Tharash followed him down the stairs and across the courtyard, past the refugees, toward the living quarters.
“Not all of those folk can shift for themselves in the forest,” the old elf said. “They’ll need guarding, maybe a few rangers to hunt for them. While they’re out, the rangers can also hunt sell-swords, I should think.”
“You are asking to lead the rangers?”
“Well …”
“If Rynthala consents, I may also.”
“If Lady Rynthi doesn’t consent, I won’t go.”
Once upon a time, long, long ago, Pirvan had read in one of the knights’ books on the principles of war about something known as “unity of command.” This apparently meant having one undoubted leader, to say yea or nay, in each body of fighters.
Pirvan wondered what the writer would have thought of the situation at Belkuthas. He hoped the man would have at least found it worthy of laughter. As for himself, he had not much laughter left.
“Knight!”
They turned, to see Lauthin marching toward them. He could certainly stride out finely, considering his age and long robes (if now somewhat smeared with smut). He bore his staff of office and wore a look on his face that drove the last traces of laughter from Pirvan. Tharash looked none too happy either.
“My name is Sir Pirvan of Tirabot,” the knight said. If Lauthin was determined to fight for dominance like a none-too-shrewd wolf, Pirvan had no intention of baring throat.
“Are you conspiring with this dark elf to seduce my guards away from their duty?”
The question actually had Pirvan goggling like a dying fish, until Tharash gripped his arm and pointed. Lauthin had brought some of his guards with him. Four of them, with short swords at their belts.
“I think we could discuss what has been done or left undone in a less public place,” Pirvan said.
“That may be your wish or your way. We of Silvanesti do justice in the light, so that all can see.”
“Well, then,” Tharash said. “The light’s going fast, and I always heard that justice should be swift to be sure. So, speak your piece, my lord judge.”
Lauthin actually gobbled wordlessly for a moment. The four guards stepped forward. Pirvan resolved that if they drew their swords, he would disarm them without bloodshed, if possible. He doubted it would be. Elves had good reason to be proud of their swiftness.
Tharash moved first. He sidestepped, then whirled on one leg, kicking out with the other. The foot hooked the high judge’s staff of office, sending it flying. Tharash dived for it, snatched it up, rolled, sprang to his feet, then rested it on his shoulder like a spear.
For all his years, Tharash had been so swift that only one of Lauthin’s guards even tried to draw his sword. Pirvan slapped the elf’s wrist with the flat of his own blade, and Tharash pushed the fallen weapon back to its owner with the end of the staff.
“Lauthin,” Tharash said. “I am no Silvanesti elf, so your high and mighty judgeship means nothing to me. I will give back your staff, though, when I have spoken.
“Lauthin, some of those elves who fought on the walls today want to go into the forest because they’re afraid you’ll punish them. Some of them just don’t like the sell-swords. I don’t blame them.
“Other elves are ashamed of staying out of Rynthala’s fight, or have lovers and friends among those going. They want to go. Oh, you can try to keep them there, and maybe they won’t desert the way humans would. Some will, though, wandering out in twos and threes, likely to their deaths.
“If you force them to that, Lauthin, their blood will be on your hands and their kin before your seat, demanding that you step down from it. If you don’t see that, you are the biggest fool the gods ever allowed to walk the face of Krynn!”
Lauthin stepped back as if slapped, his mouth working. After a while a sound came out, then words.
“How many?”
“A good half. They’ll need folk who know the land with them, but I and my lads and the dwarves could help them there.”
“Half,” Lauthin murmured. “My embassy-it needs to be guarded.”
“Your precious person may need guarding, but you do not here and now have an embassy. Until somebody comes along who’s interested in talking rather than shooting, your guards can do better guarding what’s more useful than you, which is just about everything and everybody in Belkuthas, starting with the midden-heap gully dwarves!”
Tharash sagged, rather out of breath and to Pirvan’s eyes somewhat astounded at his own boldness. Then he handed the staff back to Lauthin, who nearly let it drop to the trampled ground from nerveless fingers. He finally gripped it with one hand, and used a corner of his robe to wipe off the smears of dirt.
He stood motionless for a time, hardly even breathing. Then he turned and marched off, striking his staff rhythmically on the ground ahead of him. His four guards fell in behind him, although Pirvan saw one look briefly back; he could almost imagine that the elf had winked.
Perhaps he had. Perhaps Lauthin would see reason. His archers would certainly be taking to the walls and the woods whether he did or not. Even Silvanesti elves could not forever pass by those in need. Even Silvanesti elves could succumb to the love of a good fight.
If there was such a thing. Pirvan remembered the face of one of the men he’d killed today-hardly more than a boy, and too slender to really wear armor. The soldier hadn’t worn anything except a helmet, which helped him not at all when Pirvan’s dagger ripped open his neck-
He remembered another dead opponent-a man who was as much too old for the field as the boy had been too young. Gray in his beard, wrinkles on the face above the beard, probably a sell-sword to keep his farm or earn a dowry for his daughter … No dowry now, and his family turned out on the road like the refugees, without dwarves or elves or Knights of Solamnia to help them.
Before a third face could present itself, Pirvan turned and stumbled blindly toward the stairs to the keep. He wanted to be alone for a while …
… alone when somebody brought him the news that Threehands and Rynthala had come to blows and needed him to counsel peace!
Haimya found Pirvan, sitting on the bed in the dark chamber. His hands dangled between his knees, and his eyes stared at the floor, or perhaps at nothing.
“Pirvan?”
He recognized the name and even the voice, but the name was not his, and the voice was a stranger’s.
“Pirvan. The dwarves have almost finished the tunnel. Tarothin helped them.”
Tarothin? He was a Red Robe wizard, wasn’t he? Where was this tunnel?
Oh, he was in the citadel of Belkuthas, which needed water. The tunnel would bring it.
As a matter of fact, he commanded the citadel of Belkuthas. He was Sir Pirvan of Tirabot, Knight of the Sword, and this day he had with his sword slain-
“Gods!”
Pirvan wept. Presently the woman who was no longer a stranger, whom he remembered sharing joy and sorrow with for twenty years, sat down on the bed beside him. She took him in his arms and held him as he had seen her hold their children.
After what seemed half the night, the tears ended.
“Don’t talk,” Haimya said. “Unless you want to,” she added.
Pirvan knew there was one person in the world who would listen to anything he had to say. That was one more person than most people had. Moreover, she was right here on the bed with him.
He still feared to sound-not like a coward; he had heard too many noble confessions of weakness to fear that-but like a witling. Belkuthas needed him in his right senses.
He needed himself in his right senses.
Pirvan began to talk.
“It was the men I fought today-the men I killed.”
“Everyone speaks of your valor. You see it-otherwise?”
“Tonight, the word ‘valor’ chokes me.”
She stroked his hair. “Go on.”
“They started coming to me. I could see them in front of me as clearly as I can see you now. I started thinking about how each one had a life of his own that I had ended. For what I thought-I think now-is a good reason. But they’re still dead, all of them. I hoped one of them would speak.”