Suddenly breaking the silence of the night, the moans and whistles were enough to frighten spirits, let alone horses half starved for many days. As fast as their strength allowed, they bolted.
The sentries in their path did not stand their ground. They ran off in all directions so quickly that Elderdrake feared some of them would fall and hurt themselves. He and Whistletrot wanted Zephros’s blood as much as ever, but they had scruples about shedding anyone else’s.
They had even less wish to hurt horses. When they followed the trail of the mounts, over ground trampled by hooves and feet and littered with discarded weapons and equipment, they were alert for any fallen animals.
They found only one, but the gray mare was in dire case. She had fallen into a ditch and badly broken one leg. They looked, they frowned, they climbed down, and they tried to both calm the horse and heave her to her feet at the same time.
This understandably did not improve the mare’s disposition. They had just leapt out of the ditch to avoid the mare’s third attempt to bite them, when a soft voice spoke behind them.
“I always knew kender were thickheaded and stubborn, Tharash. If we leave them, they will be here until the day dawns or the enemy comes upon them.”
The kender turned to see Tharash and another elf, a woman in a robe that was either dark-colored or even filthier than they. “If you want to help the mare, let me see what can be done,” the woman said. She lifted her robe, revealing well-formed legs, and leapt down into the ditch.
Tharash handed her a staff that the kender recognized as bearing the signs of Mishakal. They also recognized her as someone who had come with Lauthin.
“Elansa came out with Lauthin’s men. Said they needed a healer,” Tharash added. “She’s good-hearted and strong.”
From his tone, the kender judged that the elven healer had been good-hearted enough to share Tharash’s bed-if they could find such a thing in the forest. He thought yearningly of having Hallie Pinesweet out here with him.
Elansa’s hands and staff moved over the mare’s leg. At last she whispered, “Find cloth and sticks. We shall need to splint the leg, if she is to walk safely away from here.”
They settled for two sticks and one of Tharash’s sheathed knives, tied in place with strips of cloth torn one apiece from everybody’s garments. It was a ragged party that finally trailed the mare away from a camp where either none had heard their noise or all were too afraid to come out and learn what made it.
“I’m going inside in a few days,” Tharash said. “I can take you lads-ah, gentlemen-with me, if you wish.”
“I hate dwarf tunnels,” Whistletrot said.
“Odd, seeing as how you fit in them better than I do,” the elven ranger said. “But no matter. If you want to stay out here until you have Zephros’s head, I will help all I can. For the gods’ sake and your friends,’ though, take a bath. Your clothes must already stand up by themselves, and soon sentries will be able to nose you out from upwind!”
Then the two light-treading elves were gone.
Carolius Migmar heard the rumble and squeal of wagons climbing a slope, the crack of whips, and the shouts of teamsters. He would go out to inspect the arriving siege train in a few moments, but he would not hasten unduly.
He also had to ponder whether to reply to Zephros’s letter-which should not have been written in the first place. Admitting dealings with Wilthur the Brown was a sufficient addition to Zephros’s crimes to give him a death sentence. Also, the letter revealed something that might still have been a secret to some of their enemies, if the letter had been read by unfriendly eyes. Still, a Red Robe of Tarothin’s skill would have already discovered Wilthur’s presence and even countered some of his spells.
Migmar decided that for now there would be no reply to the letter-which, he hoped, would make further discourse unneeded when he reached Zephros’s camp. The less recognition he could give the self-styled high captain, the better.
As for helping Wilthur the Brown back into the graces of the kingpriest, or even the Towers of High Sorcery-Migmar would rather become a eunuch!
A pity that, in this campaign, kingpriest, virtuous soldiers of Istar, and the Knights of Solamnia formed three factions like the sides of a triangle, rather than a single straight line facing their common enemies. Victory at Belkuthas, Migmar hoped, might help build that line.
Then the question of the “lesser races” would cease to excite such passions. Confronted with the union of such human powers, they would find reason to yield with honor, and with just treatment they would not again be a source of danger or even dissension.
To his own mind, Migmar had always been a soldier who worked to make his profession unnecessary. Victory at Belkuthas might be a fair step in that direction.
It would also be an easier step than many realized, including Wilthur the Brown. What need was there for sorcery when the siege engines were assembled? Indeed, what need for a fight when the defenders of the citadel would likely see the wisdom of yielding honorably to overwhelming force?
It was time to go out and inspect the newly arrived wagons carrying the ironmongery and tools for the siege train. Not only would this flatter the sappers, it would also be wise to see how robust the wagons were.
This was a land of many rocks and slopes and few broad roads. That had not mattered before, when Migmar’s three thousand men (picked sell-swords and a thousand of the regular host of Istar) carried everything they needed on their backs, their saddles, or their pack animals. Even the host’s meat rations walked.
Heavily laden wagons, on the other hand, required roads and time. There might be skirmishing as deluded folk tried to halt the siege train with petty ambushes. Even so, the summer was not half gone, and Belkuthas would not endure once the siege train was at work.
There was ample time.
Migmar drew on his cloak, set his helmet straight upon his balding head, and marched out to welcome his most important reinforcements.
Tharash was following his own advice given to the kender half a moon before-taking a bath before he grew too noisome for civilized company-when Sirbones entered the chamber.
“Alas, that you are not Elansa,” Tharash said. He pretended to squint nearsightedly at the priest of Mishakal. “No, too old, too wrinkled, and much too bald. Also wearing far more clothes than Elansa would, if she came to a man in his bath.”
“I am not here to feed your dreams, Tharash,” Sirbones said.
“Do you even feed yourself?” Tharash said. The priest shrugged. “Well, do so. Otherwise you and Tarothin will both be dead of hunger before the siege is done. It is not as if you take food from starving children by eating enough to keep your spirits and flesh together! Not when I remember the weight of venison I just helped haul through the tunnels. My shoulders still ache from that journey.”
Sirbones now neither moved nor spoke. “Out with it, Sirbones,” Tharash said. “I honor you more than most humans, but that does not make me ready to have my time wasted.” He stepped out of the bath and wrapped himself in a towel. “Speak before I am clothed, or be silent.”
Sirbones sat down on the edge of the bath. It rocked and nearly spilled him, as well as the cooling water, on the floor.
“Lauthin is beginning to think,” the priest said.
“What has he been doing all the while before?” Tharash said, “besides insulting my lord and lady beyond measure, playing despot over his own followers, and withholding strength from battle so that innocent men died?”
“He has said a good deal, in plain words,” Sirbones said.
“So,” Tharash said, pulling out a comb. Elves did not often go bald by nature, but he suspected that he would be nearly as bare-skulled as an aged dwarf by the time he had taken all the snarls from his gray locks.