GRIFFITH, THILLIA

They ran down the trail, heading for the security of the village. The path was clear, well traveled, and flat. Adrenaline pumped, lending them impetus. They were in sight of the village when Roland came a halt.

“Wait!” he gasped. “Blackbeard.”

Rega and Paithan stopped, hands and bodies coming together, leaning on each other for support.

“Why—?”

“The dwarf. He couldn’t keep up,” said Roland, catching his breath. “They won’t let him inside the gates without us to vouch for him.”

“Then he’d just go back to the tunnels,” said Rega. “Maybe that’s what he did anyway. I don’t hear him.” She crowded closer to Paithan. “Let’s keep moving!”

“Go ahead,” said Roland harshly. “I’ll wait.”

“What’s got into you?”

“The dwarf saved our lives.”

“Your hus— brother’s right,” said Paithan. “We should wait for him.”

Rega shook her head, frowning. “I don’t like it. I don’t like him. I’ve seen him look at us, sometimes, and I—”

The sound of booted feet and heavy breathing interrupted her. Drugar stumbled along the path, head down, feet and arms pumping. He was watching the path, not where he was going and would have plowed right into Roland, if the man hadn’t reached out a restraining hand.

The dwarf looked up, dizzily, blinking back the sweat that was running into his eyes. “Why ... stopped?” he demanded when he could spare breath to talk.

“Waiting for you,” said Roland.

“All right, he’s here. Let’s get going!” said Rega, glancing around uneasily. The sound of the drumbeats pounded like their hearts, the only sounds in the jungle.

“Here, Blackbeard, I’ll give you a hand,” offered Roland.

“Leave me alone!” Drugar snarled, jerking back. “I can keep up.”

“Suit yourself.” Roland shrugged, and they started off again, pace slightly slower, to accommodate the dwarf.

When they arrived at Griffith, they not only found the gates closed, they discovered the citizens erecting a barricade in front of them. Barrels, pieces of furniture, and other junk were being hastily thrown down from the walls by the panic-stricken populace.

Roland waved and shouted, and finally someone looked over the edge.

“Who goes there?”

“It’s Roland! Harald, you jackass, if you don’t recognize me, you must recognize Rega! Let us in!”

“Who’s that with you?”

“An elf, name’s Quin. He’s from Equilan and a dwarf, name of Blackbeard, from Thurn ... or what’s left of it. Now are you going to let us in or stand here and jaw all day?”

“You and Rega can come in.” The crown of a balding head appeared over the top of an overturned barrel. “But not the other two.”

“Harald, you bastard, once I get in there I’m gonna break—”

“Harald!” Rega’s clear voice rang over her brother’s. “This elf is a weapons dealer! Elven weapons! Magical! And the dwarf has information about the ... the ...”

“Enemy,” said Paithan quickly.

“Enemy.” Rega swallowed, her throat gone dry.

“Wait here,” said Harald. The head disappeared. Other heads replaced it, staring out at the four standing in the path.

“Where the hell else does he think I’m gonna go?” muttered Roland. He kept glancing back, over his shoulder. “What was that? Over there?”

All of them turned fearfully, stared.

“Nothing! Just the wind,” said Paithan, after a moment.

“Don’t do that, Roland!” Rega snapped. “You nearly scared me to death.”

Paithan was eyeing the barricade. “That won’t keep them out, you know ...”

“Yes, it will!” whispered Rega, twining her fingers with the elf’s. “It has to!”

A head and shoulders appeared, looking at them over the barricade. The head was encased in brown, highly polished, tyro-shell armor, matching armor gleamed on the shoulders.

“You say these people are from the village?” the armored head asked the balding one next to it.

“Yes. Two of them. Not the dwarf and the elf—”

“But the elf is a weapons dealer. Very well. Let them inside. Bring them to headquarters.”

The armored head left. There was a momentary delay, barrels and crates had to come down, carts had to be pushed aside. Finally the wooden gates swung open only far enough to permit the four to squeeze their bodies through. The stocky dwarf, encased in his heavy leather armor, got stuck in the middle and Roland was forced to push him through from behind, while Paithan pulled from the front.

The gate was swiftly shut behind them.

“You’re to go see Sir Lathan,” instructed Harald, jerking a thumb at the inn. Several armored knights could be seen pacing about, testing their weapons, or clustered in groups, talking, keeping themselves aloof from the crowd of worried townspeople.

“Lathan?” said Rega, lifting her eyebrows. “Reginald’s younger brother? I don’t believe it!”

“Yeah, I didn’t think we were worth that much to him,” added Roland.

