The Kinslayer Wars Read online

Only from a truly exalted vantage – such as from the Tower of the Stars, the central feature of Silvanost – could the view be fully appreciated. This was where Sithas, Speaker of the Stars and ruler of Silvanesti, came to meditate and contemplate.

  The sky loomed vast and distant overhead, a dome of black filled with glittering pinpoints of light. Krynn’s moons had not yet risen, and this made the pristine beauty of the stars more brilliant, more commanding.

  For a long time, Sithas stood at the lip of the tower’s parapet. He found comfort in the stars and in the deep and eternal woods beyond this island, beyond this city. Sithas sensed that the forest was the true symbol of his people’s supremacy. Like the great trunks of forest giants, the ancient, centuries-living elves stood above the scurrying, scampering lesser creatures of the world.

  Finally the Speaker of the Stars lowered his eyes to look upon that city, and immediately the sense of peace and splendor he had known dissipated.

  Instead, his mind focused on Silvanost, the ancient elven capital, the city that held his palace and his throne.

  Faint traces of a drunken chant rose through the night air to disturb his ears.

  The song thrummed in the guttural basso of dwarves, as if to mock his concern and consternation.

  Dwarves! They are everywhere in Silvanost! Everywhere, in the city of elves, he thought grimly.

  Yet the dwarves were a necessary evil, Sithas admitted with a sigh. The war with the humans called for extremely careful negotiations with powerful Thorbardin, the dwarven stronghold south of the disputed lands. The power of that vast and warlike nation, thrown behind either human Ergoth or elven Silvanesti, could well prove decisive.

  Once, a year earlier, the Speaker of the Stars had assumed the dwarves were firmly in the elven camp. His negotiations with the esteemed Hylar dwarf Dunbarth Ironthumb had presented a unified front against human encroachment. Sithas had assumed that dwarven troops would soon stand beside the elves in the disputed plainslands.

  Yet, to date, King Hal-Waith of Thorbardin had not yet sent a single regiment of dwarven fighters, nor had he released to Kith-Kanan’s growing army any of the great stocks of dwarven weapons. The patient dwarves were not about to be hurried into any rash wars.

  So a dwarven diplomatic mission was a necessity in Silvanost. And now that war had begun, such missions required sizable escorts – in the case of the recently arrived dwarven general Than-Kar, some one thousand loyal axemen.

  Surprising himself, Sithas thought with fondness of the previous dwarven ambassador. Dunbarth Ironthumb had fully possessed all the usual uncouthness of a dwarf, but he also had a sense of humor and was self-effacing, traits that had relaxed and amused Sithas.

  Than-Kar had none of these traits. A swarthy complected Theiwar, the general was rude to the point of belligerence. Impatient and uncooperative, the ambassador actually seemed to act as an impediment to communication.

  Take, for example, the messenger who had arrived from Thorbardin more than a week ago. This dwarf, after his months’-long march, must certainly have brought important news from the dwarven king. Yet, Than-Kar had said nothing, had not even requested an audience with the Speaker of the Stars.

  This was the reason for the conference Sithas had scheduled for the morrow, peremptorily summoning Than-Kar to the meeting in order to find out what the Theiwar knew.

  His mood as thick as the night, Sithas let his gaze follow the dark outlines of the river Thon-Thalas, the wide waterway surrounding Silvanost and its island.

  The water was smooth, and he could see starlight reflected in its crystal surface. Then the breeze rose again, clouding the surface with ripples and washing the chant of the dwarven axemen away.

  Seeing the river, the Speaker’s mind filled with a new and most unwelcome memory, a scene as clear in its every detail as it was painful in its recollection.

  Two weeks ago or more it was now, yet it might as well have been that very morning. That was when the newly recruited regiments had departed westward, to join Kith-Kanan’s forces.

  The long columns of warriors had lined the riverbank, waiting their turns to board the ferry and cross. From the far bank of the Thon-Thalas, they were about to begin their long march to the disputed lands, five hundred miles to the west. Their five thousand spears, swords, and longbows would prove an important addition to the Wildrunners.

