“What are you talking about—dragonarmies? It’s not possible! Who told you this, and where are they supposedly attacking?”
“They have swept southward from Solamnia and crossed the Newsea. Already they have struck the outposts on the borders!” continued the servant, his eyes wide. “Oh, lord, there is no stopping them! We’re all going to die!”
Gilthas was sliding into his boots, shrugging his robe over his shoulders. Once more he looked out the window. His house—the official dwelling of the Speaker of the Sun—was located directly beside the Tower of the Sun, and that lofty spire blocked his view to the northeast, but even so, he assumed he would see some sign of trouble if there was in fact an invasion occurring.
Still, he couldn’t suppress a sense of alarm as he left his house and started across the wide garden leading to the tower. He noticed other nobles gathering, a strange urgency gripping the city, considering that it was the middle of the night. They came from all directions, silent, exchanging worried glances and frightened looks. Gilthas felt a flash of worry, a thought of his mother and father in their house so far to the north. If war came, they were sure to be in the middle of it—and he couldn’t help feeling that he should be with them to offer whatever help and comfort he could.
At the base of the tower, he found Rashas, and Guilderhand as well. The nobles and senators filed into the chamber with unseemly haste. Torches and magical lanterns lit the great council hall at the base of the tower, light reflected and magnified by the burnished gold of the walls and the numerous mirrors set into alcoves. The gathering was a startling and motley collection. Some of the elders were barefoot, while others were wearing wrinkled or even dirty robes.
Voices rattled and screeched as rumors were exchanged, questions asked, fears aired.
“What’s going on?” one matron was demanding of anyone and everyone within earshot.
“I heard Haven is burning!” a well-fed merchant declared, wiping sweat from his brow and staring wildly around the chamber.
“An army—blue-skinned troops, big as ogres—crossed the border this evening!” This came from an orange grower who owned many groves.
And more cries chimed in, universal in their notes of hysteria and certainty:
“They fly the banner of the Dark Queen!”
“Their general rides a blue dragon!”
“Thousands of troops... they butcher anyone in their path!”
Gilthas climbed the steps to the rostrum and glanced over a sea of anxious faces. Elves looked from him to Rashas and back again. They both raised their hands to try to quiet the crowd, but the gesture had little effect in damming the stream of frightened words.
The Speaker shouted, somehow finding the depth to roar his voice across the chamber. “Elves of Qualinesti! Gather and attend! We need to learn what’s happening, not stampede under an avalanche of rumors!”
The elves grew still, nervously looking back and forth. There remained a dull rumble of whispers, but this was mainly due to hasty explanations passed to the new arrivals who kept filtering through the partially opened doors. Gilthas noted the presence of even some of the youngsters who had typically avoided the meetings of the Thalas-Enthia, radicals such as Quaralan, a young captain of archers who had held his seat in the senate for only a few years, and Anthelia, mistress of a clan of prominent artists and glassmakers. These two now looked just as afraid as everyone else.
“Is there anyone here who has seen these invaders?”
“I have!” a voice shot through the circular chamber. Guilderhand had spoken loudly. He stood near the back, and now he held up both hands in a gesture that was both contemptuous and soothing.
“Please give us your testimony,” Gilthas said quickly.
The spy was dressed in his usual traveling garb, right down to the muddy boots and stained, torn cloak. Still, he strode up the steps of the rostrum as if he belonged there as much as the highest noble. He turned to the crowd, and with a sweeping gesture of his hands, drew the attention of every elf to himself.
“I am sorry to report that the rumors are true, right down to the worst of the tales. The war in the north, about which we have heard fleeting reports, has swept southward to draw Qualinesti into its tendrils. Right now there is a force approaching our fair city, an unstoppable army of brutish warriors, Dark Knights, and blue dragons. They breached the borders of our realm during the night and march with remarkable haste.”
Gilthas drew a deep breath, trying to absorb this incomprehensible news. “What do you know of their numbers... of the makeup of the force?”
“Their legions are huge, my lord Speaker,” replied Guilderhand with a bow that somehow seemed like a mockery. “They filed past me on the Haven road for many hours, and still I could not see the end of the column. As to the warriors that make up the bulk of the force, they are like nothing I have ever seen. Huge, blue-skinned, and all but naked, they march toward battle with jeers and laughs. Truly, they seem monstrously cruel.”
“And the knights and dragons?”
“With my own eyes, I saw twoscore dragons take wing and fly back and forth over the army on the ground. All were blues, and each was ridden by an armored warrior. They flew with discipline, these wyrms, and seemed ever watchful and vigilant.
“As to the knights on the ground, these might have been armed and armored from Solamnia, so like those human warriors did they seem, save that they ride under the banner of the Dark Queen.”
The mention of that hateful goddess brought another bubbling of concern through the chamber, and like a master speaker Guilderhand waited for the whispering to die down.
“They rode in companies. I saw ten companies of forty or fifty knights each. All wore heavy armor, and their horses were huge, monstrous creatures that could crush an elf with one hoof. Many of the knights were lancers, while others had great swords and shields. From the order of their road march, I deduce that they would have no difficulty launching a precise charge. They could ride down any rank of warriors who dared to stand in their path.”
“And they are now in the kingdom, on the roads to Qualinost?” Gilthas pressed, his heart sinking at the thought of such an onslaught.
“I predict that by tomorrow they will reach the bridges leading to the city itself. I have also heard rumors, tales claiming that more of these invaders have entered the western parts of the realm. Naturally we have not been able to confirm those tales.”
“Of course not,” the speaker agreed dejectedly. Oh, why had the griffons abandoned them? If the elves had the services of those once loyal fliers, he knew that at least they’d be able to get word back and forth through the kingdom. As it was, they were feeling their way blindly, could only hope that they acted before it was too late.
“Were you observed?” asked the young senator Quaralan, speaking to Guilderhand. “Did you spy on the army from concealment or move about in disguise?”
“Oh, great lord, it was a harrowing time,” replied the spy. “I tried to hide myself in the undergrowth, where I watched the army pass for some time. Ultimately I was observed and captured by the blue warriors—brutes, they were called. Much to my horror, they took me to see the general commanding this army!”
Cries of horror and sympathy rose from the elven crowd, but Guilderhand raised his hands again, gesturing for silence, for calm.
“Shortly before I was to enter his presence, they held me near a wagon of the Dark Knight sorcerers—Knights of the Thorn, they are, and they wear robes of gray.” The spy held up his hand, in which he gripped a ring of bright gold. “It was from there that I made my escape, stealing this ring of powerful magic. It gave me the power to teleport away, and so I made my way back here. If not, I would certainly have been put to death!”