CHAPTER 18

IT was a waiting game now: waiting for the runners to reach the Eastern Gateway and summon help; waiting for the Maronnais army to arrive; waiting for the Greffaires to strike. No main road led from the Eastern Gateway to their own location at the Skyway Pass, though shepherd paths and cart tracks did meander along the edge of the foothills. A couple of runners could make good speed through that country, if they did not mistake their way, but not a full army. It was difficult to guess what route their reinforcements would choose and how long they might take.

Tristan brought the news to the clinic station, bursting in with his usual lack of preamble. “Gabi, there’s news! You won’t believe it; it’s from Féolan.”

Gabrielle’s face flushed red before she could stop it. That rushing in her ears when she heard his name—would it never stop?

Tristan noticed. “Damn the gods, Gabi, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking ... “

“Forget about it,” said Gabrielle, overlooking his crude language as well. She had become used to far worse in recent days. “What’s happened?”

Quickly Tristan filled her in.

“Do we have enough men?” she asked.

“Not if Féolan’s numbers are right. Not unless the Maronnais get here in time. They’ve sent runners. You know,” he went on, “I would think the mountains are just barely passable now. Féolan must have gone over there weeks ago. I wonder how he got through.”

Gabrielle just shook her head. The Greffaires were coming. Now it was real.

The days passed. The men grew jumpy and tense; training drills were apt to erupt into angry scuffles. Tristan proved his worth ten times over in those days, keeping his men alert and focused while smoothing over the rough edges of tension. Gabrielle and her bonemenders fine-tuned their makeshift clinic, setting up a workspace well stocked with supplies for each bonemender and a waiting area for the injured. They prepared poultices that would need only to be steeped in hot water before use, and Gabrielle herself boiled up the precise mix of mandragora and henbane that would be used—poured onto a cloth and held over the patient’s nostrils if he was unable to drink—to allay the pain of the most terrible wounds. She gathered together the military medics and reviewed their training. And then she too waited.

The runners returned, horses and riders stumbling with exhaustion. The Maronnais were coming, but they would be at least three more days. They would cross the Smoky River at the ford at Loutre and make their way up the main road from there.

IT WAS JUST PAST noon when the sentries flew into camp, and the alarms started blaring. The Greffaires were moving through the foothills, maybe an hour away, not much more. The Verdeau army prepared hurriedly, cookfires abandoned in a rush for helmets, weaponry and horses. They were massed on the ridge in orderly ranks, looking north into the wide valley General Fortin had chosen for the battle, before any sign of the enemy could be seen. Brave and bold they stood, row on row of silver helms and resolute faces. The sight stirred even Gabrielle’s heart with wild hope. She and a few of the other noncombatants climbed a hill behind the ridge so that they too could gaze north, waiting for the first figures to appear on the other side.

The vista was beautiful, were they in a mood to see it. The valley spread out below them, open and green, between dark walls of forest. It narrowed to a finger on the far side where it swept up toward the mountains. And behind rose the dark Krylians, forested hills stacked like massed soldiers before the soaring, bare peaks of the highest summits.

When they came it was like a river spilling down the hillside and flooding the plain. The Verdeau men fell silent, the brave jokes and boasts dried up in their throats as the huge army spread out to face them. Gabrielle reminded herself that many of these Greffaires were untrained and unwilling serfs. Still, her heart sank. The sheer advantage of their numbers was crushing.

“They are three to our one,” the mess boy beside her muttered. His face was gray with fear.

“Battles are not won by numbers alone. And the Maronnais ride to our aid,” she told him. But she had to force the words out. This battle, she knew, would not be won.

A sudden, desperate thought came to her. She ran back to the clinic, rummaged in boxes until she found ink and a scrap of parchment, and scribbled a note. Then pulling a much-folded paper from her inside pocket, she thrust both in an empty medicine bag.

“Here, Pascal, is it? How would you like to get out of here and help Verdeau while you’re at it? Can you read a map?” She pulled out Féolan’s paper and went over the directions with the youth, who was all too happy to volunteer. Soon he was on one of the older horses that had been tethered behind the clinic tent. “Ask the villagers and shepherds to help you find the landmarks. When you are near the place, call out. There will be hidden sentries. Let them know whom you seek and from whom you are sent. All luck be with you.” She smacked the horse on the rear, sending him cantering down the road.

IN FACT, THE Greffaire army had not expected to meet resistance this close to the border. Commander Col had been confident that his invasion would surprise the people of the Krylian Basin. He had not expected significant fighting before Gaudette; he had even allowed himself to hope they might advance into Verdeau before any sizeable force could be mustered against him. The first sight of the massed ranks gathered along the ridge, obviously well prepared and waiting, had given Col some unpleasant moments.

If General Fortin had known Col’s thoughts, he would have also known that the Greffaire soldiers had not taken the precaution of donning their battle armor before entering enemy territory. But he was not sure, and he could not see past the thick ranks of the conscripts, who had been driven ahead of the regular troops right through the mountain pass. So, instead of calling for an immediate charge across the valley and striking while the Greffaire army was still in some confusion, he had waited, opting instead to make them come across to more favorable ground. He thus lost an important advantage, but he preserved the position of his archers, now hidden in the corridors of scrubby woodland that bordered the plain to east and west. And, perhaps more important, he kept open the line of retreat.

