hundred and fifty horse–Old Guard, the Legion’s regular army. There is a vague promise of some additional aid to come, though no indication as to how soon we might expect it. Our messenger reports that the members of the Council of the Cities have not yet been able to resolve their differences over what the extent of Callahorn’s involvement in this ‘Elven War’ should be, and the King has chosen not to intervene. It appears that sending the Old Guard command was basically another compromise solution. The matter is still under debate, but we have heard nothing more.»
As Stee Jans had warned, Ander thought darkly.
«The Federation has sent a message as well, my Lord Prince.» Chios’ smile was bitter. «A message that is brief and to the point, I might add. It is the policy of the Federation that it not become involved in the affairs of other lands and other races. If a threat to others touches upon the sovereignty of its own states, the Federation will act. As matters stand now, that does not appear to be the case. Therefore, until the situation changes, no aid will be forthcoming.» He shrugged. «Not altogether unexpected.»
«And the Kershalt?» Ander asked quickly «What of the Trolls?»
Chios shook his head. «Nothing. I took the liberty of dispatching another messenger.»
Ander nodded his approval. «And the Dwarves?»
«We’re here,” a rough voice answered. «Some of us, at least.»
A bearded, thickset Dwarf made his way forward through the men gathered about the Council table. Quick blue eyes blinked through a face that was weathered and browned by the sun, and a pair of gnarled hands fastened on the table’s edge.
«Druid.» The Dwarf nodded briefly to Allanon, then turned to Ander. «My name is Browork, Elder and citizen of Culhaven. I’ve brought one hundred Sappers to the service of the Elessedils. You can thank the Druid for that. He found us some weeks ago at work on a bridge crossing the Silver River and warned us of the danger. Allanon is known to the Dwarves, so there were no questions asked. We sent word to Culhaven and came on ahead — ten days’ march and a hard march at that. But we’re here.»
He extended his hand and Ander shook it warmly.
«What of the others, Browork?» Allanon asked.
The Dwarf nodded rather impatiently. «On their way by now, I presume. You should have an army of several thousand by week’s end.» He gave Allanon a disapproving frown. «In the meantime you’ve got us, Druid, and mighty lucky you are to have us. No one but the Sappers could have rigged that ramp.»
«The Elfitch,” Chios explained quickly to a puzzled Ander. «Browork and his Sappers have been working with us on our defenses. In the process of studying the Elfitch, he saw that it was possible to rig the fifth ramp to collapse.»
«Child’s play.» Browork dismissed the accomplishment with a wave of his hand. «We undercut the stone block, removed the secondary supports, then split the primary with iron wedges fixed to chains. The chains we concealed in the brush beneath the ramp, ran them to the heights, and lined them to a system of pulleys. If the Demons reach the fifth ramp, just draw in the chains, slip the wedges, and the whole ramp from the fifth gate down falls away. Simple.»
«Simple if you have the engineering skill of a Dwarf Sapper, I think.» Ander smiled. «Well done, Browork. We have need of you.»
«There are others here that you need as well.» Allanon put his hand on Ander’s shoulder and pointed to the far end of the Council table.
The Elven Prince turned. A lone Elf dressed all in leather stepped forward and placed his hand across his heart in the pledge of loyalty.
«Dayn, my Lord Prince,” the Elf said quietly. «I am a Wing Rider.»
«A Wing Rider?» Ander stared at the Elf in surprise. He had heard stories from his father of the people who called themselves the Sky Elves — stories almost forgotten by most, for no Wing Rider had come to Arborlon in the last hundred years. «How many of you are there?» he asked finally.
«Five,” Dayn replied. «There would be more but for the fear of a Demon attack on the Wing Hove, our own home city. My father has sent those of us who are here. We are all of one family. My father is called Herrol.» He paused and glanced at Allanon. «There was a time when the Druid and he were friends:”
«We are still friends, Wing Rider,” Allanon said quietly.
