He pointed and then sprinted, not looking to see if any Shadovar followed.
Yet soon enough he heard them pounding along after him.
Every one of them. The ruse had worked. The Shadovar tore off through Candlekeep, away from the chamber of the balconies-and the dumbfounded Prefects.
This morning, the attacking mercenaries seemed endless. Even more numerous than the trees that stood all around this particular corner of the widespread fray.
Storm, Rune, and Arclath had been fighting for what seemed like forever, an endless deadly dance of swing, duck, dodge, parry, rebound from the numbing clang of blade on blade, and hack again. There were a score of besiegers to every defender of Myth Drannor, or even more.
Even given how many were being slaughtered with every panting, passing moment as the ring of attackers tightened around the city, yard by blood-soaked yard.
“F-fall back!” Arclath panted, slipping again on dead bodies underfoot. They were slick with blood, flies buzzing in profusion everywhere.
Not that he could hear the little pests. He was half deaf from all the clanging of blades striking blades or shields or armor, men shouting or screaming, raw dying shrieks on all sides. It had been nigh ceaseless, until a few panting moments ago.
Amarune flung out a hand to catch his shoulder and steady him. Gasping, he thanked her with a nod, and leaned on his sword, using it as a crutch to keep himself upright while he fought for breath.
This little lull in the fighting had come when the foe had fallen back to regroup. Which in this case meant drag the wounded away, reform survivors into new bands under the commanders who were left-probably all of them; these particular mercenary captains led from the rear-and in the meantime send fresh troops forward to pick up bodies and the dismembered, and fling them into heaps to clear some ground to walk on.
So they could all come charging up to the elf lines again.
Huh. Such as the “elf lines” were. There were perhaps a score of elves still on their feet, for as far as he could see along this ridge. And behind them all, there was no more wild forest, just the trees that sheltered and adorned the homes and garden terraces and soaring spires of Myth Drannor itself.
If the defenders retreated again, it would be the city itself they were yielding. Building by building.
“Sorry I got you into this, my love,” Rune whispered into his ear, as they leaned together for support, both gasping for breath. “You could still be safe by your fireside, back at home.”
“While you got butchered here without me? Never! After all, you’d haunt me over it-I’d never get a moment’s sleep!”
“True,” Rune whispered as she leaned against him. Forehead to forehead, they clung to each other, sharing their aches.
Storm had been helping elf wounded, and was now trudging back to meet them, with her hair, with all of her, drenched in blood.
Brow to brow with Arclath-who smelled as good as ever, she couldn’t help but notice-Amarune watched the bard come slowly up to them, trailing a sword that dripped with gore. So Chosen got just as weary as mere mortals.
Somehow that was both discouraging and reassuring at the same time.
They’d all been fighting hard amid the trees for what seemed like forever, and everyone’s arms-sword arms especially-ached and felt as heavy as castle stones.
“Kissing again?” Storm teased them, as she picked her way over heaped elf bodies to come up beside them. “You young ones never stop, do you? Don’t forget to breathe, now!”
They were both still too winded to give her suitably arch replies, so Rune settled for a rude gesture. Storm chuckled and embraced her, hugging her and then massaging the younger woman’s shoulders. Rune groaned.
Arclath smiled at them both fondly-as a war horn blared far off in the trees.
From far back in the enemy ranks somewhere.
He peered in that direction. The besieging mercenaries seemed endless; Arclath could see banners swaying among the trees as their bearers clambered over roots as high as tables, moving closer. The farthest banner was distant indeed.
He sighed, and leaned a little more heavily on his sword. There were too many mercenaries, too great a host for the surviving defenders to hold for long.
But then, he’d known all along that without far superior magic to hurl on the battlefield, Myth Drannor was doomed. It wasn’t a question of if the city would fall, but when.
The banners were moving again.
“They’re coming,” he muttered. “Are there any elves in reserve, or is it just this handful of us to hold back an army?”
Storm looked back over one shapely shoulder, then told him, “No, there’s another handful coming. I’d say Fflar is standing more or less alone against the mercenaries attacking the far side of the city. He’s sent most of his command to join us.”
Then she added, “Excuse me. Stay where you are.”
As Amarune and Arclath watched, the bard plunged down the steepest nearby slope, into a little pit ringed by the heaped dead-and shook herself like a wet dog, all over, her long silver hair thrusting itself out straight and stiff like a pincushion.
The heir of the Delcastles hauled Rune hastily down, so only a fine rain of blood fell on them like a mist, rather than a huge wet wall of it.
When they scrambled up again, to peer at the advancing mercenaries-who were thankfully coming with wary slowness, not shouting and charging-the Storm who joined them had hair that was silver again, clean of blood. The rest of her, however, was still besmirched.
“That’s a neat trick,” Rune told her. “Show me that, when we have time.”
“Gladly,” Storm agreed, as she raised a hand in greeting to the elves hastening to join them.
“Lady Storm,” the foremost warrior greeted her with a wry smile. “Well met. It’s been a few summers.”
“It has, Velathalar. Good to see you again. Are those with you likely to take a suggestion from a human, or are they more interested in trumpeting their precious honor and so dying in their own way?”
Arclath was greatly amused to hear that a dumbfounded male elf said “Eh?” in just the same tone of voice a male human did. But recovered, he had to grant, faster.
“Why?” Velathalar grinned. “What suggestion are you apt to make?”
“That we retreat, right now, to just there, where the fallen end, so we can stand on sure footing while the mercenaries struggle on the dead underfoot.”
“Wise,” the elf agreed, “not that honor will agree.” He whirled around to snap an order to the elves with him. “Back! Back to where the footing’s clear!”
“What?” a taller, older female elf snapped back at him. “And surrender soil of our city without even fighting for it? Where is your honor, Velathalar Muirdraevrel?”
Velathalar turned and gave Storm an “I told you so” look that was so clear and comical that Rune found herself giggling.
Despite more mercenaries than she could count mounting the last corpse-strewn slope with bills and glaives and spears ready in their hands that even now were being lowered to menace her.
“My honor,” Storm told the elf, before Velathalar could begin a reply, “comes from staying alive to win more of it, in days and months and years ahead. You do all Tel’Quess more service if you live to fight and defend beyond the next few minutes. If you’re fighting for grass and trees, why these, just here, in particular? Once you’re dead, you’ll never again be able to defend any of them.”
The bard hadn’t raised her voice, but her hair was stirring around her shoulders, and her words carried to every elf along the ridge. Magic or Weave work. And most of the elves pulled back a few strides to open ground.
“They’re here,” Arclath said warningly, as he backed carefully to join them, Rune at his side and Velathalar guarding his other flank.