  Yet, for the first time in the history of Silvanesti, the elves had needed to be bribed into taking up arms for their Speaker, their nation. A hundred steel bounty, paid upon recruitment, had been offered as incentive. Even this had not brought volunteers flocking to the colors, though after several weeks of recruitment regiments of sufficient size had finally been raised.

  And then there had been the scene at the riverbank.

  The cleric Miritelisina had just recently emerged from the cell where Sithas’s father, Sithel, had thrown her for treason a year earlier. The matriarch of the faith of Quenesti Pah, benign goddess of healing and health, Miritelisina had voiced loud objections to the war with the humans. She had had the audacity to lead a group of elven females in a shrill, hysterical protest against the conflict with Ergoth. It had been a sickening display, worthy more of humans than of elves. Yet the cleric had enjoyed a surprisingly large amount of support from the onlooking citizens of Silvanesti.

  Sithas had promptly ordered Miritelisina back to prison, and his guard had disrupted the gathering with crisp efficiency. Several females had been wounded, one fatally. At the same time, one of the heavily laden river craft had overturned, drowning several newly recruited elves. All in all, these were bad omens.

  At least, the Speaker realized, the outbreak of war had driven the last humans from the city. The pathetic refugees of the troubles on the plains – many with elven spouses – had marched back to their homelands. Those who could fight had joined the Wildrunners, the army of Silvanost, centered around the members of the House Protectorate. The others had taken shelter in the great fortress of Sithelbec. Ironic, thought Sithas, that humans married to elves should be sheltered in an elven fortress, safe against the onslaught of human armies!

  Still, in every other way, the city that Sithas loved seemed to be slipping further and further from his control.

  His gaze lingered to the west, rising to the horizon, and he wished he could see beyond. Kith-Kanan was there somewhere under this same star-studded sky. His twin brother might even be looking eastward at this moment; at least, Sithas wanted to believe that he felt some contact.

  For a moment, Sithas found himself wishing that his father still lived. How he missed Sithel’s wisdom, his steady counsel and firm guidance! Had his father ever known these doubts, these insecurities? The idea seemed impossible to the son. Sithel had been a pillar of strength and conviction. He would not have wavered in his pursuit of this war in the protection of the elven nation against outside corruption.

  The purity of the elven race was a gift of the gods, with its longevity and its serene majesty. Now that purity was threatened – by human blood, to be sure, but also by ideas of intermingling, trade, artisanship, and social tolerance.

  The nation faced a very crucial time indeed. In the west, he knew, elves and humans had begun to intermarry with disturbing frequency, giving birth to a whole bastard race of half-elves.

  By all the gods, it was an abomination, an affront to the heavens themselves!

  Sithas felt his face flush, and his hands clenched. If he had worn a sword, he would have seized it then, so powerfully did the urge to fight come over him.

  The elves must prevail – they would prevail!

  Again he felt his distance from the conflict, and it loomed as a yawning chasm of frustration before him. As yet they had received no word of battle, although he knew that nearly a month earlier, the great invasion had begun. His brother had reported three great human columns, all moving purposefully into the plainslands. Sithas wanted to go and fight himself, to lend his strength to winning the war, and it was all he could do
to hold himself back. Inevitably his sense of reason prevailed.

  At times, the war seemed so far away, so unreachable. Yet, other times, he found it beside him, here in Silvanost, in his palace, in his thoughts … in his very bedroom.

  His bedroom. Sithas gave a rueful smile and shook his head in wonder. He thought of Hermathya, how months earlier his feelings for her had approached loathing.

  Yet with the coming of war, a change had come over his wife as well. Now she supported him as never before, standing beside him every day against the complaints and pettiness of his people … and lying beside him every night as well.

  He heard, or perhaps he felt, the soft rustle of silk, and then she was beside him. He breathed a deep sigh – a sound of contentment and satisfaction. The two of them stood alone, six hundred feet above the city, atop the Tower of the Stars, beneath the brilliant light shower of its namesake.

  Her mouth, with its round lips so unusually full for an elf, was creased by the trace of a smile – a sly, secret smile that he found strangely beguiling. She stood beside him, touching a hand to his chest and leaning her head on his shoulder.

