Tanequil (23 page)

The King frowned. “How long might that be?”

“Today, I should think. Tomorrow, at the latest.”

Kellen shook his head. “Today, perhaps. Tomorrow, no. That's too long. By then, reserves might be called up and the odds made too great for us to chance a strike. The time to act is now, while the Federation fleet is diminished, while we are clearly superior in numbers and experience. Waiting is dangerous.”

“Acting out of haste is more dangerous still.” Pied stepped in with both feet, his eyes locked on his cousin's, watching as the other's face darkened angrily. “I know you want to attack now, but something about all this doesn't feel right. Better to wait and chance losing this opportunity than to seize it and find we have been tricked.”

“Tricked how, Captain?” His cousin's tone of voice had turned dark and accusatory. “What exactly is it you fear?”

Pied shook his head. “You know I don't have an answer for that. I don't know enough about what the Federation's intentions might be. Which is why I want to wait—”

“No.”

“—until we have a report—”

“No, cousin! No! There will be no waiting, no hesitation, no second-guessing what seems clear to everyone but you. None of my other advisers, commanders on the field and off, has voiced your concerns. Suppose you are correct. Suppose this is a trap. What risk do we take? We fly superior airships. We can outrun and outmaneuver our enemies at will. We cannot be hurt from the ground. At worst, we will find we were mistaken about the size of their fleet and be forced to retreat. We have done so before, and it has cost us nothing. Why would this time be any different?”

Because this time you are being
invited
to act against them,
Pied wanted to say, but did not. He knew the argument was over and the matter settled. Kellen Elessedil was King of the Elves, and the King had the final word on everything.

“Cousin,” the other soothed, stepping over to put his arm about him, “we have been friends a long time. I respect your opinion, which is why I asked you to come speak with me before I gave the command to proceed. I knew what you would say, but I wanted you to say it. I wanted you to question me, because frequently you are the only one who will. A King needs candid and reasoned advice from his advisers, and in most matters, no one gives better advice than you.”

He gave Pied a small squeeze with his powerful arm. “That said, a King must listen to what his instincts tell him. He must not waver once his mind is made up. You know this.”

He waited for Pied's response, so it was necessary to give it. “I know, my lord.”

“I have made a commitment to turn the tide of this war once and for all, and now, at last, I have a way to do so. It would be cowardly of me to turn away a chance such as this merely because there are risks. It would be unforgivable.”

“I know that, as well.”

“Will you still come with me when we fly into battle?” The King stepped away, releasing his grip. “I won't ask it of you if you feel strongly about not going. Nor will I think less of you.”

Pied arched one eyebrow at his cousin. “I am Captain of the Home Guard, my lord. Where you go, I must go, as well. That isn't open to debate. Don't make it seem as if it is.”

The King's intense, considering gaze locked on him. “No, cousin, I guess it isn't. Not with someone as dedicated as you. And I wouldn't want it any other way.” He paused. “I'll give this matter several hours more thought before acting. I had planned a late afternoon strike in any case, so that we can come at them from out of the twilight, out of the shadows. You may keep watch for your scouts until then. If they return in time, bring me whatever news you think matters. I promise I will listen. But if none comes, I will see you on the plains an hour before dusk.”

Pied turned and started for the door. “One thing more,” the King called after him. Pied turned. “I intend to take Kiris and Wencling with me.” He must have seen the confusion in Pied's eyes. “Aboard the flagship, cousin. I want them to watch.”

Pied stared. Kellen Elessedil was talking about his sons. About boys who were fifteen and thirteen. About taking them into the heart of an engagement with a dangerous enemy. “No,” he said at once, before he could think better of it.

The King seemed unruffled. “They need to see what a battle is like, to understand what happens. They need to experience it for themselves, not just hear about it. They are future Kings, and this is a part of their training.”

“They are too young for this, my lord. There will be other times, safer times, when the risk is not so great.”

“The risk is always great in war, cousin,” the King said, brushing his arguments aside.

Pied took a deep, steadying breath, picturing Arling's reaction once she found out what Kellen had done. “With any Elves-in-training, we expose them gradually to the dangers of war. We don't just throw them out on the battlefield—not unless we are desperate. We bring them along slowly. I think that is what is needed with Kiris and Wencling. Let them come on a few overflights first, ones in which combat is not a given.”