“Reginald who?” asked Paithan. The three moved toward the inn, the dwarf following, staring around him with his dark, shadowed gaze.

“Reginald of Terncia. Our liege lord. Apparently he’s sent a regiment of knights down here under his little brother’s command. I guess they figure on stopping the tytans here, before they reach the capital.”

“It may not be those ... those creatures that brought them,” said Rega, shivering in the bright sunlight. “It could be anything. A raid by the SeaKings. You don’t know, so just shut up about it!”

She stopped walking, stared at the inn, the people milling about, frightening themselves and each other. “I’m not going in there. I’m going home to ... to ... wash my hair.” Rega flung her arms around Paithan’s neck, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him on the lips. “I’ll see you tonight,” she said breathlessly.

He tried to stop her, but she left too quickly, practically running, shoving her way through the milling crowd.

“Perhaps I should go with her—”

Roland put his hand on the elf’s arm. “Just leave her alone. She’s scared, scared as hell. She wants time to get a grip on herself.”

“But I could help her—”

“No, she wouldn’t like that. Rega’s got a lot of pride. When we were kids, and Ma’d beat her till the blood ran, Rega never let anyone see her cry. Besides, I don’t think you’ve got a choice.”

Roland gestured to the knights. Paithan saw that they had ceased their discussions and were staring straight at him. The human was right, if the elf left now, they would think he was up to no good.

He and Roland continued their walk toward the inn, Drugar tramping noisily behind them. The town was in chaos, some hurrying toward the barricade, weapons in their hands, others hurrying away from it, families moving out, abandoning their homes. Suddenly Roland stepped in front of him, halting him with outstretched arm. Paithan was forced to either back up or run the man down.

“See here, Quindiniar, after we talk to this knight and we convince him that you aren’t in league with the enemy, why don’t you just head out for home ... alone.”

“I won’t leave without Rega,” said Paithan quietly.

Roland squinted up at him, smiled. “Oh? You going to marry her?”

The question caught Paithan by surprise. He firmly intended to answer yes but a vision of his older sister rose up before him. “I ... I—”

“Look, I’m not trying to protect Rega’s ‘honor.’ We never had any, either of us; couldn’t afford it. Our ma was the town whore. Rega’s done her share of bed hopping, but you’re the first man she’s ever cared about. I won’t let her get hurt. You understand?”

“You love her very much, don’t you?”

Roland shrugged, turned abruptly, and resumed walking. “Our ma ran off when I was fifteen. Rega was twelve. All we had left was each other. We’ve made our own way in this world, never asking help from anybody. So you just clear off and leave us alone. I’ll tell Rega you had to go on ahead to see about your family. She’ll be hurt some, but not as much as if you ... well ... you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Paithan. Roland’s right. I should leave, leave immediately, go on by myself. This relationship can come to nothing but heartache. I know that, I’ve known it from the beginning. But I never felt about any woman the way I feel about Rega!

Paithan’s desire ached and burned inside him. When she’d said that about seeing him tonight, when he’d looked into her eyes and seen the promise there, he hadn’t thought he could bear it. He could hold her tonight, sleep with her tonight.

And leave tomorrow?

So I’ll take her with me tomorrow. Take her home, take her to ... Calandra. He could picture his sister’s fury, hear her scathing, flesh-stripping remarks. No, it wouldn’t be fair, wouldn’t be fair to Rega.

“Hey.” Roland punched him in the side with his elbow.

Paithan glanced up, saw that they’d reached the inn. A knight stood guarding the door. His gaze flicked over Roland, fixed earnestly on Paithan, then on Drugar, standing behind them.

“Go on in,” said the knight, throwing open the door.

Paithan walked inside, stared. He wouldn’t have recognized the inn. The common room had been transformed into an arsenal. Shields decorated with each knight’s device stood against the walls, each knight’s weapons stacked neatly in front. Additional arms had been piled in the center of the floor, presumably to be distributed to the general populace in time of need. Paithan noted some magical elven weapons among the knights’ retinue, but not many.

The room was empty, except for a knight, seated at a table, eating and drinking.

“That’s him,” said Roland, out of the corner of his mouth.

Lathan was young, no more than twenty-eight years old. He was handsome, with the black hair and black mustache of the Thillian lords. A jagged battle scar cut into his upper lip, giving him a slight, perpetual sneer.

“Excuse me if I am so unmannerly as to dine in front of you,” said Sir Lathan. “I’ve had nothing to eat or drink the last cycle.”

“We haven’t had much to eat ourselves,” said Paithan.

“Or drink,” Roland added, eyeing the knight’s full mug.

