"Perhaps. Meanwhile, it does not hurt that we are both fit to take our place at the head of a column of assault."
Pirvan did not quarrel with the siegecraft term. The battle for Suivinari Island felt more like the siege of Belkuthas than any other battle he had ever fought, but he was less sure about their being at the "head" of anything. To be sure, he could see no one ahead of him, which probably meant that the scouts were lost from sight in the dense foliage of the valley, or else lost to some trap of Wilthur's.
He also could see no one to his left, and precious few-too few to be properly named a "column"-to his rear. To his right stood a more solid block of fighters, mostly Vuinlod infantry, with a company of picked sell-swords just behind him. Gildas Aurhinius stood between the two bands, so that he could watch and command either, and would be ready to take over the lead if Pirvan fell.
Tarothin and Sir Niebar were also on the right, with a dozen even more carefully picked fighters, Solamnic and sea barbarian. They had not asked for this bodyguard, but Pirvan had sent it and they had not refused.
The Red Robe (actually now Sun-Bleached Pink Robe) staggered a trifle as he surmounted a sandy slope made treacherous by thorn-studded vines. The vines did not move, however, only lying in wait for the unwary to stumble and sprain or gouge themselves.
"Wilthur plays with fire, and that is not a jest," Tarothin said. He needed three breaths to get out the words. Sir Niebar, Pirvan noted, was silent, having either still less breath, more sense, or nothing to say.
"We are all in the gods' hands," Pirvan said.
"Yes, but some of us spurn those hands as a miser spurns a beggar," Tarothin replied. "Wilthur's striking at the birds seems to me to be such a spurning."
Pirvan had suspected that die birds were the gods' creation as much as the snakes were Wilthur's. He rejoiced. He would have rejoiced more if the gods' hands had been open to Niebar, Tarothin, or both, giving them at least the knowledge that they should be easy on themselves.
Niebar at least had the strength to climb in full dismounted knights' armor, but Tarothin looked hardly better than Sirbones had, the day he died. The Red Robe would never be as lean as the servant of Mishakal, being too heavy-boned for that, but there was not much of him left save skin and sinew stretched tight over those bones. His eyes seemed to have grown to twice their size, and his formerly bulbous, almost clownlike nose, was a thinning beak. As for his hair, what was left of it was as much white as gray, and only the odd strand here and there was still brown.
A horrible tearing of wood that sounded like a large ship running on a reef made Pirvan whirl. In climbing the last slope they had almost reached the point where the trail vanished into a stand of trees, fanleaf greenbarks or their near kin. They were tall as masts, either virgin timber or mature second growth.
They were also leaning toward Pirvan. Their branches writhed in a way that could have only one meaning.
As the greenbarks' roots began to pull free of the ground, Tarothin raised his staff. A wind blowing vertically down from the sky caught Pirvan, making him stagger so that he and Haimya needed to brace each other like the timbers of a doorframe. Two of the snake-eating birds plummeted from the sky, to be blown among the writhing limbs and vanish.
The wind blew on downward, stripping leaves from moving branches and still ones alike. It blew on the moving roots and the earth around them like a cold draft on a cup of hot tea. The roots now quivered instead of writhing, while the ground rose in clouds of dust that settled back into mounds as solid as sandstone.
For as far ahead as Pirvan could see, Tarothin's immobilization spell had frozen the trees against Wilthur's latest effort to turn them into lethal weapons.
Pirvan shouted off toward the left, to rally the unseen and (he hoped) unscathed fighters there. He shouted to Gildas Aurhinius to speed the advance. Then he turned to Sir Niebar, intending to ask him to send a guard back with a message for the remaining Solamnics to join the rush forward. They would have to put as many fighters as possible beyond the trees before Tarothin's spell wore off or Wilthur conjured some new menace.
Instead of commanding, Pirvan found himself keeping Tarothin from falling. The Red Robe had dropped his staff, and his hands shook so badly that he could barely make one last gesture at the fallen length of wood and ivory.
"There," he muttered. "Safe now. Can't leave…"
His voice trailed off into a silence that Pirvan told himself was only weakness or at worst fainting.
He told himself that as many times as he gave orders for healers, litter-bearers, and guards for his old friend and comrade. The orders, however, brought everything Pirvan wanted. The wish brought nothing, not even a blink of Tarothin's eyes.
By the time the litter-bearers shouldered their burden, Tarothin's only movement was the shallow rise and fall of his chest. A fly buzzed near to the closed, sunken eyes, and Pirvan nearly drew his sword to bat it away from the dying wizard.
"Better use for it up forward," he muttered. Then he sprang forward with such swift strides that Haimya could barely keep up and Sir Niebar quickly fell behind.
The minotaurs marched off the Green Mountain four abreast, stamping their feet to defy Wilthur's magic and also crush any stray snakes or roots in their path. They bellowed war cries and curses, they clashed shatangs and clabbards on their shields, they beat drums, blew trumpets, and played on the war pipes that Thenvor favored.
Altogether, they made such a din that Zeskuk thought the gods themselves must be stuffing hanks of wool into their ears, to keep from going deaf. No minotaur's courage needed the inspiration of this uproar, or at least no minotaur would readily admit it. All hoped that advancing into the valley in this manner would inspire even Wilthur's most potent conjurations with the urge to flee, or at least draw all of them onto the minotaurs.
Then the minotaurs would have the glory of the great killing, even if they lost the honor of first into Wilthur's lair. Zeskuk hardly cared who had which honor now, as there would likely be enough to sate a host three times the minotaurs' and humans' united strength.
Moreover, even without glory there would be the sense of a necessary work accomplished. Leaving Suivinari Island, Zeskuk realized now, had never been really an acceptable choice. Not after minotaurs had spilled as much of their blood as they had, even in the first battle.
Thenvor would have gloried in calling him a coward.
Fulvura would have questioned his wits, if not his honor or courage, and in private.
Darin had done man and minotaur alike great service, even if he had done so through listening to Lujimar's blandishments, and without considering all the possible consequences.
Zeskuk hoped that Darin would survive his grapple with Wilthur's Creation, and that he and Rynthala would have many tall sons with the knowledge of minotaur ways bred into their bones. He even allowed himself to hope that Lujimar would think again about his march to death.
But hope was all the chief could do. Against a priest determined to wash out dishonor with his blood, even the Emperor stood as much chance as a babe matched in the arena against a full-fledged warrior.
Hiding it with his body, Zeskuk made a gesture of aversion, for Darin's and Lujimar's good luck. He had just finished it when a cry rose from ahead: "We've found a cave!"
"Big enough for minotaurs!"
"It has to lead into the Smoker!"
Zeskuk hurried forward. There was no such thing as "has to" in this battle; even caves could have a mind of their own. But it was promising news, nonetheless.
The only problem was that one of the first to discover the cave seemed to have been Lujimar. At any rate, several warriors said they had seen him entering it when they arrived, and no one had seen him since. Zeskuk himself walked about half a shatang-throw into the cave. The passage twisted, turned, rose, fell, and generally behaved like a snake drunk on bad ale. But it allowed minotaurs fighting room nearly everywhere, and its general course was toward the depths of the Smoker.