The peak of his conical helmet flashed in the clean mountain sunlight. No ceremonial headpiece, Kith-Kanan’s helmet had served him all through the Kinslayer War and bore its hammered-out dents and broken rivets with pride. Mounted on his snow-white charger, the Speaker looked back over his small band of fighters, none of whom had served with him against the armies of Ergoth. He marveled at their youthful seriousness. When the young blades of Silvanesti had first gone to war against the humans, they had done so with singing and shouting and tales of valor ringing in their ears.
Every one of them imagined himself a hero in the making. But these warriors with their solemn faces—where did these pensive young elves come from?
He raised his hand and ordered Kemian to lead the warriors forward. Tamanier called out, “When will you return, Great Speaker?”
“If you do not see my face five days hence, summon all the Wildrunners,” Kith-Kanan replied. “And find Verhanna. She must know, too.”
Touching his heels to his horse’s snowy sides, Kith-Kanan cantered to the head of the double column. The old castellan watched the riders go. The constant breeze sweeping down the pass fluttered the small pennants on their lance tips. Tamanier was afraid, but he couldn’t decide whom he feared most—his own son, Prince Ulvian, or Kith-Kanan.
Leaning heavily on his staff, the castellan walked back to the camp. It was alive with the sound of saws and hammers, as the damage wrought by the golem was being speedily repaired.
The head of the pass gave onto three paths. One was the way down to Pax Tharkas; the one to Kith-Kanan’s left, north, was the route to Qualinost; and trickling off to the Speaker’s right, southward, was a narrow goat path that led to the higher reaches of the Kharolis Mountains. It was that way they must go.
“Single file. Tell the warriors,” Kith-Kanan said in quiet, clipped tones. It was strange how easily the old ways of war and campaign came back, even after a long time.
“Who shall ride point?” asked Kemian.
“I will.” The young general would have protested, but Kith-Kanan forestalled him by adding, “Drulethen and my son have had no time to set traps. Speed is the essential thing now. We must catch them before they reach the sorcerer’s stronghold.”
Kemian turned his horse around to spread the word to the others. He asked in parting, “Where is it this Drulethen is going? A castle?”
“Not exactly. It’s called Black Stone Peak. The mountaintop was once a nest of dragons, who hollowed out the spire and made a warren of caves through it. Drulethen, with the help of his dark masters, took over the empty peak and made it his stronghold. You see, many years ago, during the great war, Drulethen extracted tribute from the dwarves as well as from any caravan crossing the mountains. He used to fly out on a tame wyvern and carry off captives to his high retreat. It took a concentrated assault by the dwarves and the griffon corps to overcome him.”
“It must have been an amazing battle, sire. Why have I not heard of it? Why is it not sung?” he asked.
Unaccountably Kith-Kanan’s eyes avoided his. “It was not a proud fight,” he said, “nor an honorable one. I will say no more about it.”
Kemian saluted and rode off to give the troopers their orders. The warriors strung out in a long, single-file line. The path was so narrow the riders’ boots scraped rock on both sides as they negotiated the passage. Their lances proved troublesome in the close quarters as well. They were constantly banging against the overhanging wall of rock, making quite a clatter and bringing a barrage of pebbles down on the riders’ heads. This narrow trail persisted for some hours, until Kith-Kanan emerged from it onto a small plateau. Once hemmed in by rock, the warriors were now exposed. The plateau was turtlebacked, paved with large stones worn smooth by centuries of wind and the runoff of melting ice. The heavy cavalry horses stumbled on the rocks. Dru’s and Ulvian’s ponies were far better suited to this terrain.
A cloud passed between the sun and the valley below. They were so high up, the cloud sailed along below them. The elves admired the view, and Kith-Kanan allowed them to rest for a few minutes while he scouted ahead. Kemian turned his horse to follow the Speaker.
“Any sign, Majesty?” he asked.
“Some.” Kith-Kanan pointed to where moss had been scuffed off some stones by the hooves of ponies. “They are nearly a half day ahead of us,” he reported grimly.
Water bottles were tucked away, and the ride resumed. They crossed the plateau to a steeply climbing trail. Kith-Kanan spotted a glint of metal on the ground. He raised his hand to halt the troopers and dismounted. With his dagger tip, he fished the object out from a cleft in the rocks. It was the broken lock from Feldrin’s golden casket. A cold pressure constricted the Speaker’s heart.
“They have opened the box,” he said to Kemian. Standing, Kith-Kanan held the broken lock in his gauntleted palm and studied the surrounding slopes. “Yet there’s no sign of any magic being unleashed. Perhaps Drulethen does not possess the amulet yet.” Perhaps his son was smarter than he reckoned, Kith-Kanan silently added. The only hope Ulvian had for survival was to keep the talisman from the sorcerer’s hands. The Speaker could only pray that his son realized that. Of course, Drulethen might be in such a hurry to reach his stronghold that he simply hadn’t used the power he possessed.
The Speaker remounted and dropped the broken lock into his saddlebag. “Pass the word: Be as silent as possible. And quicken the pace.”
Kemian nodded, his blood racing. This was far more challenging than rounding up bands of scruffy slavers. The chill air seemed charged with danger. The general rode down the line, conferring with the warriors in a hushed voice. The young fighters tugged at harness straps and armor fittings, tightening everything.
Kith-Kanan remained in the lead. He shifted his sword handle forward for easier drawing. Alone among all the rest, he was armed with sword and small buckler, instead of lance and full shield. His charger took the slope easily, its powerful legs propelling horse and rider up the hill. The warriors followed, but it was a slow process going up so steep a grade in single file. The column strung out until a half-mile separated Kith-Kanan and the last rider.
A covey of black birds started up in front of Kith-Kanan’s horse. The animal snorted and tried to rear, but the Speaker’s strong hands on his reins brought him down. With soothing pats and almost inaudible words, Kith-Kanan calmed his nervous mount. The black birds circled overhead, twittering. Staring up at the ebony whirlwind, Kith-Kanan experienced a sudden flash of memory, of a time long ago when crows had watched him as he struggled to find his way through a deep and mysterious forest. They had led him to the boy, Mackeli, who in turn had brought him to Anaya.
A shout from behind snapped Kith-Kanan’s head around. One of the warriors had seen something. He twisted his horse around in time to see the elf lower his lance and charge into a small passage Kith-Kanan had passed a hundred paces back down the trail. There was a fearful scream. The nearest warriors crowded into the passage. Kith-Kanan rode hard down the slope, shouting at them to clear the way.
Just before he reached the mouth of the side ravine, the warriors sprang apart, some losing their lances in the process. A dark brown form hurtled by, veered between the tall chargers, and bolted down the trail. Seconds later, a sheepish-looking warrior appeared, unharmed, from the narrow passage.
“Your Majesty,” said the elf, scarlet to his ear tips. “Forgive me. It was a stray pony.”
The warriors, keyed up for a fight or to face some unknown horror, began to chuckle. The chuckles grew into guffaws.
“Brave fellow!” “How big was the pony’s sword?” “Did he kick you with his little hooves?” they gibed. Kith-Kanan called them down, and they rapidly fell silent. The Speaker glared at them.