Drumundoon, always seeing the goblet as being half empty, always missing the silver lining behind any dark cloud. If he wasn't so good at organizing and managing, wasn't so dependable, and wasn't so impossibly loyal …
But he was, of course.
«One minute,' he called to his aide, alleviating the other's fears.
He rose, stretched to relieve cramped muscles, and stared down at the maps one final time. The whole of the Prekkendorran lay revealed in cartographic rendering, the positions of each army, Free–born and Federation, painstakingly delineated. It had taken someone a long time to do this, he thought. But it was a onetime job, since neither army had moved more than a few feet in over two years.
Until now, perhaps.
He reached for his weapons and began buckling them on. A brace of long knives went about his waist, and a short sword was strapped over one shoulder. He picked up his longbow as well, an unusual weapon for a member of the Home Guard. Their primary duty was to defend the King, which more often than not entailed hand–to–hand combat. But Pied favored the longbow, a weapon both versatile and reliable. Like most members of the Elven army, he had done a tour of duty on the Prekkendorran, serving as an archer in the ranks for six months, then as the leader of a long–range scouting unit that spent the bulk of its time deep in enemy territory. Both assignments required extensive reliance on the longbow, and he had never felt comfortable without it since. It was his work on the Prekkendorran that had gotten him noticed and appointed to the Home Guard on his return. The longbow was his good–luck charm.
Besides, he was short and slight of build, and hand–to–hand combat with broadswords was never going to favor him. Skill and quickness were what he relied on, and the longbow was a weapon that utilized both.
He glanced around his quarters to see if anything else needed doing, decided it didn't, that he had stalled as long as he was able — though not nearly long enough to suit him — threw on his cloak, and went out through the tent flap.
Drumundoon came to attention, a habit he couldn't seem to break, even when only the two of them were present. Tall and lanky, he towered over the shorter Sanderling. «Good morning, Captain.»
«Good morning, Drum.» Pied led the way as they moved down through the Elven camp toward the King's tent. He brushed back his mop of sandy hair and squinted up at the cloudless sky. «So he's made up his mind.» He shook his head. «I wish he'd wait.»
«You don't know what he's decided,' Drumundoon ventured hopefully. «He might have decided not to try it.»
«No.» Pied shook his head. «He had his mind made up last night when I left him, and he's not changed it. 1 know him. He goes with his first impression of a plan, and he liked this one right from the start. It doesn't matter what the risks are. It doesn't matter that the source is suspect. All that matters is that it's bold and it favors his nature. Like his father, all he lives for is to break the stalemate and drive the Federation down off the heights and south again. He's obsessed with it.» He shook his head again. «I can't reason with him.»
«You have to try.»
«Of course, I have to try. I am being summoned to try. He likes it when he can win these arguments. He forgets that he wins them solely because he is King. But that is the way things are, and I can't change them.»
They walked in silence, wending their way through the Home Guard units encamped about the King's pavilion tent, where brightly colored banners flew bravely in the midday breeze, marking the territories they had occupied for months or, in some cases, for years. Elven Hunters came and went with the beginnings and endings of their tours of duty, but the camps remained, like markers in a landscape that had been trampled and pummeled and fought over for so long that nothing recognizable was left. The desolation depressed Pied, the barren earth and broken rock, the colors all brown and gray. He missed the green of his Westland home. He missed the lushness of the trees, the cool breeze off the Rill Song, and the sound of birds singing. He wanted it all back again. Wanted it now. But he would have to wait. Even though he had been there almost two months, he knew it would be another two at least before the
King lost interest and went home again.
Still, he knew the situation — had known it from the moment he had accepted his appointment. A Captain of the Home Guard was the King's right hand, and where the King went, he went, too. This King was not a stay–at– home King. This King was restless.
«You sent Acrolace and Parn to see what they could discover?» he asked finally.
Drumundoon nodded. «Last night. They haven't returned. Can you stall until they do?»
«Probably not.» He hunched his shoulders defensively. «I wish this wasn't being rushed so. I would feel better about things if a little more thought were being given to the probable consequences of guessing wrong. It bothers me that we are so eager to charge into things.»
«The King,' Drumundoon pointed out.
«The King, indeed. What sort of advice is he getting? If someone besides me would speak up, we might be able to bring him to his senses.
«There is no one but you.» His aide smiled cheerfully. «His advisers, Ministers and otherwise, are all back in Arborlon, safely out of harm's way. You know that. They want no part of this foolishness. Half of them want no part of this war at all. This was always an Elessedil war more than it was an Elven war. First, it was the King's father, after his grandfather's death, and now it is the King. All of them have viewed it in the same way—a chance to expand Elven influence into other territories, to reassert Elven control over the rest of the Four Lands, to place the Elven people at the forefront of development and expansion.»
Pied Sanderling grunted. «We have Druids for that. Let them be the ones to spread their influence.»
«Cheek by jowl with the Federation. They have no time for the Free–born. Not since the disappearance of the Ard Rhys. Not that it would make any difference while Kellen Elessedil is King, in any case. He hates the Ard Rhys and her Druids. He blames them as his father blamed them for all the bad things that have happened to the Elves. There's no reasoning with him on the subject. He sees our future as leader of the Free–born, and that's the end of it.»
Pied glanced over at him. «You never cease to amaze me. Your political sense is as astute as …» He paused.
«As your own, Captain,' the other interjected quickly. «Don't pretend otherwise.»
Well, whatever political sense we possess, it isn't going to get us out of our current predicament, Pied thought. We could analyze the situation all we want and still be helpless to do anything about it.
Ahead, the King's tent rose above those of his retinue. Kellen Elessedil never traveled lightly, always with baggage consisting of a great deal more than the clothes he wore. On this occasion, he had brought his sons along as well, something Sanderling regarded as particularly dangerous. The King wanted them to learn early about the realities of his office—as he saw it. That meant coming to the Prekkendorran to witness firsthand what war with the Federation was like—if you could call this impossible stalemate a war. At fifteen and thirteen, they were old enough to understand, the King had insisted, in spite of his wife's and Pied's pleas to the contrary. That he hadn't insisted Arling and the little girls come as well was the only true surprise of the whole business.
Sometimes, in his darker moments, Pied thought that the Elves had the wrong Elessedil as King. One of the others might have done a better job—say, the King's younger sister, Khyber. Headstrong and independent, she was forever sneaking around behind the King's back to visit her exiled uncle, which was a constant source of trouble. But she was true to her beliefs, chief of which was that Ahren Elessedil was the best of the lot and should never have been blamed for any of what had happened after theJerle Shannara had returned.
Kellen thought otherwise, of course, as had his father. There was no reasoning with either one. There was no forgiveness in their hearts for perceived treachery, however misconstrued the judgment rendered.
«What can I say to him, Drum?» he asked quietly, their destination right in front of them now.
Drumundoon shook his head helplessly. He had no answer to that question. Pied marshaled his courage and resolve for what lay ahead, saluted the Home Guard on duty at the tent entry, nodded for Drum to wait, and entered.
Kellen Elessedil looked up from his own set of maps as his Captain of the Home Guard appeared through the tent opening, his young face eager and intense. Pied knew that look. It meant the King had decided on something and was impatient to act on it. It didn't take much thinking to know what would happen next.
«Good, you're here.» The King's impatience was revealed in his tone of voice. «The reports from the scouts are all in. Guess what they tell me, cousin?»
