“I understand,” said Medan, when it became apparent from the uncomfortable silence that the king did not intend to finish his sentence, a sentence that presented a new and astonishing possibility to the Marshal. He had assumed Laurana intended to leave Qualinost. Perhaps he had assumed wrongly. “Very well. Planchet, we will say nothing about this meeting to the Queen Mother.”
The moon rose and shone pale and sickly in the sky. Medan had never much liked this strange moon. Compared to the argent brilliance of Solinari or the red flame of Lunitari, this moon looked forlorn and meek. He could almost imagine it apologizing to the stars every time it appeared, as if ashamed to take its place among them. It did its duty now, and shed light enough that he did not have to bring the harsh glare of torches or lamps into his garden, lights that might reveal to any watcher flying overhead that there was a meeting in progress.
The elves expressed their admiration for his garden. Indeed, they were amazed that a human could create such beauty, and their amazement gave Medan as much satisfaction as their praise, for it meant the praise was genuine. His garden had never looked so hauntingly beautiful as it did by moonlight this night. Even the dwarf, who viewed plants as nothing more than food for cattle, looked about the garden with not quite a bored air and termed it “pretty,” although he sneezed violently immediately afterward and constantly rubbed his itching nose throughout the meeting. The Lioness was the first to give her report. She had nothing to say about the garden. She was cool, business-minded, obviously intending to end this quickly. She indicated where the enemy army was located, pointing to a map that had been spread out on a table near the fishpond.
“Our forces did what they could to slow the enemy’s advance, but we were stinging flies to this behemoth. We annoyed him, we irritated him, we drew blood. We could impede him, but we could not stop him. We could slay a hundred men, and that was nothing but an irritant to him. Therefore, I ordered my people to pull back. We are now assisting the refugees.”
Medan approved. “You will provide escort for the royal family. Of which you yourself are one,” he added with a polite smile.
The Lioness did not return his smile. She had spent long years fighting him. She did not trust him, and for that he could not fault her. He did not trust her either. He had the feeling that if it had not been for Gilthas’s intervention, the Marshal would have found the Lioness’s knife sticking out of his ribcage.
Gilthas looked grim as he always did when his own departure was mentioned. Medan sympathized with the young king, understood how he felt. Most of the elves understood the reason for his departure. There were those who did not understand, who whispered that the elven king was abandoning Qualinost in its hour of need, leaving his people to die that he might live. Medan did not envy the young man the life that lay ahead of him: the life of the refugee, the life of the exile.
“I will personally escort His Majesty out through the tunnels,”
Bellowsgranite stated. “Then those of my people who have volunteered will remain in the tunnels beneath the city, ready to assist the battle. When the armies of darkness march into Qualinost”—the dwarf grinned broadly—”they will find more than woodchucks rising up out of holes to meet them.”
As if to emphasize his words, the ground shook slightly beneath their feet, a sign that the giant dirt-devouring worms were at work.
“You and those coming with you must be in the tunnels first thing in the morning, Your Majesty,” the Thane added. “We dare not wait longer.”
“We will be there,” said Gilthas, and he sighed and stared down at his hands, clasped tightly on the top of the table.
Medan cleared his throat and continued. “Speaking to the defense of the city of Qualinost: The spies sent to infiltrate Beryl’s army report no change in her plan of attack. She will first order in the lesser dragons to scout the city, make certain all is well, and intimidate with their dragonfear any who may remain.” The Marshal permitted himself a grim smile. “When Beryl has been assured that the city is deserted and her precious hide will be safe, she herself will enter Qualinost as leader of her armies.”
Medan pointed to the map. “The city of Qualinost is protected from attack by a natural moat—the two arms of the White-rage River that encircle the city. We’ve received reports that Beryl’s armies are already gathering along the banks of these streams. We have cut the bridges, but the water level is low this time of year and they will be able to ford the streams here, here, and here.” He indicated three areas. “The crossing will slow them, for they will be forced to move through water that is swiftflowing and waist deep in some places. Our troops will be posted here and here and here”—more reference to the map—”with orders to allow a substantial number of troops to cross before they attack.”
He looked around at the officers. “We must emphasize to the troops that they wait for the signal before they attack. We want the enemy forces split, with half on one side of the stream and half on the other. We want to create panic and disruption, so that those who are trying to cross are bottled up by those fighting for their lives on the bank. Elven archers stationed here and here will decimate their ranks with arrow fire. The dwarven army, under the leadership of the Thane’s cousin”—Medan bowed to the dwarf—”will hit them here, drive them back into the water. The other elven forces will be posted here on the hillside to harry their flanks. Is this plan understood? Satisfactory to everyone?”
They had gone over this several times before. Everyone nodded.
“Finally, at our last meeting, we discussed sending for the Gray Robes who are stationed on the western border of Qualinesti and asking them for their assistance. It was decided that we would not seek their services, the feeling being that these gray-robed wizards cannot be trusted, a feeling in which I most heartily concurred. As it has turned out, it was well we did not count on them. It seems they have vanished. Not only have they disappeared without a trace, but the entire Forest of Wayreth has disappeared. I received a report that a strike force of draconians, one of Beryl’s crack units, who had been diverted south with orders to slaughter the refugees, entered the forest and has not come out. We have heard nothing more of them, nor, I think, are we likely to.
“I suggest that we raise our glasses in a toast to the Master of the Tower of Wayreth.”
Medan lifted a glass of elven wine from one of his last bottles. He was damned if he was going to leave any to be gulped by goblins. All shared in the toast, taking comfort in the fact that, for a change, a powerful force was on their side, mysterious and vagarious as it might be.
“I hear the sounds of laughter. I come upon you at a good time, it seems,” said Laurana.
Medan had posted guards at the entrance, but he had given orders that if the Queen Mother arrived, she was to be admitted.
He rose to do her honor, as did all of those present. The Lioness greeted her mother by marriage with an affectionate kiss. Gilthas kissed his mother, but he cast a rebuking glance at Medan.
“I took it upon myself to invite your honored mother,” said the Marshal, bowing to the king. “I know that I went against Your Majesty’s express wishes, but considering the extreme gravity of the situation, I deemed it best to exert my authority as military leader. As you yourself said, Your Majesty, the Queen Mother is knowledgeable in such matters.”
“Please, be seated,” said Laurana, taking a chair beside the Marshal, a chair he had made certain was left vacant. “I am sorry to be late, but an idea came to me, and I wanted time to think it through before I mentioned it. Tell me what I have missed.”