  He smelled her hair, rich with the scent of lilacs, yet in color as bright as copper. Her smooth skin glowed with a milky luminescence, and he felt her warm lips upon his neck. A warm rush of desire swept through him, fading only slightly as she relaxed and stood beside him in silence.

  Sithas thought of his volatile wife – how pleasant it was to have her come to him thus, and how rare such instances had been in the past. Hermathya was a proud and beautiful elf woman, used to getting her own way. Sometimes he wondered if she regretted their marriage, arranged by their parents. Once, he knew, she had been the lover of his brother – indeed, Kith-Kanan had rebelled against his father’s authority and fled Silvanost when her engagement to Sithas had been announced. Did she ever regret her choice? How well had she calculated her future as wife of the Speaker of the Stars? He did not know – perhaps, in fact, he was afraid to ask her.

  “Have you seen my cousin yet?” she asked after a few minutes.

  “Lord Quimant? Yes, he came to the Hall of Balif earlier today. I must say, he seems to have an excellent grip on the problems of weapon production. He knows mining, smelting, and smithing. His aid is much needed … and would be much appreciated. We are not a nation of weaponsmiths like the dwarves.”

  “Clan Oakleaf has long made the finest of elven blades,” Hermathya replied proudly. “That is known throughout Silvanesti.”

  “It is not the quality that worries me, my dear. It is in the quantity of weapons that we lag sadly behind the humans, and the dwarves. We cleaned out the royal armories in order to outfit the last regiments we sent to the west.”

  “Quimant will solve your problems, I’m certain. Will he be coming to Silvanost?”

  The estate of Clan Oakleaf lay to the north of the elven capital, near the mines where they excavated the iron for their small foundries. The clan, the central power behind House Metalline, was the primary producer of weapons-quality steel in the kingdom of Silvanesti. Lately its influence had grown, due to the necessity of increased weapons production brought on by the war. The mines were worked by slaves, mostly human and Kagonesti elves, but this was a fact Sithas had to accept because of his nation’s emergency. Lord Quimant, the son of Hermathya’s eldest uncle, was being groomed as the spokesman and leader of Clan Oakleaf, and his services for the estate were important.

  “I believe he will. I’ve offered him chambers in the palace, as well as incentives for the Oakleaf clan – mineral rights, steady supplies of coal … and labor.”

  “It would be wonderful to have some of my family around again.”

  Hermathya’s voice rose, joyful as a young girl’s. “This can be such a lonely place, with all of your attention directed to the war.”

  He lowered his hand, sliding it along the smooth silk of her gown, down her back, his strong fingers caressing her. She sighed and held him tighter. “Well, maybe not all of your attention,” she added, with a soft laugh.

  Sithas wanted to tell her what a comfort she had been to him, how much she had eased the burdens of his role as leader of the elven nation. He wondered at the change that had come over her, but he said nothing. That was his nature, and perhaps his weakness.

  It was Hermathya who next spoke.

  “There is another thing I must tell you …”

  “Good news or bad?” he asked, idly curious.

  “You will need to judge that for yourself, though I suspect you will be pleased.”

  He turned to look at her, holding both of his hands on her shoulders. That secret smile still played about her lips.

  “Well?” he demanded, feigning impatience. “Don’t tease me all night! Tell me.”

  “You and I, great Speaker of the Stars, are going to have a baby. An heir.”

  Sithas gaped at her, unaware that his jaw had dropped in a most unelven lack of dignity. His mind reeled, and a profound explosion of joy rose within his heart. He wanted to shout his delight from the tower top, to let the word ring through the city like a prideful cry.

  For a moment, he truly forgot about everything – the war, the dwarves, the logistics and weapons that had occupied him. He pulled his wife to him and kissed her. He held her for a long time under the starlight, above the city that had so troubled him earlier.

  But for now, all was right with the world.

  *

  The next day, Than-Kar came to see Sithas, though the Theiwar dwarf arrived nearly fifteen minutes after the time indicated in the Speaker’s summons. Sithas awaited him, impatiently seated upon the great emerald throne of his ancestors, located in the center of the great Hall of Audience. This vast chamber occupied the base of the Tower of the Stars, with its sheer walls soaring upward into the dizzying heights. Above, six hundred feet over their heads, the top of the tower stood open to the sky.