Kellen Elessedil took a long moment to study him, as if seeing something he hadn't seen before, something he was not altogether pleased about. Then he said, softly, “I will think about it, cousin.”

He motioned for Pied to go out, an odd gesture Pied had not seen before. But this was not the time for speculation. He departed quickly, happy to escape before Kellen could think of some further madness. Because he would, Pied knew. He was in that place where ideas came and went like silverfish, and each looked better than the one before, but never was.

Outside the tent, Drumundoon fell into step beside him, his tall form bent close as he said, “Did he listen to you?”

Pied nodded. “He listened. Then he ignored me. If I don't give him fresh reasons to call it off, the attack takes place at dusk. Worse, he intends to take his sons along for the ride.”

Drumundoon exhaled sharply. “Has he lost his mind?”

“Arling would think so. I wish she were here to speak with him. She might have better luck than I.”

Drumundoon shook his head. “I doubt it. He doesn't listen to her, either. Although he might, where those boys are concerned. What matters is that she left them in your charge. Yours, specifically. I was there when she did so. I heard the way she spoke to you. If anything happens to her sons, she will have your head.”

Pied glanced at him.
Because I loved her once. Because I think she loved me, as well. You left that part out, Drum.

He stalked off into the midday heat and tried not to think about it.

 
N
INETEEN
 

By late afternoon, Acrolace and Parn had still not returned. It worried Pied, but he had learned long ago to live with the guilt associated with sending his Home Guard to spy on an enemy. It was obvious in any case that Acrolace and Parn were not going to return in time to be of any help in dissuading Kellen Elessedil from his ill-advised foray. The attack on the Federation fleet was going to happen whether he wanted it to or not, and he was just going to have to make the best of it. That was sometimes a soldier's lot, even if you were Captain of the Home Guard and cousin to the King.

Dressed in his battle gear, his weapons strapped about him once more, he called Drumundoon to his tent, and with the sun creeping toward the horizon through a screen of thin clouds and the daylight becoming diffuse and weak, they set out for the airship field.

“No word of any sort, Drum?”

The aide shook his head. “Nothing. I hear that the Federation is massing soldiers along its lines, looking to shore up the weaknesses brought about by the departure of the Rovers. That's the King's reading of the situation, at least. It reinforces what he already believes, which makes it attractive. It supports the decision he favors. Word is, he sees this war over and done within a week.”

“Celebrating his victory before he's even engaged his enemy. How very like him.” Pied shook his head. “Something is going on that we don't know about. I can feel it in my bones. This attack is a mistake. I have to find a way to stop it.”

Drumundoon pursed his lips. “I don't know this for a fact, but I am given to understand that the King hasn't advised our allies as yet of his plans.”

Pied came to an abrupt halt, staring at him. “What?”

“He intends to inform them just before he sets out, I'm told. That way, they can't stop him.” His aide cocked an eyebrow at him. “He doesn't want to risk anything or anyone getting in his way. He knows he isn't commander of the Free-born army, that he isn't even commander of the airship fleet. But he is King of the Elves, and the Elves make up the greater part of the airship command, so in his mind, that's sufficient justification for striking out on his own.”

Drumundoon glanced around warily, making sure no one else was listening. “Captain, he doesn't intend to ask for support from any quarter in this business. He intends this victory to belong solely to the Elves. Dwarves, Trolls, and Bordermen can share in it afterwards, once it has been realized, but ultimately it is the Elves who will bring it about. That's what they say he's decided.”

Pied fumed. How had he not seen that coming? For more than two months, Kellen Elessedil had camped on the Prekkendorran with his Elven Hunters, an inspiring presence and little more on the face of things. But Kellen Elessedil was nothing if not driven. You could see it in his impatience with the failure of the Free-born army to effect any noticeable change in the status quo. Always anxious to be in the thick of things, always looking to see how matters so long stalemated might be resolved, the King was pressing his fellow commanders at every opportunity. The war was more than thirty years old, and the Elves were sick to death of it. The King saw it as his moral imperative to bring it to a conclusion, and no one could fault him for his commitment to do so. What was wrong with his approach was his insistence on doing it his way, on finding a solution that did not necessarily involve his Free-born allies. What was mistaken in his thinking was that the solution existed in simple terms; that somehow the answer lay in a single brilliant military stroke, and that the finding of that answer had been left up to him.

