“I don’t know.”
“Dwarves hate the water,” observed Quimant. “They won’t try a crossing at night.”
“We can’t take that chance. Come in here,” he ordered the rider, throwing open the
coach door. “Driver, to the city! As fast as you can get us there!” The gilded carriage and its escort of a hundred mounted elves thundered toward distant Silvanost, raising a wide plume of dust. * * * * *
“They’ve made it to the river, and even now they seize boats along the wharf!” Tamanier Ambrodel greeted Sithas on the Avenue of Commerce, the wide roadway that paralleled the city’s riverfront.
“Open the royal arsenal. Have every elf who can wield a sword follow me to the river!”
“They’re already there. The battle has continued all day.” The royal procession had arrived in the city with perhaps two hours of light remaining. Sithas leaped from the coach and took the reins of a horse that had been saddled for him on Tamanier’s orders. He quickly donned a chain mail shirt and hefted the light steel shield that bore the crest symbolizing the House of Silvanos.
In the meantime, the riders from his escort had dismounted, readying for conflict.
“They’ve barricaded themselves into two blocks of warehouses and taverns, right at the waterfront. It seems they’re having some difficulties getting their boats rigged,” explained the lord chamberlain.
“How many have we lost?” asked the speaker.
“Nearly fifty killed, most in the first few hours of the fight. Since then we’ve been content to keep them bottled up until you got here.”
“Good. Let’s root them out now.”
Surprisingly, that thought gave him a sense of grim satisfaction. “Follow me!” Sithas cried, turning the prancing stallion down the wide Avenue of Commerce. The elves of his guard followed him. He inspected detachments that held positions down several streets that led toward the wharf. Just beyond these companies, Sithas could see hastily erected wooden barricades. He imagined the white, wide eyes of Theiwar dwarves peering between the gaps of these crude defenses.
“They’re there,” a sergeant assured Sithas. “They don’t show themselves until we attack. Then they give a good accounting of themselves. Our archers have picked off more than a few of them.”
“Good. Attack when you hear the trumpets.”
Sithas himself led the band of his personal guard toward White Rose Lane before leading them down a narrow thoroughfare that was the most direct route to the waterfront.
As he had suspected, the dwarves were prepared to meet them here as well. He saw several large fishing boats lashed to the wharf, while bands of dwarves wrestled several more into place. A sturdy line of dwarves blocked the street before him, arrayed four deep, armed with crossbows, swords, and stubby dwarven pikes. A barrier of barrels, planks, and huge coils of rope stood before them.
Behind these, Sithas saw the dwarven ambassador himself. Than-Kar, squinting in the uncomfortable glow of afternoon sunlight, cursed and shouted at his guards as they tried to pull the largest of the boats against the quay.
“Charge!” Sithas cried, his voice hoarse. “Break them where they stand!” Three trumpeters blared his command. A roar arose from the elves gathered along the nearby streets and lanes. Sithas spurred his charger forward. A piece of paving stone had worked its way loose over many winters of frost and springtimes of rain. Now it lay on White Rose Lane, looking for all the world like the rest of the securely cemented stones that made up the smooth surface of the street.
But when the right forehoof of Sithas’s mount came to rest for a fraction of a second upon it, the treacherous stone skidded away, twisting the hoof of the charging horse. Bones snapped in the animal’s leg, and it collapsed with a shriek of pain, hurling the Speaker of the Stars from the saddle. At the same time, a full volley of steel-tipped cross-bow quarrels whistled through the air, whirring over Sithas’s head. He took no note of the missiles as he crashed headlong into the roadway. His sword blade snapped in his hand, and his face exploded in pain. Groaning, he struggled to rise.
The elves of the royal guard, seeing their ruler collapse before them and not knowing that his fall had been caused by a loose paving stone, cried out in fury and rage. They charged forward, swords raised, and began to clash with the dwarves who blocked their path. Steel rang on steel, and shouts of agony and triumph echoed from the surrounding buildings.
Sithas felt gentle hands on his shoulders. Though he could barely move, someone turned him onto his back. With a shock, the Speaker of the Stars looked up to see that the sky had become a haze of red smoke. Then a kerchief dabbed at his head and cool water washed his brow. His eyes cleared, and he saw the anxious faces of several of his veteran guards. The red haze, he realized, had been caused by the blood that still spurted from the deep gashes on his forehead and cheeks.
“The fight,” he gasped, forcing his lips and tongue to move. “How does the fight go?”
“The dwarves stand firm,” grunted an elf, cold fury apparent in his voice. Sithas recognized the fellow as Lashio, a longtime sergeant-major who had been one of his father’s guards.
“Go! I’ll be all right! Break them! They must not escape!” Lashio needed no urging. Seizing his sword, he sprang toward the melee.
“Don’t try to move, Excellency. I’ve sent for the clerics!” A nervous young trooper tried to dab at Sithas’s wounds, but the Speaker angrily brushed the fellow’s ministrations away.
Sitting up, Sithas tried to ignore the throbbing in his head. He looked at the hilt of his shattered weapon, still clutched in his bleeding hand. In fury, he tossed the ruined piece away.
“Give me your sword!” he barked at the guardsman.
“B-But, Excellency . . . please, you’re hurt!”
“Are you in the habit of disobeying orders?” Sithas snarled.
“No, sir!” The young elf bit his lip but passed his weapon, hilt first, to the Speaker of the Stars without further delay.
Unsteadily Sithas climbed to his feet. The throbbing in his head pounded into a crescendo, and he had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from crying out in pain. The din of the battle raging nearby was nothing compared to the pain inside his head.
His unfortunate horse lay beside him, moaning and kicking. From the grotesque angle of its foreleg, Sithas knew that the animal was beyond saving. Deliberately he cut its throat with the sword, watching sadly as its lifeblood spurted across the pavement, splattering his boots.
Slowly his head began to clear, as if the shock of the horse’s death penetrated the haze of his own wounds. He looked down the narrow lane and saw the mass of his royal guard, still pressing against the line of Than-Kar’s bodyguards. Sithas realized that he could do nothing in that direction. Instead, he looked up the street and saw a nearby tavern, the Thorn of the White Rose. The melee in the street raged just beyond its doors. Sithas remembered the place. It was a large establishment, with sleeping rooms and kitchen as well as the typical great room of a riverfront tavern. Instinctively he knew that it would suit his purpose.
He started to hurry toward the door, shouting to those members of his guard who were in the back of the fight, unable to reach the dwarves because of the press of their comrades and the narrow confines of the lane.
“Follow me!” he called, pushing open the door. Several dozen of his guardsmen, led by Lashio, turned to answer his call.
The startled patrons of the bar, all of whom were standing at the windows to watch the fight in the street, turned in astonishment as their blood-streaked ruler stumbled in. Sithas paid them no note, instead leading his small company past the startled bartender, through the kitchen, and out into the alley behind the place.
A lone dwarf stood several paces away, apparently guarding this route of approach. He raised his steel battle-axe and shouted a hoarse cry of alarm. It was the last sound he made as the Speaker of the Stars lunged at him, easily dodging the heavy blow of his axe to run him through.