“There are other taverns in this town,” said Sir Lathan. “Taverns that serve your kind.” He looked up from his plate long enough to fix his eyes on the elf and the dwarf, then returned his attention to his food. He forked meat into his mouth, and washed it down with a drink, “More ale,” he shouted, looking around for the innkeeper. He banged his mug on the table and the innkeeper appeared, a sullen look on his face.

“This time,” said Sir Lathan, flinging the mug at the man’s head, “draw it from the good barrel. I won’t drink slop.”

The innkeeper scowled.

“Don’t worry. It will be paid for out of the royal treasury,” said the knight.

The innkeeper’s scowl deepened. Sir Lathan stared coldly at the man. Retrieving the mug, which had clattered to the floor, the innkeeper vanished.

“So, you’ve come from the norinth, have you, elf. What were you doing there, with that.” The knight gestured with his fork in the direction of the dwarf.

“I’m an explorer,” said Paithan. “This man, Roland Redleaf, is my guide. This is Blackbeard. We met—”

“Drugar,” growled the dwarf. “My name is Drugar.”

“Uh, huh.” Sir Lathan took a bit, chewed, then spit the meat back into his plate. “Pah! Gristle. So what’s an elf doing with the dwarves? Forging alliances, perhaps?”

“If I was, it’s my business.”

“The lords of Thillia could make it their business. We’ve let you elves live in peace a long time. Some are thinking it’s been too long. My Lord among them.”

Paithan said nothing, merely cast a significant glance at the elven weapons standing among the knights’ own. Sir Lathan saw the glance, understood, and grinned. “Think we can’t get along without you? Well, we’ve come up with some devices that’ll make you elves sit up and take notice.” He pointed. “See that? It’s called a crossbow. Drive an arrow through any type of armor you name. Even send it through a wall.”

“It will do you no good against the giants,” said Drugar. “It will be like throwing sticks at them.”

“How would you know? You met up with them?”

“They wiped out my people. Slaughtered them.”

Sir Lathan paused in the act of lifting a piece of bread to his mouth. He looked at the dwarf intently, then tore off a lit of bread with his teeth.

“Dwarves,” he muttered disparagingly, his mouth full.

Paithan glanced swiftly at Drugar, interested in the dwarf’s reaction. Drugar was eyeing the knight with a strange expression; the elf could have sworn it was glee. Startled, Paithan began to wonder if the dwarf was insane. Considering this, he lost the thread of the conversation and only picked it up again when he heard the word SeaKings.

“What about the SeaKings?” he asked.

Sir Lathan grunted. “Keep awake, elf. I said that the tytans have attacked them. They’ve been routed, seemingly. The bastards actually had the nerve to beg us for help.”

The innkeeper returned with the ale, set the mug down in front of the knight.

“Back off,” Lathan commanded, waving a greasy hand.

“And did you send aid?” Paithan inquired.

“They’re the enemy. It could have been a trick.”

“But it wasn’t, was it?”

“No,” the knight admitted. “I guess not. They were soundly trounced, according to some of the refugees we talked to before we turned them away from the walls—”

“Turned them away!”

Sir Lathan lifted the mug, drank long and deep, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, “What would happen if we sent sorinth for aid, elf. What would happen if we asked your people for help?”

Paithan felt a hot flush spread from his neck to his cheeks. “But you and the SeaKings are both human.” It was lame, but all he could think of to say.

“Meaning you’d help us if we were your kind? Well, you can make good on that one, elf, because we’ve heard rumors that your people in the Fartherness Reaches have been attacked, as well.”

“That means,” said Roland, quickly calculating, “that the tytans are spreading out, moving est and vars, surrounding us, surrounding Equilan,” he said with emphasis.

“I’ve got to go! Got to warn them,” murmured Paithan. “When do you expect them to reach Griffith?”

“Any day now,” said Lathan. Wiping his hands on the table-cloth, he rose to his feet, the tyro armor making a clattering sound. “The flood of refugees has stopped, which means they’re all probably dead. And we’ve heard nothing from our scouts, which means they’re probably dead, too.”

“You’re being awfully cool about this.”

“We’ll stop them,” said Sir Lathan, buckling on his sword belt.

Roland stared at the sword, with its honed, wooden blade and suddenly began to laugh, a high-pitched, shrill cackle that made Paithan shudder. By Orn, maybe the dwarf wasn’t the only one going crazy.

“I’ve seen them!” cried Roland, in a low, hollow voice. “I saw them beat a man. ... He was tied up. They hit him and hit him”—his voice rose, fists clenched—“and hit him and—”

“Roland!”

The human was curling up, body hunching over, fingers twitching spasmodically. He seemed to be falling apart.

