“And to you. Stay well, my human,” urged the wyrm.
Natac trotted backward, experience having taught him about the downdraft that would emerge from those massive wings. With an eager snort, Regillix extended his neck, crouched upon his massive legs, and hurled himself into the air. Even two dozen paces away, the man was nearly knocked down by the gust of air pushed by the liftoff, but he braced himself and watched as the dragon rose upward, a hundred, two hundred feet in the air within a few seconds of his initial leap.
Turning to look into the valley, Natac watched the fleeing file of Tamarwind’s elves. They had fallen back from the shore in good order and were now marching inland at a good clip. Even so, when the man looked toward the coast, he saw the dark mass of the pursuing army. The ghost warriors were in contact with the rear guard of the elven march, and any slowdown in the pace of the retreat would bring yet more of the enemy troops into the engagement.
But how long could they keep marching?
Natac stood on the crest of an elevation that divided two valleys. Now he looked nullward, trying to see some sign of the Baranthian elves. He had spoken to their commander, Kelland Windreader, a few hours earlier, trying to convey the importance of a hasty but well-ordered retreat. At the time, Kelland’s force had been holding the original line at the beach, and the elven veteran objected to the idea of retreating before his warriors had been defeated. Patiently, Natac had explained about the gnome collapse, and the Baranthian leader had seen the fate that lay in store for his army if he didn’t pull them back before they were cut off. So he had started the withdrawal inland, like Tamarwind, keeping an aggressive rear guard engaged with the pursuing invaders. Jubal was with them. The human general, veteran of the American Civil War, was contributing his expertise, and Kelland Windreader had proved more than willing to accept his help.
Now, from the ridge between the two armies, Natac could barely see the advance elements of the Baranthian column. At the same time, the rear guard of the Argentian elves was drawing closer; it seemed obvious that the two columns were in danger of being catastrophically separated. The roads through the hills were long, twisting, and narrow, the next smooth ground some twenty miles away. There, a scenic river-the Swansleep-meandered through meadows and glades. The stream spilled from the Lodespike Mountains and through this long valley, until it ended in a waterfall, plunging from the edge of Riven Deep.
After the beach had been lost, that river became Natac’s next and best hope. His plan had been formed years ago, when he had studied the Blue Coral Coast as one of a half dozen landing sites suitable for a force the size of the armada. In long conversations with the elder druids and especially their matriarch Cillia, he had settled upon a tactic, and now he was ready to put it into place. He leaned his head back and cupped his hands to his mouth.
“Runner!” he called. Then he sat on a flat boulder, taking a little while to breathe, to prepare his strength.
Less than five minutes later he heard the telltale buzzing of wings as a small faerie buzzed into sight. Quick as a hummingbird, he flew up to Natac and came to rest on the same rock. Even standing, the little fellow barely came to the man’s shoulder. He bowed gracefully, then looked at the general.
“You require a courier, Lord Natac?”
“Please-take a message back to the Grove. Tell Cillia that we need a hundred druids experienced in windcasting at the Swansleep. She’ll know what that means.”
“Very well, my lord. And may I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors on behalf of the Fourth Circle,” said the faerie with polite dignity.
“You may,” Natac replied with a chuckle, the first levity he had experienced in what seemed like weeks. He enjoyed the company of the faeries, several hundred of which served his armies. He didn’t recognize this one. “What’s your name?”
The handsome, young-man-faced creature’s eyes widened. “I am called Horas of Gallowglen,” he said seriously.
“Then I bid you the best of luck as well, Horas of Gallowglen, in all your endeavors on behalf of the Fourth Circle.”
“Thank you, my lord!” Beaming, the faerie hopped into the sky and, with hum of speeding wings, darted toward the Center. In seconds distance rendered him invisible.
His mood lightened slightly, Natac of Tlaxcala, general of all the armies of Nayve, started jogging down the hill to try to make a workable plan. He concentrated on the ground as he ran, but another part of his mind was analyzing the battle, his concentration aided by the activity. Of course, he had learned how to ride-horses, as well as the dragon-but he came from a place on Earth where the horse had been unknown, and for all of his first life had gotten where he needed to go on the strength of his own legs and the endurance of his lungs. So he gave no thought now to the fact that he would have to cover nearly four miles to reach the vanguard of the Baranthian column; he simply started to run.
It was not even a half hour later that he reached the valley floor, loping along until he could climb onto a dramatic outcrop of rock rising thirty or forty feet above the trail. They moved in a long file, trudging with stooped shoulders and plodding footsteps. But they still bore their weapons, he was glad to see. As he watched, four centaurs came into view, pulling along a pair of the batteries, the silver carriages rolling through the muck in the midst of the retreating Baranthians.
“Hail General Natac!” cried an elf, as soon as he came into view. The warrior took heart from the cheers that rose from the troops-they didn’t sound like an army that was running away-but he quickly raised his hands and brought about a silence.
“Brave elves of Baranthia!” he called. “The battle has not gone as we desired, but all is not lost. Your brothers from Argentian march in the neighboring valley, in position several miles ahead of you. So make haste, my elves; hurry down the vale and join with Argentian for another battle. We will find the place and bring this horde to a halt!”
He wished he could unequivocably believe his own words, but the elves certainly took him at face value. They shouted another hurrah, then started to jog, the column moving notably faster as it snaked along the gentle valley floor.
Natac stayed atop the rock for nearly an hour, exhorting each company of elves as they came within earshot. He was rewarded as they hurried along, and he felt certain that they would pass through the hills at nearly the same time as the Argentians.
Spotting Jubal in the file, Natac waved, and the Virginian quickly scrambled up to join him.
“I reckon we can pick up the pace a bit,” he agreed, after Natac had explained his hopes for the retreat. “But what’re we gonna do at the river?”
“I have sent for druids to help us,” replied the general. “Juliay will be there, as a matter of fact.”
“That’s encouragin’,” Jubal replied. “Wish we coulda had a few druids at Gettysburg-things mighta come out a little different.”
With that, the human warrior was off. Natac stayed in place, and Kelland Windreader came along near his rear guard. Only then did the general scramble down from the rock to speak to the Baranthian commander.
“We’re holding them back for now,” the elf, his skin streaked with soot, sweat, and blood, explained. “But they come on tirelessly; it will be hard to outdistance them.”
“Do your best, my friend,” Natac counseled. “For if we can get to the Swansleep before them, there might be some hope there.” He explained that he had already urged the bulk of the elven column into haste. “Jubal’s with the vanguard; he will work on getting the troops in place.”
Windreader nodded wearily. “We’ll try to catch up,” he offered.
“See you at the river, then,” Natac said. He left the elf to his column and trotted back up the hillside until he was running along the crest of the ridge. Now he could look down and see an elven column to each side, and he was pleased by that symmetry. He looked into the distance, toward the next ridge, and thought about the brave gnomes that had fought beyond that crest. Had any of them made it out? Or was that vale even now churning with the soulless march of the ghost warriors? Would the advance render his whole plan useless?
He couldn’t answer those questions now, not without a two-hour run that would take him miles out of his way. Instead, he turned toward the problem he might be able to solve. He ran faster now, moving toward the Center much more quickly than the marching elves. Night fell, and he kept going through the darkness and into the following Lighten. He still ran, finally emerging onto a low elevation, with a green valley opening before him. In another hour, he had completed the descent into the valley of the Swansleep River. That flowage, a shallow and
