The Coming Storm (11 page)

The Elves, on the other hand, hadn’t seen it as a favor either.

Most of them, anyway.

They wouldn’t tolerate the other races in their precious Enclaves, either, which were damn near sacrosanct and holy to them. Even he hadn’t been in one of those fantastic places, only on the outskirts. Seeing one, he’d understood the enchantment some of his people felt for the lands of those haughty people. High King of all Men he might be, to the Elves he was nothing more than another First among equals. It grated on him somewhat to be addressed the way they addressed any other but he swallowed it in the face of the greater need.

It had fallen therefore to Doncerric to play host to the Council.

A proper place had to be chosen.

Elon’s decision.

Elon of Aerilann, an Elf.

His reluctant ally, most of the time where it regarded the Alliance, and his occasional adversary, where Daran’s own people were concerned.

Elon had already known the place he would choose. It was on the second level, below the High King’s castle. It commanded a view over the plain there and the lands that rose and spread out beyond it.

The Kingdoms.

That place, Elon had said, so those who governed should all remember who they ruled, what they ruled and that they ruled for all and not just some.

Thus, the Chambers had been built. The Dwarves had contributed their Builders, the stone, gold and their skill with iron.

Elon had designed the Chambers themselves, while others contributed to the Council Building.

As with all things Elven, the Chambers were a perfect balance of purpose and art.

With Elves even the simplest things like a belt-knife were crafted with the finest skill and exquisite form.

A cloak pin wasn’t a simple clasp but was wrought into intricate and elaborate shapes. Expert warriors gifted with sword and bow could also play a lute with mastery.

As with many things Elven, Elon had had much to do with all of it, making suggestions, giving advice and smoothing the tensions between the three races.

Elon, both blessing in disguise and thorn in his side.

Elon, who had negotiated with the Dwarves to build the Chambers and the Council building with their magic, some help from the wizards, and the labor of men.

So the Chambers and Council were complete.

That last only a few years ago, in fact.

Daran’s crowning glory.

The houses there had had to be purchased from their current owners, lest it create discontent, the land leveled and made ready. All that fell to men. It had been costly but not that costly. Those funds had come from the Treasury.

If he acceded to this demand of Olend’s, it wouldn’t be the last such request, the last such drain on the treasury. The others would expect the same. It would also set a bad precedent. He wouldn’t allow the lesser Kings to think the Treasury would be their insurance against poor planning and lack of prudence. Once that began the Treasury would be hostage to every disaster, from floods to famine.

In the end, he shook his head.

“Send to Olend. Remind him that such things fall within his purview, not Ours. Tell him that if the situation is so dire he can’t handle it himself perhaps I should send the army. They need the practice.”

They did, spending most of their time drilling, occasionally hunting down bandits in the hills or helping the Hunters with goblin and troll raids.

It would also be a great deal more expensive in the long run, as Daran could tell him, since a good piece of the Treasury went to maintaining it.

Hosting the army while it ran through the lands leading to the Great Desert would fall upon Olend’s people. Shepherds, goatherds and such, growers of figs and olives. Feeding the army and housing them. The rule of thirds would hold – the third best of anything the household had to offer would go to the army. The third best sheep in this example, or third best lamb or goat, cattle if they had them. A third of the food. As well, no General wished to spend his time in a tent if it wasn’t necessary. They were cold in winter and hot in summer. No, the General in question could and would requisition housing as well, for him and his lieutenants. Either in that King’s own castle, or from some landowner near the field of battle. Some of his Generals were accustomed to some degree of luxury, being the spare heirs – the sons and daughters of some of those self-same lesser Kings. Not all but some.

If the situation was truly so dire Daran would know soon enough. There would be another request.

He waved the chancellor away and that man went silently.

The chancellor’s own feelings on the matter were mixed. Rumors were whispered through the city that something unusual was happening in the high reaches, in the mountains along the borderlands. Nothing much yet, wild stories but they had reached his ears. It was enough to worry him.

He said nothing to the King. It wasn’t his place.