Well, it was too late to try to explain it to him now, even supposing he would be willing to listen, which Pied was quite sure he would not.

He started walking again, more purposefully, a mix of irritation and concern flooding through him. King or not, Kellen Elessedil was overstepping his bounds, and it would come back to haunt them all. Drumundoon matched his strides to those of his Captain and kept his peace while he did so. Neither of them spoke. There had been enough talk already.

Pied surveyed the camp as they passed through it, taking careful note of what he saw. This section was mostly Elven; those farther on, east of where they walked, comprised Bordermen from the larger cities of Callahorn as well as Dwarves and Trolls, most of the latter mercenaries. The nominal leader of the army was an aged, though highly respected, Southlander named Droshen, but the real leader, the man who commanded the soldiers on the battlefield, was a Dwarf called Vaden Wick, a veteran of countless campaigns against the Gnome tribes before coming to the Prekkendorran. Just now, coordination of the various allied forces was loose, a condition brought about by the near inactivity of the armies on either side of the conflict over the past few years, an erosion of structure and discipline through constant changes in both ranks and command. The third generation of allies was fighting the war, and the toll was noticeable. It was assumed by most that the war would end only when the leaders finally grew so tired of it that they called it off by mutual agreement. No one thought it could be won on the battlefield. Not after so long. Not after so many failed attempts.

Except, of course, for a few who thought like Kellen Elessedil.

Pied was disconcerted by what he saw that evening. The obvious lack of discipline was worrisome. The looks on the faces of the men and women as they sat around their fires, playing games of chance and drinking ale, were more worrisome still. Disinterest and resignation were mirrored in those faces. That spoke to him clearly: No one believed in the war anymore. It said that everyone was sick of the fighting and dying. It said that keeping your head down and your mouth shut was all that would get you through. These men and women were waiting things out. They were waiting to go home.

He glanced around. No one drilled or trained. No one sharpened weapons or tightened straps on armor. There were Elven Hunters manning the walls at the front and there was a watch in place; that was enough. If something more was needed, it was somebody else's problem.

It was worse elsewhere, in the other armies, where discipline was even less in evidence. It wasn't that Bordermen, Dwarves, and Trolls weren't brave and capable; it was that they had no reason to think those attributes would be tested. The Federation army had squatted in place for almost two years without doing anything beyond sending out scouts and attempting an occasional foray into the Free-born lines. They were as indolent and disinterested in fighting as their enemies were. The mobilization of fresh forces along the Federation front in the wake of the departure of the Rover airships did not suggest to the Elves and their allies that their enemy's attitude had changed.

Pied glanced over at Drumundoon and gestured toward the encampment. “They don't seem to have much to do with their time, do they?”

Drum said nothing. There was nothing to say. He was of the same mind as his Captain. The Home Guard had a different approach to discipline than everyone else, but that was why they were Home Guard. The rest of the army regarded them as curiosities. They were a small unit assigned a single task—to protect the King. The way they conducted themselves, others believed, was mostly the result of the suspicion that the King was always watching them.

When they reached the heights, Pied paused. The front stretched along the plateau that comprised the Prekkendorran for more than two miles east and west through a series of broad flats segmented by twisting passes and ravines. At present, and for much of the past twenty years, the Free-born had occupied a pair of high bluffs bracketing a deep, wide pass that angled north all the way to the other side of the plateau before turning down through the foothills beyond. Elves occupied the smaller bluff on the west; a mix of Bordermen, Dwarves, and Trolls, the larger one on the east. By placing archers and slingmen on either side of the gap, where it narrowed, they were able to ward against penetration. The Federation's only choice was to come at the allies from the front or sides and to do so from a highly vulnerable position.

The Federation had penetrated deep into the flats early on in the war, but once the allies had found the bluffs on which to set their defenses, the attack had stalled. Because the Federation was the invading force, the allies could afford to sit back and wait. It was the invader who must come to them, and by now they had constructed defenses of stone and timber that were believed to be sufficiently strong that it would cost the lives of thousands of men to achieve a breakthrough. It was generally agreed by both sides that another way must be found, and as yet it had not.

