had somehow managed to wash her face and brush her hair since the arrival. Not that she could not have done it in five minutes, nor that she was unready for battle, but two years ago a small war could not make her change her clothes between riding and dinner.
“You may be drinking just that before we are done with Belkuthas,” Pirvan said.
Hawkbrother looked toward the citadel. “Water?”
“That, and much else. I will tell you later.”
“Much later. I say nothing against your daughter-”
“Wise of you, brother of brother.”
“No head wound can take my wits, for I have none, or so my mother once told me,” Hawkbrother replied. “I do say that Eskaia will be easier in her mind once I start healing, so I shall have to be quick about it. Meanwhile, could you tell her that I will not vanish in a puff of smoke if she takes her eyes off me for two breaths?”
“Tell her yourself, Hawkbrother.”
“Have-have I the right? By Free Rider custom, that means-”
“It probably means that I will have to paint myself blue and shave my scalp, then swear blood brotherhood with Redthorn-all of which I will do, to keep the peace. But as for us, by the custom of our family, whoever wants something done by another must ask her himself. Also, I think the request will sit better with Eskaia if it does not come from me. If I say a word of it, she will wrap herself up with you in the same blanket-”
Hawkbrother was light-skinned enough to flush. He also seemed to have inhaled a good deal of dust, judging from the way he was coughing.
“I beg your pardon, Hawkbrother. And now, before I make a bigger fool of myself than I already have-”
A trumpet sounded from the keep. In the distance, a silver-toned horn replied.
“Fifty plagues take the Silvanesti,” Hawkbrother said. “That has to be Lauthin the Loud and his little flock.”
It did not improve Lauthin’s disposition to hear the name “Lauthin the Loud” bandied about the citadel from the moment of his arrival. Nor did having to wait to be received in proper state.
However, his hosts had made up their minds that they had nothing to lose by being ready for the worst, and nothing to gain by trying to placate one who seemed to have been born in a vile mood and grown worse with each passing century. This was their home; Lauthin could use it with their consent, or camp in the forest without it.
Tulia and Rynthala went out to settle the embassy in a safe, comfortable campsite well clear of Pirvan’s men and the refugees. (The Silvanesti sense of elven superiority was matched by a human belief that elves were effete and cowardly.)
Krythis saw to putting the quarters and hall in as much order as possible. He was even able to wash his face and hands, although one could have shaken from his clothes enough dust to mix a fair-sized hod of mortar.
Tharash kept running back and forth among the two camps and the citadel until Krythis finally told him to wrap himself around a jug of ale and not stir for an hour.
“You don’t want me standing by?”
“There will be no trouble. Do you understand that? Do all our people understand it?”
“I do. I’ll speak to one or two of the young folk. They’re hotheaded, compared to what they were in my day.”
“You had a day, Tharash? You were not born as you are?”
The elf laughed and went off to find the ale. His departure was a signal for the return of Tulia and Rynthala.
The horns and drums that announced the coming-the onset, Krythis wanted to call it-of High Judge Lauthin followed immediately thereafter.
Zephros was not happy at the news, either of the defeat of the sell-sword ambush or of the safe arrival of Pirvan at Belkuthas. The only thing that consoled him was that Luferinus and Wilthur seemed still less content. The pleasure of watching their distaste or even dismay gave way to impatience with their refusal to provide him details. Treating him like a fool might be their pleasure; it would be an expensive one if it was noticed by Zephros’s troops.
For the moment, memories of desert hobgoblins and rumors that the enemy had wizards kept the men reconciled to accepting mysterious, hooded magic-users among their own ranks. This acceptance might not last forever, and then it would not matter a bit whether Zephros discouraged or encouraged desertion from his usurped band.
The men would depart. If they somehow knew that Wilthur the Brown was the source of the magic, they would depart in haste and without order.
Meanwhile, if these zealots for the kingpriest wanted Zephros’s help, that help would be informed.
“It seems to me we are crying before we know that the milk has been spilled,” Zephros said, sipping his wine. He feared it was the last. None of the new companies coming in had any left, nor would the loot of raided farms help. The folk around here seemed partial to ale, which he had never been able to stomach, or dwarf spirits, which might be good for embalming corpses.