Dayn acknowledged the Druid’s commitment with a nod, then returned his gaze to Ander.
«My father’s sense of kinship with the Land Elves is stronger than that of most of his countrymen, my Lord Prince, for most have long since broken all ties with the old ways and the old rule. And my father knows that Allanon stands with the Elessedils — and that has meaning. Thus he sends us. He would be here himself but for the absence his Roc Genewen, who trains with my brother’s son so that he may one day be a Wing Rider as was his father. Still, those of us who are here may be of some use. We can fly the whole of the Westland skies, if need be. We can seek out the Demons who threaten and tell you of their movements. We can spy out strengths and weaknesses. That much, at least, we can offer.»
«That much we accept with gratitude, Dayn.» Ander returned the Wing, Rider’s salute. «Be welcome.»
Dayn bowed and stepped back. Ander glanced at Chios. «Are there any others come to stand with us, First Minister?»
Chios shook his head slowly «No, my Lord Prince. These are all.»
Ander nodded. «Then these will be enough.»
He motioned for all who were gathered to seat themselves with him at the council table, and a general discussion ensued on such matters as soldier placement, weapons distribution, battle tactics, and the taking of additional defensive measures. Reports were heard from Ehlron Tay on the Elven Hunters of the regular army, from Kerrin on the Home Guard, and from Kobold of the Black Watch. Browork gave his assessment of the overall structural efficiency of the Elven defenses, and Stee Jans was consulted on strategies that might be implemented to offset the superior strength of the Demon hordes. Even Dayn spoke briefly on the fighting capabilities of the Rocs and their uses in aerial combat.
Time slipped past rapidly, and the night drifted away Ander grew light–headed with fatigue, and his thoughts began to wander. It was in the middle of one of these wanderings that a tremendous crash jerked him upright as the doors of the High Council flew open and a disheveled Gael appeared, flanked by the chamber guards. Breathless, the little Elf rushed forward and dropped to his knee before Ander.
«My Lord!» he gasped, his face flushed with excitement. «My Lord, the King is awake!»
Ander stared. «Awake?»
Then he was on his feet and sprinting from the chamber.
While he slept, it felt to Eventine Elessedil as if he were floating through a blackness layered with gossamer threads that wrapped his body in a seamless blanket. One by one, he felt the threads enfold him, mold about him, join with him. Time and space were nothing; there was only the blackness and the weave of the threads. It was a warm, pleasant sensation at first, much like the feel to an infant of a mother’s close embrace, filled with comfort and love. But then the embrace seemed to tighten, and he began to suffocate. Desperately he struggled to break free and found that he could not. He began to sink downward through the blackness, spinning slowly, his blanket a shroud and, he no longer a creature of life, but one of death. Terrified, he thrashed within his silken prison, tearing and ripping at its fabric until, with a sudden rending, it flew apart and was gone.
His eyes opened. Light blinded him momentarily, harsh and flickering. He blinked in its glare, disoriented and confused, fighting to gain some sense of where he was and, what he was doing. Then the outlines of a room began to gather form, and he recognized the smell of oil lamps and the feel of cotton sheets and woolen blankets wrapped close about his body. All that had happened in the moments before he slept came back again in a rush, images that ran mad and disjointed across his mind: the Breakline; Halys Cut and the Demons attacking from out of the deep mist; lines of Elven archers, lancers, and pikemen spread out below him; cries of pain and death; dark forms hurtling toward him through a wall of blue fire; Allanon, Ander, the glint of weapons, then a sudden blow.
He twitched violently beneath the covers, and sweat bathed his body. The room sharpened abruptly before his eyes — it was his sleeping room in the manor house in Arborlon — and there was a figure moving toward him.
«My Lord?» Gael’s frightened voice sounded in his ear and the youthful face bent down close to his own. «My Lord, are you awake?»
«What has happened?» he muttered, his own voice thick and barely recognizable.