Looking across the valley as his troops scrambled to suit up for battle, Col decided that he had little to worry about, except perhaps the dark clouds massing along the eastern horizon. The opposing force was almost laughably small. Why, he had nearly as many conscripts as their entire army! And he did not think he was mistaken that their warriors were poorly protected: he could make out helmets, but the mid-day sun would have glinted off full armor. They would be no match for his full-suited elite. Col grinned. It would be good for the men to taste victory so early in the campaign.

THE STONEWATER COUNCIL had been disturbed enough by Féolan’s description of the Gref Orisé regime to call together a Council of Elders. Féolan chafed against the delay, but knew this was the only way to effect a full-scale Elvish resistance. His own community was too small to mount a significant force.

It was only days, though it seemed like weeks, before he found himself addressing the leaders of the Elvish people, many unknown to him, all at least a century his senior. He knew that his youth, not to mention the impulsive foolishness of his foray across the mountains, hardly recommended him. Still, many in the room held personal memories of the last Gref Orisé invasion, and though they might not be anxious to repeat the losses of that struggle, they ought at least to recognize the truth of his story.

In detail, he laid out what he had seen and heard. His conclusion was passionate: “I cannot describe to you the oppression endured by these people. Even their own citizens know no freedom. If the Gref Orisé prevail in this land, never again will we wander at will across the countryside. Our settlements are secret now because we wish it so—but they will become secret of necessity, for our very survival. If we become known, we will be hunted. We will be prisoners in our own homeland.”

The silence dragged on as the Elders considered his words. Féolan stood patiently, knowing this could not be rushed. At last there followed several clarifying questions of a tactical nature—details of the Gref Orisé weaponry, fighting style, body armor—which encouraged Féolan hugely. Finally, a senior Elder, her eyes deep wells of age, rose to speak.

“It appears to me,” she said, “that we would be most effective striking at this army not on the battlefield but while they are en route or encamped, hitting suddenly and by surprise and then fading away. That uses our strengths against their weaknesses, does it not? I do not discount that there might also arise a reason to join our force of arms with the Humans in a direct encounter, but as a general strategy we might hamper their progress significantly through progressive ambushes. What think you, Féolan?”

Startled at being asked a further opinion, Féolan gathered his thoughts. “One thing I did not mention is that Gref Oris—at least the part I saw—is an open country, full of wide plains and few trees. They are unused to woodlands. I suspect this type of warfare is unknown to them.”

The atmosphere in the room sharpened as many unspoken thoughts were exchanged. The Council was moving toward a decision.

Another spoke. “The Humans oppose these Gref Orisé already. They may succeed. Why not watch their progress and stand ready to send our own people should they falter?”

Féolan could not keep silent. “Will we send the Humans to die on our behalf?” he demanded. “Does the short season of their lives make them worth less than our own? This seems to me a shameful proposal.”

The head of Féolan’s own Council, Tilumar, narrowed his eyes.

“Forgive me,” Féolan muttered. “It was not my place to speak so.” But the tall, ancient Elf who had spoken rose to his feet.

“You speak true,” he said. “And I speak from my own loss rather than from the wisdom that befits one of my years. Many of my people died in the last war. But that is, in the end, a poor reason to stand aside so others may die as well.”

Féolan, who had never known the untimely death of kin or friend, was humbled by this Elf’s honesty. But before anyone could speak a messenger was admitted.

“I apologize for interrupting the Council’s business,” he began. “But an envoy has arrived from the Verdeau army, and I thought his news might have bearing on your deliberations. It is addressed to Féolan of Stonewater.”

Heart pounding, Féolan took the crumpled scrap of parchment. His eyes flew to the signature at the bottom of the brief note. At Tilumar’s prompting, he forced himself to raise his voice and read aloud:

    Féolan,
    We face battle at the Skyway Pass. Desperately out-numbered. If there is help to be had from your people, I beg it now. If not, yet do I send my love.
    Gabrielle.

Desperate now to be on his way, Féolan crossed swiftly to Tilumar and sank to his knees. Ignoring the mild shock in the room, he spoke quietly to his Elder, without pride or defiance. “Tilumar. I have told you how this woman saved Danaïs from the brink of death and how her family welcomed us as royal guests. That alone puts on me at least a bond of obligation. I have not told how Gabrielle and I came to love one another. I am bound to aid her if I can.”

Tilumar studied him. “Well, Féolan,” he said, “you astonish me. Yet ever you have followed your own path. Ride to battle if you must, with my blessing.”

But Féolan was not finished. “I will ride alone, if needs be. But little will one warrior avail anything. Tilumar, I know there is no time for a concerted effort. Probably anything we send will be too late. But since there is at least some agreement in the room that this war concerns the Elves as well, I beg leave to take a force from Stonewater now, in hope the defense may yet be bolstered.”

Tilumar frowned. “Stonewater is close to the invasion’s path. Our own home must remain strongly defended.” Féolan kept silence as Tilumar thought. “You may take ten units. It is not enough to turn the tide of battle. Aim for a strategic target, as we discussed. I do not want our people engaging in direct warfare until the Council has made its decision.”

Ten dozen men. Springing to his feet, Féolan thanked Tilumar and, hand on breast, bowed to the Council. As he headed for the door, Tilumar stopped him.

“Féolan. You are not to waste Elvish lives in futile heroics. Not even for your Lady.”

“I understand, my Lord.”