Daran turned away as soon as the man left. He scowled briefly at the masters of the treasury. Not yet.

He looked out the window to the distant rolling sea beyond.

 It was a mild day but then all days here were mild. That was why this city had been chosen. Here on this rocky cliff above the sea, rather than in the mountain fastnesses or in the depths of the heartland. In winter, travel could be difficult in those locales. This place was temperate at all times so that all could reach it. Daran missed seasons.

The eyes of the masters were on him and growing impatient, though they wouldn’t show it.

With a sigh of bitter resignation, he turned and signaled them to come.

King Olend listened to the messenger, and waved his Leaders of Hunters and Men of the Desert, as his folk called Woodsmen, to silence, before sending the young man on his way.

“The Army,” Talik said, angry and outraged. “Of what good is the army in hunting salamanders and basilisks, ogres and orcs? They have no experience with such, they’re only trained in fighting men.”

As leader of the Hunters, he had cause enough to complain. His men were tired, as were the Men of the Desert who were trying to take up the slack for them. Both were losing people now not so much to the creatures they fought but to accident and injury caused by weary men and women making mistakes. Even now one was laid up with a broken leg. Another had slipped while honing his blade and cut himself on it. That’s how tired they were.

Walking to the window, Olend looked out upon the waving palm trees, the fig and olive trees that surrounded his castle far beyond the high sandstone walls.

“It may come to that, Talik.”

“I still say, what good will they do?”

He agreed. They wouldn’t. Still, they were tired these men of his, stretched nearly to their limit.

“I’ll give you some of my Guard. While they may not be any better with basilisks and such, they’re at least familiar with them, they know how to stand watch and stay awake and how to use a sword. That may at least allow your people some little rest.”

“What else can we do?” Aron asked. His tone was bitter.

Olend shook his head. “I don’t know. We’ll try this for a time. We have little choice.”

It’s been too long, Elon thought, standing with his hands clasped behind him, his eyes on unseen mountains to the west. They should have returned long before now. His Foresight told him nothing but such gifts were chancy at best. The future was a fluid thing, ever-changing. Simply the knowing of what might be changed what would be. That was something Elves understood but men didn’t. Jareth had told him of a wizard with a similar gift, who had then spent his days in his rooms half-mad at the paradox he couldn’t resolve.

Men always thought to change or control everything about them. That wasn’t the way of Elves, who knew that change was constant and sought control over only themselves and how each reacted to those changes. Elon saw what the future might be and sought to do only what he could do to avert it, if necessary, inasmuch as he was able. His glimpses and presentiments of the future were a guide, another piece of the mosaic that was life.

There had been no word from Colath, no messenger and no sign.

When he noticed the Hunters and Woodsmen had added to the length of their patrols by extending them further west he said nothing, lending them his unspoken assent. This despite the fact that many were weary themselves already.

There had been other incidents. A basilisk several weeks ago. No one had been hurt but only because they were alert to the danger. His warning served them well. No one rode these days without arms at ready. Men kept swords in hand while Elves rode with arrows notched loosely. When both the Hunter and his horse had frozen before the basilisk’s stare, three arrows had pierced the creature before it could strike.

In another incident an ogre had tried to make a meal of a Woodsman’s horse when they made camp one night. The horse hadn’t survived and the ogre had escaped, only to be chased back north and west again by the Hunters.

That only added to his concern. Already they had more incidents in one month than would be common in several.

Jareth’s report hadn’t eased his mind.

As much as he’d welcomed Jareth’s arrival, the very fact he’d returned before Colath only reminded Elon of how long Colath and his party had been gone. Through their true-friend bond he knew Colath was hurt, alarmed and very weary.

He hadn’t called for help though.

There had been no other word.

Colath’s party had had less than a quarter of the distance to cover that Jareth had. Though they had to go stealthily and with care and he hadn’t, it still was too long. Summer had begun and they hadn’t returned.

Jareth’s report had only confirmed his growing suspicion.