  Than-Kar clumped into the hall at the head of a column of twelve bodyguards, almost as if he expected ambush. Twoscore elves of the House Protectorate – the royal guard of Silvanesti – snapped to attention around the periphery of the hall.

  The Theiwar sniffed his nose loudly, the rude gesture echoing through the hall, as he approached the Speaker. Sithas studied the dwarf, carefully masking his distaste.

  Like all Theiwar dwarves, Than-Kar’s eyes seemed to stare wildly, with the whites showing all around the pinpoint pupils. His lips curled in a perpetual sneer, and despite his ambassadorial station, his beard and hair remained unkempt, his leather clothes filthy. How unlike Dunbarth Ironthumb!

  The Theiwar bowed perfunctorily and then looked up at Sithas, his beady eyes glittering with antagonism.

  “We’ll make this brief,” said the elf coldly. “I desire to know what word has come from your king. He has had time to reply, and the questions we have sent have not been formally answered.”

  “As a matter of fact, I was preparing my written reply when your courier interrupted me with this summons yesterday. I had to delay my progress in order to hasten to this meeting.”

  Yes, Than-Kar must have made haste, for he obviously hadn’t taken time to run a comb through his hair or change his grease-spattered tunic, thought Sithas. The Speaker held his tongue, albeit with difficulty.

  “However, insofar as I am here and taking up the speaker’s valuable time, I can summarize the message that I have received from Thorbardin.”

  “Please, do,” Sithas requested dryly.

  “The Royal Council of Thorbardin finds that, to date, there is insufficient cause to support elven warmaking in the plains,” announced the dwarf bluntly.

  “What?” Sithas stiffened, no longer able to retain his impassive demeanor.

  “That is a contradiction of everything our meetings with Dunbarth established! Surely you – your people – recognize that the human threat extends beyond mere grazing rights on the plains!”

  “There is no evidence of a threat to our interests.”

&nbs
p; “No threat?” The elf cut him off rudely. “You know humans, they will stretch and grab whatever they can. They will seize our plains, your mountains, the forest – everything!”

  Than-Kar regarded him coolly, those wide, staring eyes seeming to gleam with delight. Abruptly Sithas realized that he was wasting his time with this arrogant Theiwar. Angrily he stood, half fearing that he would strike out at the dwarf and very much desiring to do just that. Still, enough of his dignity and self-control remained to stay his hand. After all, a war with the dwarves was the last thing they needed right now.

  “This conference is concluded,” he said stiffly.

  Than-Kar nodded – smugly, Sithas thought – and turned to lead his escort from the hall.

  Sithas stared after the dwarven ambassador, his anger still seething. He would not – he could not – allow this to be the final impasse!

  But what else could he do? No ideas arrived to lighten the oppressive burden of his mood.

  2

  SPRING, 2214 (PC)

  THE HORSE PRANCED NERVOUSLY ALONG THE RIDGETOP, STAYING within the protective foliage of the tree line. Thick, blue-green pines enclosed the mount and its elven rider on three sides. Finally the great stallion Kijo stood still, allowing Kith-Kanan to peer through the moist, aromatic branches to the vast expanse of open country beyond.

  Nearby, two of the Wildrunners – Kith’s personal bodyguards – sat alertly in their saddles, swords drawn and eyes alert. Those elves, too, were nervous at the sight of their leader possibly exposing himself to the threat in the valley below.

  And what a threat it was! The long column of the human army snaked into the distance as far as the keen-eyed elves could see from their vantage on the ridgetop. The vanguard of the army, a company of heavily armored lancers riding huge, lumbering war-horses, had already passed them by.

  Now ranks of spearmen, thousands upon thousands, marched past, perhaps a mile away down the gradually sloping ridge. This was the central wing of the massive Army of Ergoth, which followed the most direct route toward Sithelbec and presented the most immediate threat to the Wildrunners. Kith-Kanan turned with a grim smile, and Kijo pranced into the deeper shelter of the forest.