Dargonesti

Paul Thompson Dargonesti

Chapter 1

A Rescue Mission

Tall columns of smoke, bent by the southern wind, rose above the thick forests at the mouth of the Greenthorn River. Even more telling than the smoke was the debris filling the river delta and the Gulf of Ergoth: wrecked wagons, burnt timbers, and the bodies of men and horses. The civil war in Ergoth was moving ever nearer this once-peaceful coast.

High up in the crow’s nest of the Qualinesti ship Evenstar, Princess Vixa Ambrodel watched with concern the evidence of distant devastation. Her uncle, Speaker of the Sun Silveran, had dispatched her to this spot on Ergoth’s southeastern shore to rescue certain important Qualinesti elves fleeing the strife in that country. For two days she and Evenstar had waited in the sunny waters of the gulf. Of Ambassador Quenavalen, his family, and his entourage, there was as yet no sign.

“How now, lady? What can you see?” called a white-haired, older elf from the deck.

“The fires are on both sides of the river,” Vixa replied, squinting her eyes against the sun’s glare.

“General Solamnus is moving fast. No sign of Quenavalen’s party I take it.”

“There’s nothing on the river but wreckage. Watch out, Colonel. I’m coming down.”

Vixa swung her mailed legs over the rope rail of the crow’s nest and climbed down the shroud lines. She jumped from the lines, dropping the final four feet to the deck. Climbing in armor was never easy, but in this heat and humidity it approached torture. Vixa was puffing with exertion.

Evenstar’s mostly human crew lolled on deck, trying to keep cool. Not so the elves in Vixa’s party, twenty hand-picked Qualinesti from the city garrison. They’d been girded for battle for two days, eating and sleeping in their armor since Evenstar had dropped anchor. They were restless, eager for action. The smoke of far-off battles drifting over the ship only heightened their anticipation.

A cluster of fishing smacks, canoes, and flat-bottomed river craft dotted the water around the Qualinesti ship. Most of these were laden with refugees fleeing the advance of the army of General Vinas Solamnus. The Imperial Army of Ergoth was in disarray, unable to offer Solamnus open resistance. Instead, they continued to retreat, harassing the enemy at every opportunity. The fires along the Greenthorn had been set by the retreating troops as they burned crops and storehouses to deny supplies to Solamnus’s men.

Every hour brought to the river mouth more wretched refugees, desperate for passage away from the fighting. Most were simple farmers or foresters who had been caught up in events. They welcomed the overthrow of their mad emperor, but no one was prepared for the cost-in homes destroyed, crops burned, and family members killed or injured-of such an uprising.

Vixa relieved Colonel Armantaro of her polished silver helmet, but did not don it. The slight breeze felt good on her face, ruffling through her short blond hair. At six feet, the princess was two inches taller than her colonel. The two stood shoulder to shoulder, scanning the distant shore. Their silent watch was interrupted by Harmanutis, corporal of the city guard, who came to Vixa and saluted.

“Lady, we would like to know, how long are we to stay here?” he asked, standing at stiff attention.

Armantaro frowned. “As long as it takes, Corporal.”

“He has a right to know,” Vixa conceded. “Corporal, if the ambassador is not here by midday, we’ll have to act.” Harmanutis saluted once more and departed to share this word with the others.

Alone with his princess, the old colonel allowed himself a slight smile. “Just what does that mean, lady?”

“I’ll let you know when I do.” A smile eased the lines of worry on her face.

To a human, Vixa would appear to be eighteen or twenty years old. But elves aged much more slowly than humans, and her actual age was sixty-five. She had served in the army of Qualinesti for six years, mainly under the tutelage of her warrior mother, Lady Verhanna Kanan, daughter of the great Kith-Kanan, first Speaker of the Sun. In spite of her proud lineage, Vixa had come up through the ranks on merit and hard work. Her mother had seen to that. This mission was her first independent command.

A commotion on shore brought everyone to the port rail. A mob of Ergothians was swarming down the banks to the water. Though burdened with rolls of clothing and valuables, they ran down the sandy slope and waded into the river. The slow and the weak fell, were trodden upon, but no one stopped to help them.

Soon the elves saw the cause of the panic. Emerging from the trees on the south bank of the river was a band of mounted humans. The men, who wore remnants of Ergothian uniforms and carried lances, swooped down on the unarmed refugees.

“Is that the army of Ergoth?” asked Vanthanoris, another of Vixa’s soldiers.

“No,” replied Armantaro. “They’re deserters-brigands-I’ll wager.”

The elves watched in mounting anger as the lancers rode down the defenseless folk, trampling them in the shallows, spearing them on the riverbank. Several of the brigands dismounted and tore through the refugees’ sad bundles. There was obviously precious little to steal.

“Scum,” Armantaro was heard to mutter. Vixa put a hand on the old warrior’s shoulder.

“You know, Colonel, those scavengers pose a grave threat to Ambassador Quenavalen’s safety,” she said slowly. “It would never do to let His Excellency or his family be inconvenienced by such as they, would it?”

Armantaro’s blue eyes widened. “No indeed, lady. It would not do at all.”

She nodded once. The colonel turned away from the rail and hailed Evenstar’s captain. “Break out your longboats, Captain Esquelamar! Soldiers, stand to arms! Leave your helms and bucklers behind. I want swords and bows only!”

Evenstar’s deck boiled with activity. Vixa set down her helmet next to her embossed shield. She stepped into her stubby recurved bow and bent it against her thigh, stringing it. By the time she had shouldered her quiver, the Qualinesti contingent was mustered in the ship’s waist. Elven sailors lowered two longboats, one on each side of the ship. Armantaro took command of one boat and ten warriors, Vixa the other.

The sea was glassy calm. Sailors bent to their oars, and the longboats soon reached the tiny island at the mouth of the Greenthorn. Some of the Ergothian refugees had sought the supposed safety of this sandy spit of land. When they beheld armed elves coming ashore, they screamed and started back into the river.

“Hold!” Vixa cried. “We’ve come to protect you!”

Warily the exhausted men and women trickled back. Armantaro asked one sturdy fellow, a blacksmith by the look of him, where he had come from.

“The village of Piney Brook, m’lord,” said the man, eyeing the colonel’s sparkling armor.

“Did you follow the river downstream?” asked Vixa.

“Aye, lady, for forty miles or more.”

“Did you see any elves along the way? Well dressed perhaps, a group of some twenty-five?”

The smith nodded. “Oh, aye. I seen folk like yourselves four or five miles back on the north bank,” he said.

“When did you see them?” Vixa pressed.

“Yesterday it was, lady.”

Just then the brigands, who had finished looting the bodies of those they’d killed on the riverbank, formed up