Pied studied the Federation lines, situated on the flats not half a mile away. A mass of dark figures crowded behind fortifications similar to their own. In the two months he had been on the front, they had not emerged from behind those walls. The most excitement he had experienced was the result of a pair of rather haphazard airship attacks on the Dwarf lines a mile farther down the front, which had been quickly driven back.

Were there more Federation soldiers at those walls than there had been a week ago? A mottled stain of black-and-silver uniforms spread away behind those fortifications for better than a mile, clusters of men settled about cooking fires and stacks of weapons. There was no drilling or training in evidence, no suggestion of an impending attack. Everything looked as it always looked.

But that didn't mean it was.

He shook his head. He didn't like anything he was seeing on either side of the front. He had been a soldier all his life, and he had learned to trust his instincts. They were screaming at him, telling him that the possibility of disaster was enormous and close at hand.

“Drum, I can't let him do this,” he said quietly.

“The King?” His aide shook his head. “You can't stop him, Captain. You've already tried, and he won't listen. If you can't tell him something he doesn't already know, you'll just make him more determined.”

Pied walked on, saying nothing. There had to be a way to stall, something he could say or do to win a reprieve. He had always been able to out-think Kellen; he ought to be able to do so now.

Ahead, the airfield came into view, settled in a swale at the center of the encampment east, close to the draw that separated the allied armies. There was noticeable activity, even from a distance. Ships were being readied for liftoff, crews scurrying across the decks and atop the rigging, tightening draws and loosening sails. Railguns were already fitted in place, and missiles were stacked in boxes beside them. Two dozen airships were set to fly, the larger part of the fleet, the best of the warships it comprised. The King was determined that the attack would succeed, holding nothing back against the possibility that it wouldn't.

As he descended from the higher flat, Pied caught sight of the King grouped with his airship commanders in a tight circle by the flagship
Ellenroh,
talking. The discussion appeared heated, but all the heat was coming from the King. His Captains were doing little more than listening.

Then Pied caught sight of Kiris and Wencling, standing off to one side of their father, and his heart sank. The King had decided to take his sons with him, after all. In spite of Pied's reservations. In spite of his advice. His nephews were looking at their feet, trying not to draw attention to themselves, staring ill at ease and out of place, and he guessed they didn't like the idea of being there any better than he did.

Taking a deep breath, he walked across the airfield and up to the King.

“Captain,” the King greeted on catching sight of him. He would never use Pied's name or refer to their familiar relationship in a situation like this. “We are ready to depart. No word, I gather, from your scouts? No? Then we have no further reason to delay.”

“My lord, I wish you would reconsider,” Pied said quickly. “I would feel better for your safety if we waited just one more day. My scouts should return—”

“My safety is in good hands with these men,” the King interrupted, an edge to his voice. “I thought we had settled this earlier, Captain. Was there something I said that wasn't clear to you?”

There was no mistaking the anger in his voice. He did not care to be challenged in front of his airship Captains and his sons and particularly not about the coming attack. He was telling Pied he had gone as far as he was going to be allowed to go, and that he had better not try to go farther.

But Pied had no choice. Not if he was to keep his self-respect. “My lord, you made yourself perfectly clear. I respect your thinking. But I have been a soldier for a long time, and I have learned to trust my instincts. They tell me that something isn't right about what we're seeing—about the unexplained Rover departure and weakening of the Federation fleet. Nor do I feel right about the mobilization reported along the Federation front. I know it seems to be in response to the Rover departure, but I think it might be something else. If I could suggest an alternative plan, my lord, I would ask you to take an exploratory flight to see—”

“Enough, Captain!” the King snapped, cutting him short. There was a hushed silence. The King was seething. “More than enough. You are Captain of the Home Guard. Limit yourself to that and leave the decision making to me!”

“As Captain of the Home Guard, I am responsible for your safety and must do everything in my power to protect you!” Pied snapped back. “I can't do that if you won't let me!”

The silence turned as frosty as midwinter in the Charnals. Pied caught a glimpse of the shocked faces of the King's sons, who stared at him in disbelief—Kiris, tall and dark like his father, and Wencling, fair and small like his mother. No one talked that way to their father, certainly not outside the family and not in public. Pied had crossed the line, but his conscience refused to let him back down.

Kellen Elessedil turned away. “Captains,” he addressed his airship commanders, “prepare to set out. Board everyone. Make certain they know what is expected of them.”