The Coming Storm (10 page)

Manticores, they learned, hunted in prides much like some desert cats. The one they’d first seen had likely been a solitary young male, if they held true to that comparison.

All were far out of their normal ranges and too many in number.

A firbolg come down from the high ranges you would see once or twice a year, perhaps, after a hard winter. Young boggins and boggarts weren’t uncommon and the reason for the Hunters, most often. The smart ones learned their lesson and fled back to the borderlands screaming their frustration and defiance. Stupid ones died. Kobolds came once a season, maybe. Ogres and trolls once or so every few years. As for goblins, this wasn’t their territory so much as north and east but every few years a new leader would come along and gather them all up for a raid. It would take a small army of Hunters to rout them and send them running back to their own lands again. Never without there being wounded on both sides. Thankfully, they’d seen no trolls yet, nor goblins. So few in number, he and his small party would never have stood a chance against them, not with men in their party.

It was enough and more than enough, both north and south. Time to go home, to return to Aerilann.
It was the how that was difficult
, he thought, as he brooded beneath the overhang and stared out into the night. Somewhere not far enough away something screamed at the darkness.

They’d run across a trail of a number of orcs running before them.

Behind, of course and in both other directions, was more of the same.

The orcs, those monstrous, bear-like things with their oddly hinged jaws were more than his small party could face, particularly Iric and Mortan. Despite their protest, he and the two other elves had taken their watch this night. In the end, both men had to admit they were too weary to be useful. What tricks men used to stay alert had long since worn off. They were completely exhausted and both now slept deeply.

Alic gestured a warning and Colath tensed.

They’d had many nights like these, startled into alertness by some sign or strange noise. Once they’d had to kill a basilisk looking for a temporary den. Alic had been caught and frozen, to his shame, before the glare in those eyes.

That was the basilisk’s magic, their method for capturing their prey.

No shame to him, though, as basilisks here were as common as salamanders – that is, not common at all. They were southeastern creatures.

Then Colath caught the scent of what alarmed Alic, a faint stinging in his nostrils. A boggart or boggarts and near. He nudged Jalila gently. She rolled over, instantly aware and awake.

The two men were so deeply asleep they dared not nudge them to consciousness for fear they would cry out. As cruel as it was, it was still much better to press a hand over their mouths and frighten them awake than it was to risk an outcry. He nodded to Jalila to wake Iric, while he went to Mortan.

Mortan bucked beneath his hand but then his eyes opened enough to see Colath’s face in the dim glow cast by elf-light. Abruptly, he subsided but he looked more alert than he had in several days, the little bit of sleep and fright charging him with energy. It wouldn’t last, Colath knew, beyond a few hours. He hoped it would be enough.

Tapping his sword, he drew it, so the two men could see it. Nodding, they drew their own.

With a quick gesture, he sent Jalila and her bow to the back of the tumble of rocks that arched around them. Sheltered there beneath the overhang, she had a good defensive position from which to shoot and to guard the horses. Although Elves could and did run for miles, the men couldn’t and Colath didn’t want to think of any of them afoot in this country.

Alic stood with Iric on one side of the entry, he and Mortan at the other.

They waited.

There was little else to do. Boggarts were dark-skinned and stealthy, to venture out was to risk themselves foolishly.

A tumble of wood stood where the rocks ended but Colath hesitated to light it.

Once lit, it would be a beacon for any other creatures that prowled the night. He hadn’t lit it earlier for fear the smell of smoke would draw more than repel. Most of these creatures hated and feared fire but they also seemed to know that where there was fire there were men and Elves. He hadn’t wanted to invite attention.

If the boggart or boggarts attacked, they might have no choice, depending on how it went. It was unlikely to go well or unnoticed. Typically, boggarts screamed when they attacked, an unnerving shriek that was intended to shatter the nerves of its prey if they were unwary enough to be caught off guard. That shriek alone would often send prey flying from cover. Colath hoped he wouldn’t hear it. If he did, they were in serious trouble. While not as thick-skinned as the manticore, their skin was thick enough to keep an arrow from driving too deeply if the shot was off a hair. The swords of men could glance off if their aim wasn’t true, for that Elven steel worked better. Add long arms, sharp claws and wicked teeth and you had a formidable opponent even for Elves.

If it came to a real fight, they would have to run. At night, as dangerous as that was. There was no choice. The sounds of battle would carry. Like the salamander they’d watched, there would be those who would be drawn to the noise for a chance at the offal.

Orcs didn’t see well at night, unlike boggarts. With luck they would like not stir and the party might get past them.

An unearthly shriek rang out.

Instinct warned him.

He flung himself to one side as a boggart leaped from above, one long arm narrowly missing his head. An arrow from Jalila’s bow flashed by to bury itself in one massively muscled boggart thigh as the thing rolled to its feet and spun.

It roared in fury and charged, long arms reaching. The horses tried to scatter, blocking Jalila’s next arrow, kicking to defend themselves instinctively. Alic swung true, opening a gash along the thing’s side but taking a brutal backhand that flung him against the rocks as Iric hacked wildly, trying to drive it off. One of the horses screamed as Colath leaped forward to drive his sword straight and true into the boggart’s side as Jalila threw her shoulder against a horse to push it out of her way.