“Roland!” Paithan flung his arms around the man, gripped the shoulders hard, fingers digging into the flesh.

“Get him out of here,” said Sir Lathan, in disgust. “I’ve no use for cowards.” He paused a moment, considering his words, Tolling them in his mouth as if they tasted bad. “Could you get weapons to us, elf?” He asked the question grudgingly.

No, Paithan was on the verge of saying. But he stopped the words, nearly biting off his tongue to keep them from blurting out. I need to reach Equilan. Fast. And I can’t if I’m going to be stopped and questioned at every border between here and Varsport.

“Yes, I’ll get you weapons. But I’m a long way from home—”

Roland lifted a ravaged face. “You’re going to die! We’re all going to die!”

Other knights, hearing the commotion, peered in the window. The innkeeper’s face had gone livid. He began to babble, his wife started to wail. Sir Lathan put his hand on his sword, loosened the blade in its scabbard. “Shut him up before I run him through!”

Roland shoved the elf aside, bolted for the door. Chairs toppled, he overturned a table, and nearly knocked down two knights trying to stop him. At Lathan’s gesture, they let him pass. Glancing through a window, Paithan saw Roland staggering down the street, weaving on unsteady feet like a drunken man.

“I’ll give you a permit,” said Lathan.

“Cargans as well.” The elf pictured the puny barricades, imagined the tytans smashing through them, walking over them as if they were nothing but piles of leaves thrown in their path. This town was dead.

Paithan made up his mind. I’ll take Rega to Equilan with me. She won’t go without Roland, so I’ll take him back, too. He’s not a bad fellow. Not really.

“Cargans[24] enough to carry me and my friends.”

Sir Lathan was scowling, obviously not pleased.

“That’s the deal,” Paithan said.

“What about the dwarf? He one of your friends, too?”

Paithan had forgotten about Drugar, standing silently beside him the entire time. He looked down, to see the dwarf looking up, the black eyes flickering with that queer, gleeful gleam.

“You’re welcome to come with us, Drugar,” said Paithan, trying to sound as if he meant it. “But you don’t have to—”

“I’ll come,” said the dwarf.

Paithan lowered his voice. “You could go back to the tunnels. You’d be safe there.”

“And what would I go back to, elf?”

Drugar spoke quietly, one hand toyed with his long, flowing beard. The other hand was hidden, thrust into his belt.

“If he wants to come with us, he can,” said Paithan. “We owe him. He saved our lives.”

“Pack your gear then and make ready. The cargans will be saddled and waiting in the yard out there. I’ll give the orders.” Lathan picked up his helm, and prepared to walk out the door.

Paithan hesitated, conflicting emotions tugging at him. He caught hold of the knight’s arm as Lathan passed him.

“My friend isn’t a coward,” said the elf. “He’s right. Those giants are deadly. I—”

Sir Lathan leaned near, his voice low and quiet, for the elf alone. “The SeaKings are fierce warriors. I know. I’ve fought them. From what we heard, they never had a chance. Like the dwarves, they were destroyed. One word of advice, elf.” The knight’s eyes gazed steadily into Paithan’s. “Once you’re gone, keep going.”

“But ... the weapons?” Paithan stared, confused.

“Just talk. To keep up appearances. For my men and the people around here. You couldn’t get back here fast enough. And I don’t think weapons—magical or not—will make any difference anyway. Do you?”

Slowly, Paithan shook his head. The knight paused, his face grave and thoughtful. He seemed, when he spoke, to be talking to himself.

“If ever there was a time for the Lost Lords to return, that time is now. But they won’t come. They’re asleep beneath the waters of the Kithni Gulf. I don’t blame them for leaving us to fight this alone. Theirs was an easy death. Ours won’t be.”

Lathan straightened, glowering at the elf. “Enough haggling!” the knight said loudly, rudely shoved his way past. “You’ll get your blood money.” He tossed the words over his shoulder. “That’s all you blasted elves care about, isn’t it? You there, boy! Saddle three—”

“Four,” corrected Paithan, following Sir Lathan out the door.

The knight frowned, appeared displeased. “Saddle four cargans. They’ll be ready in half a petal’s fold, elf. Be here on time.”

Paithan, confused, didn’t know what to say and so he said nothing. He and Drugar started off down the street, following after Roland, who could be seen in the distance, leaning weakly against a building.

The elf halted then, half-turned. “Thanks,” he called back to the knight.

Lathan brought his hand to the visor of his helm in a solemn, grim salute.

“Humans,” muttered Paithan to himself, heading after Roland. “Try to figure them.”