“No!” cried Rashas, who had been cowering behind the wall nearby. “You’re mad! You’ll let those shadows in here—they’ll kill us all!”
“Get out of the way,” growled the Speaker. “We’ve got to get the knights in here. Together, we have a chance!”
“Don’t listen to him!” cried Rashas, throwing himself against the elves who were beginning to unbar the gate.
Gilthas roughly pushed the senator out of the way, and the gates swung open. A surge of willing elves charged with the Speaker into the street, and the wailing Rashas was borne along in the front of the rank.
“Stop!” he screamed. “Let me go!” Desperately Rashas squirmed to the side, finally tumbling free from the press of attacking elves. Almost immediately a shadow loomed right behind him, dark tendrils extended.
“Look out!” cried Gilthas, horrified at the soulless, fleshless apparition that seemed to rise higher than the gibbering senator’s head.
Rashas stared at the horrifying image but seemed unable to move his feet. Gilthas reached out and grabbed the senator by the shoulder, pulling him away from the shadow. Another elf, one of those armed with a dragonlance, stabbed with his weapon, and the black shape dissolved into tattered remnants of darkness.
Stumbling away from the rank of attacking elves, Rashas looked at Gilthas with wide, staring eyes. Abruptly he turned and raced away, running along the wall of the courtyard—outside the barrier that was protecting the rest of the elves.
The fire dragon had been circling overhead, and this lone elf created a tempting target. With a shriek of triumph, the creature tucked its wings and dived, leaving a cloud of sparks trailing through the air.
Rashas heard the serpent’s bellow and looked up, his mouth jabbering soundlessly. The senator fell to the ground and tried to claw his way through the quartz paving stones along the road. The flaming dragon fell on him, crouching firmly on the writhing elf, and Rashas’s screams rose to a fevered pitch before abruptly ceasing.
“Kill that dragon!” shouted Gilthas, perversely enraged by the sight of the serpent’s triumphant bellow. With the lancer beside him, he rushed forward, and the twin weapons slashed into the blazing flesh. With a writhing lash of its fiery tail, the wyrm toppled over and thrashed its last.
Only then did Gilthas notice that the knights had fought their way out of the intersection and were charging toward the elves. The vanguard of the Qualinesti stood aside, fighting as a rear guard as Salladac’s men spilled through the gates.
Finally the elves, too, fell back, and once again the gates were closed and barred.
“Good work,” declared the Dark Knight lord, gasping for breath and wiping the soot from his brow. “I thought we were lost out there.”
“What’s the use?” growled Gilthas, still horrified by the gruesome end of the man who had brought him to Qualinesti. He had hated Rashas on some level, but in another sense, the elder senator’s demise was profoundly unsettling. “We’re trapped in here. It just might take a little longer to reach the end.”
“Then at least we can die with honor,” declared Lord Salladac.
Great swaths of the forests were burned and blackened, with destruction spreading to the far horizon. The vast formation of griffons, dragons, and elves flew above tortured, blistered landscapes, often veering away from the plumes of smoke rising from the still-smoldering ground. In other places, trees had been felled as if by an angry giant, a great swath of shattered timber that had been plowed through the woods by a force of unimaginable and unspeakably chaotic power.
Scouts on griffon-back reported that the shadowy attackers at the base of Splintered Rock were not pursuing. Even so, Porthios maintained the vigorous speed of his flight. He felt a deep, fundamental fear for his land, even for the city elves who had branded him an outlaw.
Alhana, still bearing Silvanoshei in his tai-thall, flew beside him, her face an image of taciturn strength and desperate determination. Every time he looked at her, Porthios felt his heart breaking as guilt assailed him with the knowledge of the trials his wife and child were subjected to. Samar flew just beyond, his silver-tipped lance extended.
Porthios used his knees to guide Stallyar over, until the silver-feathered griffon flew right beside the warrior-mage. The prince looked over his shoulder, saw that Alhana was some distance away, and spoke to his old comrade in a low voice.
“My friend, I want to talk to you before this battle.”
“Speak, my prince,” Samar replied, raising an eyebrow in surprise but keeping his own voice quiet as well.
“If this fight goes wrong—for me, that is—if I am lost, I want you to pledge your protection to your queen. Please protect her with all the loyalty you have displayed through the years—and please extend that loyalty and protection to my son as well.”
Samar’s eyes widened, but he quickly nodded. “Aye, my prince. You have my pledge.”
Porthios rode along in silence, wrestling with the rest of what he wanted to say. Finally he cleared his throat. “It may be that I have been unfair to you... that I have allowed unworthy suspicions to color my feelings and my actions. If so, I am sorry. I know that your affection for my wife has been noble and pure.”
Now it was Samar’s turn to be flustered. He looked down at his saddle, then back to Porthios. “I told you once that before you came to Silvanesti I think I was a little bit in love with her. Perhaps that has not changed in all these years.”
The prince nodded. “Even so, I know that your actions have always been those of an honorable man.”
“You are correct, my lord, and I thank you for your trust.”
“You are worth far more,” Porthios replied, once more clearing his throat awkwardly. “Now let us go to war.”
Finally they reached Qualinost, and they found the city all but engulfed in flames. Columns of smoke rose into the sky from many places, and the skyline of the elven metropolis had been altered almost beyond recognition. Many of the silver and marble towers had been felled, and the bridges that had flanked the edges of the city now lay as twisted wreckage in the deep ravines.
At least the Tower of the Sun still stood, though several fires burned nearby. Sounds of battle rang throughout the city, and with frantic haste, the elves of the outlaw force soared over the deep ravines, winging into the polluted air over the city.
“There!” cried Dallatar, pointing toward a cluster of walled courtyards near the city’s fringe. They saw a battle raging, with elves trapped in the crude fortifications while shadows seethed outside and fire dragons surged through the air overhead.
Porthios led Stallyar and the other griffon riders through the air. The formation, bright with white wings, spread across the sky, angling downward into the besieged city.
“Look, we have new hope!” cried Kerian, seizing Gilthas by the arm and pointing upward.
He gaped as the sky overhead filled with griffons, many of them ridden by elves. The fliers soared into battle, slashing through the fire dragons. One of the elves bore a dragonlance, and with the silver-tipped weapon, he speared one of the flaming serpents, ripping the creature into two pieces.
Then there were more dragons there, wyrms of white and green diving from the clouds, rending the fire dragons with breath of lethal frost and thick, toxic clouds of emerald smoke. These serpents roared and attacked in vengeful fury, diving into the aerial melee without hesitation.
Other griffons came to rest within the walls of the courtyard. Elves, including many Kagonesti, dismounted from them. Another flier came to rest nearby, and Gilthas saw a familiar figure on the creature’s back.