“You mean, they may just be going for a picnic in the forest?”
“It could well be.”
Nuor groaned again. Belot relented. “They had all the marks of an elven host prepared for war. I did not go low enough to be able to ask whom they intended to fight.”
“It won’t be dwarves, will it?”
Belot shook his head. “No dwarf laid a hand on Lord Lauthin or any other elf. Our quarrel is with the Istarians, unless they are very quick to withdraw from Belkuthas.”
“Men with the kingpriest breathing down their necks will not give up a victory over lesser races before Hiddukel’s priests give honest measure!” groused the dwarf.
“Then we must fly again, as soon as Amrisha has drunk.” Belot turned away, then halted. “Oh, and don’t call her ‘that confounded feathered pony’ again. She is sensitive.”
He walked away, leaving Nuor alternately cursing and laughing, the latter mostly at himself.
Pirvan studied the map hung on the wall of the keep chamber. This chamber, one level below his and Haimya’s quarters, had become his post of command, where they held councils of war. The councils had become so numerous and so large, and the messengers going to and from Pirvan so continuous, that he had not wished to intrude on Krythis and Tulia.
Particularly not Krythis. Since Sir Lewin’s death, something had broken within the lord of Belkuthas. It seemed to load on him as great a weight as if he had slain the Knight of the Rose by treachery or in cold blood.
Pirvan hoped Krythis would not forever treat the horrible mischance as a crime. No man’s body or spirit could bear the weight of such guilt for long. Krythis needed both in good order. Belkuthas needed him with both in good order-and Pirvan not least among those in Belkuthas.
He realized he had been exceedingly fortunate, not to be as alone as commanders commonly are. Krythis had done much to make this so. When he stood straight and unburdened again, he could do more.
Tulia and Rynthala had said that words did nothing to lighten Krythis’ burden. Pirvan assumed they spoke truth. What next? Time was lacking. Sirbones? He might have scruples. Also, guilt was often a sickness that did not respond to healing spirits.
Tarothin? He might have more scruples than Sirbones, and even less strength. What strength he had would be needed for the day of the assault. Fireball spells, for example, drew much from a Red Robe-more than from a Black Robe-and of course for a White Robe …
Pirvan turned back to the map. A knock made him realize he had turned his back on the door, which was well guarded, but still-
“Enter!”
It was Sir Esthazas. “Message for you, Sir Pirvan,” he said briskly. “It came in with the salt shipment through the tunnels.”
“How much salt?”
“Five barrels.”
“Good.”
That should be enough to salt down the meat of the milk cows and goats that, in days, would have to be slaughtered. Fodder for them had run out. The other livestock of the refugees had long since been slaughtered and either roasted or salted, which had exhausted Belkuthas’s supply of salt.
Sir Esthazas coughed, reminding Pirvan he had not yet asked about the message. I will make a good steward for somebody, when this is done, he thought.
“Speak.”
“Ah-some of the able-bodied refugees-they’ve been training in arms since they left. They sent a message. Can they come back and help in the final fight?”
“No!”
Sir Esthazas flinched.
Pirvan shook his head and continued more quietly. “The better-trained in arms they are, the more their families need them. If they come back and we fall, they are lost and their families defenseless. If they remain in the forest and we fall, they can at least try to lead their families to safety. We will have dwarves and elves aplenty before much longer, so that safety will not be far off.”
“As you wish, Sir Pirvan.”
Sir Esthazas’s turning away was slow, and Pirvan saw the young knight’s broad shoulders slumping. He sighed. Esthazas was barely two years older than his son Gerik. He probably had the same reluctance to admit that something was troubling him, even to one who might help him.
“Sir Esthazas. I will not force help or advice on you, but feel free to ask any question you wish answered. If I can answer, I will.”
The young knight turned back toward Pirvan and almost managed to look him in the eye. “What will our place be, when the fight begins?”
“Have your men not been taking their turns of duty, even on the wall?”
“Yes. But always with an equal or greater number of other fighters watching them. The Gryphons, particularly. Their distrust is-it reeks, to be plain about it.”
In their place, mine would too, Pirvan thought, but did not say.
“It would take time to persuade Krythis and Threehands that you and your men should fight together-more time than we have.” It would take even longer to persuade his own men-at-arms. They felt the shame of Sir Lewin’s dishonor even more keenly than the knights. “But on the day of battle, whatever has been said before, your men will fight as one band, and you will lead them.”
I can’t use the argument about not doubting the honor of a fellow knight again, thought Pirvan, considering what nearly happened to Rynthala because of it. I’ll have to think of something else.
Pirvan did not expect to have time for that, either. At least Krythis’s being apathetic meant fewer allies to persuade that Sir Esthazas should fight at the head of his Solamnics. But Threehands was as tenacious as ever, and Tulia and Rynthala were not only as stubborn as their husband and father, they were much less polite.
But Sir Esthazas would fight. The trail of dishonor Sir Lewin had left behind would end on the day of battle.
Zephros felt rather as he had when, as a small boy, he was summoned to his father on the complaint of his tutor.
Carolius Migmar’s round, ruddy cheeks did not reduce the grimness of his expression as he sat behind the camp table in his tent. “I trust you have an explanation for being late, in addition to your other offenses?”
For Zephros, the truth allowed him to speak without stammering. That had also been the case when he was a boy. “We became lost, trying to avoid trails watched by Belkuthas’s rangers.”
“There are more folk than those of Belkuthas prowling these forests, Zephros. Many of them may be laid at your door. Had your contemptible little host not foraged-to be polite-on the country as it did, fewer folk might be desperate or furious.
“As it is, we have had to kill or execute a fair number of folk who, if they are not Silvanesti subjects, are probably Istarians, or even humans under dwarven protection. I am not grateful for this.
“However, I am grateful that you have done as much against Belkuthas as you have. Without you and your men, much less would have been done. The place might be impregnable.
“My gratitude extends to keeping you at the head of those you have led the past two months. I will also recommend a formal pardon-although I think it would be as well to resign after you are pardoned.”
“I do not think the host of Istar and I will miss each other, my lord.”
“Speaking for the host, I agree. But there are two conditions. One is that you lead your men at the walls on the day of our assault.”
“Consider that done.”
“The second condition is that you have no further dealings with Wilthur the Brown. I am informed-how, I shall not say-that if you do, the Knights of Solamnia will demand your head. I will probably give it to them.
“I do not ask that you seek and arrest him. You could probably do neither successfully. I only ask that if you learn of his whereabouts, you tell those fit to take him and stand aside while they do so.”
Zephros felt modest displeasure in discovering how much Carolius Migmar had learned. He felt great pleasure at leaving the tent a free man, and at the head of soldiers.