The Kinslayer War. How many families had been divided by death or betrayal? No longer was this a war between elves and humans, if it had ever been that. The population of Silvanesti couldn’t support the level of warfare, so now, in addition to the stalwart dwarves, huge companies of human mercenaries fought alongside his Wildrunners. They were well paid for serving the elven standards.
At the same time, many elves, especially the Kagonesti, driven from the nation by the demanding decrees of the Speaker of the Stars, had fled to the human banner. Dwarves, particularly of the Theiwar and Daergar clans, had also enlisted to serve the Emperor of Ergoth.
This was a strange admixture of alliances. How often had elf slain elf, human fought human, or dwarf butchered dwarf? Each battle brought new atrocities, as likely as not visited by fighters of one race against enemies of the same background.
The war, once fought along clear and precise lines, had become an endlessly feeding monster, for the numberless enemy seemed willing to pay any price to win, and the skilled and valiant troops of Kith-Kanan purchased victory after victory on scores of battlefields with the precious coin of their own blood. Yet ultimate victory—a settlement of the war itself—remained elusive. With a sigh, Kith-Kanan rose to his feet and crossed wearily to Arcuballis. He would have to get back to the camp, he knew. The conference was due to begin in an hour. The griffon leaped into the sky while the rider mused sadly about the time when his life had been shadowed by the growth of a tree in the forest.
“We have chased the humans across the plains every summer! We kill a thousand of them, and five thousand come to take their places,” Kith-Kanan loudly complained about the frustrating cycle of events.
Sithas, Lord Quimant, and Tamanier Ambrodel had come from the capital city to attend this council. For his part, Kith-Kanan had brought Parnigar and Dunbarth Ironthumb on his journey across the plains. Other members of their respective parties—including Hermathya, Nirakina, Suzine, and Mari, Parnigar’s newest human wife—now enjoyed the shade of awnings and trees around the fringes of the great meadow where they camped.
Meanwhile, the two delegations engaged in heated discussion within an enclosed tent in the middle of the clearing. Two dozen guards stood, out of earshot, around the shelter.
The most savage of the spring storms were still some weeks away, but a steady drizzle soaked the tent and added to the gray futility of the mood.
“We crush an army in battle, and another army marches at us from another direction. They know they cannot defeat us, yet they keep trying! What kind of creatures are they? If they kill five of my Windriders at the cost of a thousand of their own soldiers, they hail it as a victory!”
Kith-Kanan shook his head, knowing that it was a human victory whenever his griffon cavalry lost even one precious body. The Windriders numbered a bare hundred and fifty stalwart veterans now, scarcely a third of their original number. There were no more griffons; to ride, nor trained elven warriors to mount them. Yet the tide of humans flowing across the plains seemed to grow thicker every year.
“What kind of beings are these that they could spill so much blood, lose so many lives, and still carry forward their war?” Sithas demanded, exasperated. Even after forty years of warfare, the Speaker of the Stars couldn’t fathom the motivations of the humans or their various allies.
“They breed like rabbits,” observed Quimant. “We have no hope of matching their numbers, and our treasury runs dry simply to maintain the troops that we have.”
“Knowing that this is true and doing something about it are two different things,” Sithas retorted.
The council lapsed into glum silence. There was a depressing familiarity to their predicament. The national attrition caused by the war had become readily apparent thirty years earlier.
“The winter, at least, has been mild,” suggested Parnigar, trying to improve their mood. “We lost very few casualties to cold or snow.”
“Yes, but in the past, such winters have given us the heaviest spring storms,” answered Kith-Kanan. “And the summers are always bloody,” he concluded.
“We could send peace feelers to the emperor,” suggested Tamanier Ambrodel. “It may be that Quivalin the Seventh is more amenable than his father or grandfather.”
Parnigar snorted. “He’s been ruler for four years. In that time, we’ve seen, if anything, an increase in the pace of Ergoth’s attacks.! They butcher their prisoners. This past summer, they began poisoning wells wherever they passed. No, Quivalin the Seventh is no peacemonger.”
“Perhaps it is not the emperor’s true will,” suggested Quimant, drawing another snort from Parnigar. “General Giarna has made an empire for himself of the battlefield. He would be reluctant to relinquish it—and what better way to sustain his power than to ensure that the war continues?”
“There is the matter of General Giarna,” grunted Dunbarth, with an uncharacteristic scowl. “He presses forward with every opportunity, more brutal than ever. I don’t think he’d desist even if given the order. War has become his life. It sustains him!”
“Surely after all these years . . .?” Tamanier wondered.
“The man doesn’t age! Our spies tell us he looks the same as he did forty years ago, and he has the vitality of a young man. His own troops hate and fear him, but there are worse ways to ensure the obedience of your subordinates.”
“We have taken the extreme step of sending assassins after him, a brigade comprised of humans and elves both.” Kith related the tale of the assassination attempt. “None survived. From what we have pieced together, they reached Giarna in his tent. His personal security seemed lax. They attacked with daggers and swords but couldn’t even injure him.”
“Surely that’s an exaggeration,” suggested his brother. “If they got that close, how could they not have been successful?”
“General Giarna has survived before, under circumstances where I would have expected him to die. He has been showered with arrows. Though his horse may be slain beneath him, he gets away on foot. He has fought his way out of deadly ambushes, leaving dozens of dead Wildrunners behind him.”
“Something unnatural is at work there,” pronounced Quimant. “It’s dangerous to think of peace with such a creature.”
“It is dangerous to fight such a creature as well,” remarked Parnigar pointedly. Quimant understood the intent of the remark. Parnigar had done nearly a half century of fighting, after all, while Quimant’s family had spent those years raking in a fortune in munitions profits. But the lord coolly ignored the warrior’s provocation.
“We cannot talk of peace, yet,” emphasized Sithas. He turned to his brother.
“We need something that will allow us to bargain from a position of strength.”
“Do you mean to suggest that you’d be willing to bargain?” asked Kith-Kanan, surprised.
Sithas sighed. “You’re right. You’ve all been right, but for years, I’ve refused to believe you. But it has begun to seem inconceivable that we can win a complete victory over the humans. And we cannot maintain this costly war forever!”
“I must inform you,” interjected Dunbarth, clearing his throat. “Though I have stalled my king for several years now, his patience will not last forever. Already many dwarves are agitating for us to return home. You must realize that King Pandelthain is not so suspicious of humans as was King Hal-Waith.” And you, old friend—you deserve the chance to go home, to rest and retire. Kith-Kanan kept that thought to himself. Nevertheless, the changes wrought by age in Dunbarth were more apparent than any that were manifest in the elves. The dwarf’s beard and hair were the color of silver. His once husky shoulders had a frail look to them, as if his body was a mere shell of its former self. The skin of his face was mottled and wrinkled.