Free, she had an arrow nocked as Colath and Mortan fenced with another boggart that leaped over the rocks at the entry, ducking and dodging the reach of the claws at the end of the long arms. It shrieked again as Jalila let fly. Flinging himself forward, Alic threw himself back in the fray, although his face streamed blood. The scent of it maddened the boggart, who turned on Alic. Jalila’s next arrow buried itself in the boggart’s back, piercing deeply – nearly half the length of the shaft, as two more scrambled over the rocks.

Steel rained down on the things as they held them to the center of the ring of stone. Scores of wounds were opened on the creatures. Colath saw an opening and took it when one reached for Alic for the blood on him, exposing its vulnerable underbelly just long enough for him to drive his sword up into it. He dove out of the way of a massive backswing of an arm, claws slashing through the spot he’d just occupied closely enough to snag his shirt. There was no pain. Not at the moment.

It screamed its defiance, raising its face to the sky.

“Light the fire,” Colath shouted.

Startled, Mortan stared, then ran to kneel by the pyre and set flint to steel, sparks flying. The tinder caught and flared.

Another arrow and the other boggart fell.

“Jalila, stay alert.”

She nodded sharply and stepped away from the horses to get a better view. Iric’s mount was scored, long gashes running along one leg. The tendons in that leg were gone. It would never run. With a flash of his blade, Colath ended its life. Elven cull it might be but he wouldn’t leave it to the savagery of the creatures here. Dead, it could suffer no more miseries and might buy them some time.

“Iric,” he said, “you ride with Jalila.”

Both were smaller and light, not so much weight as putting Mortan up behind her. Her horse could carry both, although not for as long.

“When we go, grab a torch from the fire and ride hard,” he said and swung up onto Chai’s back.

His bow would be of little use. Even with Elven-sight he couldn’t see far and clearly enough to make his shot count sure. It was sword work or nothing and hope  your sword was long enough.

Alic leaped for his horse with Mortan shadowing him to his own mount. Once she was sure they were set, Jalila swung up on hers and reached for Iric.

Dropping Chai’s reins, Colath let the horse have her head, leaning down swiftly to snatch up a burning brand as he went by the fire and sweeping it alongside to drive off any boggarts before righting himself and leaning into the race.

Chai took up the challenge, living up to her name. She was swift, leaping forward to clear the rocks completely and racing into the night.

The others were behind him, flames streaming from the torches. Fire wouldn’t matter in the mad charge except light and as a weapon. He sent an elf-light ahead of them to give the horse light enough to see.

Dawn was too far off, the first dim promise of it nearly an hour away.

“At all and any cost one of us must make it to Aerilann,” he called to the others.

Somehow.

Somehow all of them would if he had any say in it.

The chancellor stood waiting, eyeing Daran High King, Lord of all Men. A man of severe and harsh mien, his graying dark hair was brushed back from his forehead and held in place by his workaday crown of state. It was a far less elaborate version of the heavily jeweled one he wore in Council, Court or when passing Judgment. This one was lighter, adorned only by three slightly thicker ridges of gold, to mark his status as First of the Three. In profile Daran was a hawkish man, his deep-lidded eyes offset by the high bridge of his long nose. The light wasn’t kind to him, deepening the marks and scars on his face caused by a bout of the pox when he’d been a boy.

It had been a chastening lesson, humbling even him.

A small group of men, the masters of the treasury, stood at one end of the room, waiting to give their accounting.

The chancellor had already given his and awaited the decision.

“King Olend, was it?” Daran asked.

One of the lesser Kings, Olend ruled the independent monarchy of Marakis to the east, near the deep deserts.

The chancellor nodded. Daran knew, he was merely repeating the information, considering the request, the political ramifications and benefits.

It was the first such appeal, although Daran had reports that indicated  it wasn’t likely to be last or the only one. Apparently it was a very active time along some parts of the borderlands. Perhaps it was the mild winter, allowing passage and more freedom for some of the less savory denizens of that place. It didn’t matter. If he answered this request, there would be more.

He glanced at the waiting masters of the treasury. They would tell him, he was certain, that the funds didn’t exist. They would, however, find the necessary resources if he demanded it. He wouldn’t. It was the responsibility of each lesser King to find the coin for such protection. Within their kingdoms, they were the sole authority save for him. Moreso Marakis.

To him fell other responsibilities. For his own people, he stood in judgment over the lesser Kings, settling the disputes that inevitably rose among them and making sure they ruled fairly. Rarely did he interfere, although he would and had suggested or cautioned. Occasionally – as in the setting of the boundaries – he would step in to prevent a dispute. As High King, he also maintained the armies, such as they were. It had been so long since there was a war that only the Navy still had a real purpose, defending the coast against pirates – thieves and murderers who’d escaped punishment by fleeing to sea. Enacting the edicts of the Council and sitting among the Three to set those edicts. Delegates from the three races sat on the Council and the Three listened to them before they rendered a decision that affected all.

He also maintained this city, Doncerric, the King’s City, and all who lived within it.

Therein lay the problem.

It was also the seat of the Council, both High and Low, where the Council Chambers stood.

Although all three races had in the end agreed that a council was necessary – ten years of hard work and seemingly endless negotiations – neither of the other two had wanted to host it. Nor would the Dwarves have suffered to have the Elves do it. The bitter envy those people had for their fairer cousins wouldn’t tolerate any favor shown to Elves above their own race.