Kerianseray had yet to return from the camp of Porthios. Two days after his own arrival, the young elf had seen no sign of her, nor did any of his other servants admit to any knowledge of her whereabouts. Even when the workload was filling his head with facts and figures, he found his mind drifting away, occupied by concern for the beautiful wild elf slave who had risked so much for him.
Until he awakened in his house, the third day after his return from the forest, and was delighted to see Kerian enter his sleeping chamber to bring him his day’s garments.
“I-I’m glad to see you!” he blurted. “I was afraid for you. I didn’t know if you were safe.”
“I stayed with my father and his tribe for a day. Last night I flew on the back of a griffon to the city. The elves are preparing to move again, for they feared that Guilderhand might have revealed their position—and I feared that you might have met difficulties when you got back here.”
Gilthas quickly described the events following his return. “Thank you for taking me to Porthios... and for coming back to me.”
“As you can see,” she replied in a level tone, “I have willingly returned to slavery.”
He flushed and shook his head. “No... you have your freedom. You shall do what you want with your life.” His heart pounded, and he watched her carefully, wondering if she would immediately start for the door.
“Then I will stay here,” she said simply. “Where I am needed, and where I can do some good.”
She came to him and he reached out to her. This time their lovemaking was a slow process. Exploring and touching and teasing each other, they merged into a singleness that seemed to represent utter perfection. It was a long time before the Speaker of the Sun got out of bed.
Finally, refreshed and more invigorated than he had ever been in his life, he went to the Hall of Audience for the day’s exercises. He was pleased to see that the elven recruits were learning to follow simple commands, to march, to wheel in response to an order. Gilthas, too, found himself feeling more and more comfortable with a blade in his hand. As he had previously, he joined in the drills and began to learn the rudiments of handling his weapon, the long sword he had removed from the wall in his house on the night when he had gone to seek Guilderhand.
Fennalt, for his part, had expressed appreciation bordering upon awe for the ancient long sword and had willingly showed the Speaker the proper techniques for wielding the light, supple blade for defense and attack. Like Gilthas, many of the recruits were armed with swords and often shields, while others bore spears, and of course many were skilled with the longbow that was such a staple of the elven armory. A few trained on horseback, though the vast majority worked as infantry.
Lord Salladac had gone back to his camp outside the city, where he was organizing the remnant of his army—the troops that were left after so many had been called away to campaigns in Silvanesti or Palanthas—into light companies. The blue dragons were gone from the city, and though the Dark Knights occasionally raised a cheer or clashed in a loud combat drill, they remained outside of Qualinost. At times, Gilthas even began to convince himself that he was the ruler here, the true master of the city.
Rashas came to the practice grounds late that morning, watching the drills for a while and then gesturing to Gilthas. Leaving his troops under the care of the knight, Fennalt, the Speaker walked over to the senator.
“There has been a message from your mother,” Rashas said curtly. “The famous Lauralanthalasa of House Solostaran is on her way to Qualinesti.”
“Good,” Gilthas replied. “We must do everything in our power to make her feel welcome.” Perhaps it was the new confidence he was feeling, or else he was relishing the feel of the sword in his hand. In any event, the young ruler spoke boldly to the senator who had placed him on his throne.
“This is the city of her ancestry. Undoubtedly her return will be greeted with joy. I want you to remember that I’m bringing her here for her protection.”
“Of course. She no longer has authority over these elves, but she will be welcomed as a heroine.”
Gilthas stared into the eyes of the elven senator. “I know you think to trap my mother when she comes here. Know this, Rashas: Should you make any move to harm her, I will fight you and all you represent. You will never more have your pliable youngster sitting on the throne.”
“As you wish,” declared the senator in a tone that lacked any sense of irony, at least so far as the younger elf could hear. “She will be treated as befits a former princess and a true heroine of Krynn.”
It was shortly after the senator’s departure that the practice was disrupted by shouts of alarm, screams bordering on hysteria. Neatly trimmed ranks broke in confusion, and horses whinnied, bucking and rearing wildly. Casting weapons to the ground, many of the young elves fled, screaming, from a threat that Gilthas couldn’t see. The Speaker raced across the Hall of Audience to see Fennalt cursing, elves running in all directions.
And then a figure strode into view, swinging rock-hard fists, crushing those few elves too slow to get out of his way. Some swung their swords or stabbed with spears, but these weapons broke or bounced against the creature’s skin. With a horrid laugh, the monster came onward, and Gilthas finally got a good look.
The attacker was cloaked in the body of a tall elf, but it was distorted by burning coals of fire where his eyes should have been. His mouth stretched wide to reveal sharp fangs, and his voice was a howl that seemed to rise from the darkest depths of the Abyss. No one could stand against him, and as he stalked through the parade grounds, the Qualinost Legion could only dissolve into panic.
“Only later did we learn that the Storms of Chaos broke everywhere upon Krynn, not just in Qualinesti, but across the entire world.” Samar shook his head, grim with the memory of that horrible summer.
“Just like that?” Silvanoshei said, his voice hushed. “Creatures such as these came from the sea and the land and attacked?”
“All was under the threat of destruction,” the dragon declared seriously. “The harbingers of chaos were like nothing we had ever faced before—the dragons of pure fire, whose flesh would burn your own should the creature even fly close—”
“Or the shadow wights,” Samar agreed. “Their chill touch sucked not only the life of the victim, but all memories, all lingering effects that the slain one had left during the course of what might have been a very long life.”
“And they were led by daemon warriors,” the dragon added. “These were monsters made from the stuff of nightmares, and they appeared in the guise that would cause the most horror in their enemies.”
“All were immune to weapons?” Silvanoshei asked, confirming what he already knew.
“To all weapons except those that had been blessed by the gods,” Samar agreed, “and on this dark day, their attack was just getting started...”
Chapter Nineteen
Fall of the Thalas-Enthia
“Rally to me! Stand and fight, you blackguards!” shouted Sergeant Fennalt. The knight’s face was purple, his voice hoarse as he shouted at the fleeing elves. He swatted at his recruits with the flat of his broad blade, but the terrified warriors just broke around him and ran in panic away from the Hall of Audience.
Gilthas, too, shouted, cursed, and railed, but he was caught up in the wave of panic, running elves knocking into him, pushing, shouting, clawing at each other in mindless desperation to escape. Though he tried to push his way through the terrified recruits, the best he could do was hold his ground, watching as the human warrior faced the apparition from... from where?