They weren’t alone in this. It was happening all over. He’d sent messengers to all the Elven Enclaves, couching his words to convey concern but not alarm. Of them all only Alatheriann in the south, deep in the Heartlands, hadn’t seen an increase of borderlands incursions.

If Colath and his party didn’t return very soon, Elon would have to send folk in search of them. To do so would be to admit it didn’t bode well, that he thought they were in trouble.

Which he did and they were, as every Elf knew.

He knew Colath, his true-friend, bore wounds across his ribs and back.

It pained him as well and to know Colath was hurt pained him even more.

Something had happened. Why hadn’t Colath sent for aid?

Another consideration weighed on him as well. To one side of his mind was the presentiment that time grew short. In what way he didn’t know. Yet. The sense of time running out, though, urged him to take action, but not what action to take.

Jareth’s information only made it that much more urgent.

Something was missing, some vital piece of this odd mosaic, knowledge, and something else that was crucial to their success. If he didn’t move and soon, that critical moment might be lost.

From his perch on the edge of the veranda, with his back against the stones of the wall, Jareth watched Elon fret.

Not that there was much to watch.

Elon stood with hands clasped behind him, as still as a statue. For an Elf, it spoke volumes about his concern. Men would pace, wasting energy to no purpose. An Elf wouldn’t. They were still, conserving energy.

It was no use to reassure him as Jareth would have a man. Elon well knew Colath was capable and didn’t need another to remind him of it. In fact, it might have irritated him – as much as he would allow it to show. Nor would he offer Elon hopeful words as men did to each other, for it was meaningless if disaster had occurred.

Jareth was well used to Elven silences. They weren’t a people for small talk. The weather was the weather, whether it rained or the sun shone wasn’t a topic for conversation. If it was raining, you went somewhere dry. If not, you were wet. Within the Enclave if it rained it made music. The interlacing of boughs and vines didn’t allow much through but where it did it pattered musically on the curved wooden shingles of the roofs, or slid through thatch to drip through chimes and bells.

Since he wasn’t much of one for idle conversation either, preferring to speak for a purpose or not at all, it suited him well enough. He lacked Elon’s eloquence, his facility with words whether in Elven or the mannish tongues.

It chafed at him, this waiting. The worrying.

Colath was a good friend and Jareth feared for him. He knew why Elon waited. Colath hadn’t asked for aid through their bond. The true-friend bond. Jareth understood what that bond was only a little.

It wasn’t mind magic but some greater form of the empathy that all Elves shared.

Bond or no bond he didn’t know how Elon could stand it. More so because in many ways Colath was Elon’s good right arm and trusted aide. He’d been such for as long as Jareth had known them, Colath a bright shadow to Elon’s darkness.

A runner came at speed along the trail. “They come, Elon. There are injured. I’m to fetch the Healers.”

Elon glanced back at Jareth and they both took off at a run as the other Elf raced to find the Healers.

Injured? More than just Colath? Why hadn’t he summoned help?

The question was in both their minds.

If it had been a long run Jareth couldn’t have kept up with Elon’s long fluid strides but from the center of the vale to the border wasn’t that great a distance.

They arrived as the first of the riders emerged from the Veil, that mist that shielded and concealed an Enclave. Natural creatures could pass through it unhindered. It wasn’t unusual at all to see a small herd of deer wander through the vale without fear. Someone would chase them out or the Woodsmen would be called if they ate too much of the vegetation.

No, the mists of the Veil were a ward against the uninvited and unwelcome. They didn’t harm, they merely redirected, with the wanderer emerging unharmed where they didn’t expect to be.

Originally the Veil was a defense against the borderlands creatures. These days, as like as not, the Veil was a ward against Men.

Some among his own race were enchanted with the idea of Elves for some reason, as if they were curiosities to be examined or elevated to some higher plane of existence.

Others hated them.

A few came convinced the hot springs at the center of each Vale were fountains of youth, the source of Elven longevity, rather than the magic of the Elven constitution.

The mists deterred them all, frustrated some and sent them on their way.

To that end, a rare few of those among Men who Elves trusted were given a charm that allowed them to pass through the Veil, to come and go as they pleased. Otherwise, you had to be escorted. Jareth’s charm was a cloak pin, as many were. Something that was both useful and beautiful. Like so much of what Elves did.

The first rider to emerge from the mists of the Veil sagged in his saddle, clearly injured.

That it was an Elf was so shocking Jareth stumbled to a halt. He’d never seen a sick or injured Elf. Elves simply didn’t get sick. The same magic that made them so long-lived tended to heal them with startling speed. Jareth had known it was possible but he’d never in his lifetime seen it.

Until now.

Alic. Elon knew him immediately. Wounded. He ran across the field to meet the Hunter, taking the bridle of his clearly exhausted horse to stop it.

Raising his head was such an effort for Alic that Elon knew he was at the end of his strength.

It had been centuries as men measured such since Elon had seen such weariness in another Elf.

What had happened? It pierced him to his core. And where was Colath?

Aric’s eyes met his for a moment, struggled for clarity, and then he consigned himself to his exhaustion and slid bonelessly from the saddle, knowing he was safe.

Sending him strength through the empathic bond, Elon steadied him as the Healers surrounded them. No more than he did they show their dismay. He could practically feel the energy pour off of them as they lent Aric strength as Elon had.

Already another rider had emerged from the Veil and the horse plodded wearily across the field.

A man, slumped over his saddle and staying in it only out of sheer dogged determination.

Hunters and Woodsmen filled the field, running past him to aid the rider from his saddle.

At first the man struggled, until he realized he was among friends. Then he collapsed, as utterly and completely as Aric had.

One of the chirurgeons – the healers of men, although they had no magic – tipped a draught between the man’s lips as others lifted the limp form and hurried it away.

A mere moment behind the man was Jalila, her head held high but her lips drawn tight with pain. Her bow was still clutched tightly in her hand but her quiver was empty. She looked back over her shoulder, the motion an effort against her own injury.

Colath passed through the mists of the Veil.

He was clearly exhausted, blood visible on his side. He was the last.

There had been five.

For a moment, Elon shut his eyes against the pain of that knowledge. He was the one who had sent them out.

Then he gathered himself and moved forward.

Jalila gave him a look, tried to straighten in her saddle.

He shook his head. “I know your report is urgent but it can wait until the Healers have seen you.”

She  closed her eyes a moment and then nodded as the Healers swarmed around her. He saw it now, a deep gash running down her back.

He was already moving on to catch Chai’s bridle to bring the Colath’s battered horse to a stop.

Elon stroked her nose to calm her when she started nervously. There was a score running down one flank, shallow, another on her chest.

“You did well, little one,” he said.

The horse’s great eyes looked at him and then she lowered her head with relief, blowing.

From the saddle Colath looked at him, exhausted beyond speech, slightly bent over the wound in his side.

Shaking his head, Elon said to the unspoken question in Colath’s colorless eyes, “Later.”

With a touch on the knee, Elon sent Colath to sleep and Colath, too, slid limply out of the saddle. Elon caught him and eased him down to the ground as the Healers joined them.

“We have him, Elon,” one said.

He nodded and let them do their work.

As a Healer himself, he could have done the work but recognized there was no purpose in him doing it, no necessity. For all Colath was his true-friend, these were here for this purpose, his was to guide and command.

The field emptied quickly of all but the horses, those that tended them, and Jareth.

“He took five with him,” Elon said, looking at the four surviving horses. His responsibility.

He’d misjudged.

Badly.

Jareth waited, standing in Colath’s stead as friend. Not quite the true-friend bond but friend just the same. There to listen as needed.

That Elon wasn’t offering criticism of Colath, Jareth knew.

It was Elon’s responsibility to properly judge the danger.

Like all good leaders of good people, if there was a fault to be found it was in him, not in his people, for not reading the situation aright and preparing appropriately. He’d needed information to make that assessment.  Nor did Elon need him to remind him of all of that,  he already knew it.