Still, he would not tempt fate. Silor had failed to kill the Silvan in the city, but the bastard could not escape Sulén’s mercenaries. The time it had taken him to see to things had been a risk but a worthy one.
They had stopped at Senge. Sulén did not care much for its lord. Tenbar was a soppy old fool with the face of a child. Still, he was a respectable Alpine with more money than he and Ras’dan put together. Why he had accepted the government of that river village that smelled of fish and rotting vegetation he could not quite understand. Still, Sulén had needed those few days to coordinate his efforts, send his elves out and issue messages to others further afield.
By the time Sulén took ship to Port Helia, the boy would be dead. Even now, they were watching the path over the mountains, down the river, lying in wait and upon the shores of Tar’eastór and Ea Uaré. They sat in taverns and mixed with the underworld, listened to every piece of gossip and hearsay.
He watched his own group of mercenaries from the open flap of his tent, saw Ras’dan’s identical tent just over the way. They sat around fires, cooking and eating, grunting and shoving at each other. Elves of few words, ruthless and unscrupulous. All they cared about was money—money and reputation, because their successes meant a higher cache for the next bidder. He knew them well, or thought he did until Macurian had turned on him. The Shadow had stolen his jewels and his papers. Band’orán had it right, secretly training his own warriors, his own army for what was to come. But only he had the skill to achieve that. Sulén had never been good with a blade.
He shut the tent flap and turned to the table laden with sumptuous goods. Exotic fruit and tangy cheese. A bottle of his finest wine lay open, half-consumed. Sulén always travelled in luxury, even when he was fleeing.
He reached for the wine, poured it into his jewelled goblet, and then started at the yell of a guard. His wine sloshed dangerously, and he frowned. Standing, he made for the entrance, irked at the interruption, and peeked outside.
His mercenaries were scrambling to their feet, strapping on their weapons. He saw Silor rush past the tent, shouting his own orders.
Ras’dan was nowhere to be seen.
He backed away, looked around him. They were under attack, and Sulén was no warrior. He saw a knife on the table, sitting next to a hunk of his favourite cheese. He lunged for it. Then his back hit the tarpaulin, and he stood on shaking legs. He could hear shouting and the clashing metal. And then he heard it. The unmistakable wailing of Deviants.
He paused, breath uneven, noisy, heart banging against his ribs, stupid knife in his clenched fist. The battle beyond the tent was frenzied. The screaming and wailing chilled him, the shrieks as his mercenaries fell. And then there was nothing but a ringing echo.
Silence.
His heart beat wildly. He was panting, sweating, staring wide-eyed at the tent flap. The off-white cloth, expertly oiled, was pushed aside by a grey and mottled hand. A towering figure stepped inside. The stench made his eyes water, but so, too, did his fear. The blurred Deviant stepped closer, head cocking from side to side as if it struggled to understand something. It raised one hand, clutching at the blond hair of a head it had severed, and held it up for him to see.
The face of his son swam before him, words of grief upon his tongue, refusing to spill over quivering lips. But then fire seared his neck, heat spread down his front. He was choking, and couldn’t understand why he could see the fire vent through the roof.
The Deviant watched as the elven lord’s head slipped backwards and his body fell to the floor. He grabbed Sulén’s head and left the tent, turned to his tribe and watched them work for a while. It was a glorious sight that made his black heart sing. Immortals, dead and mutilated, headless. It was just as exhilarating as his commander had said it would be.
They hoisted the bodies up into the stinking trees and impaled their heads upon wooden stakes driven into the ground. A whole line of them, and behind, their bodies hung, just as the warriors of Tar’eastór had done to their own kind.
He spared one last look at the elven lord’s head, bloody mouth round with surprise. He smiled, wanted to laugh but couldn’t.
His beautiful commander would be pleased.
As the sun began to set, Handir, Llyniel, the commanders and The Company stood around a large table that had been set up in the prince’s sitting area.
“I wonder at the wisdom of returning over the High Path,” began Pan’assár, turning to Gor’sadén, Handir and The Company. “It takes us into the heart of the forest. There will be little escape should the situation escalate. Our company is predominantly Alpine, not to mention we travel in the company of princes of the Motherland and Ea Uaré. If the Silvans have turned hostile, that route is unsafe.” He leaned over the large table on which a detailed map had been spread, held down by stones and candles.
“But surely they would not rebel to the point of conflict,” said Fel’annár.
“Why so sure, Lord Fel’annár?” asked Handir, turning from the hearth and approaching the table, eyes fixed on the Median Mountain range. “To me, it is clear that it is in Lord Band’orán’s favour to instigate violence. By destabilising the kingdom, he will strive to show my father’s incapacity to deal with it, and we all know who he would propose as an alternative. But the Silvans cannot see this. They do not know Band’orán as I do. They will rise to the bait, believe those lies, because there is no reason not to.”
Pan’assár’s gaze lingered on his prince for a while before he nodded and continued to reason out where and how they should return. “Well said, my prince, and I concur. I would suggest avoiding the Path and travelling further south, along the Cor’hidén to the sea. From there, we take sail westwards to Port Helia.”
“But that is a busy place, Commander,” began Sontúr. “We will surely be recognised. And the descent from the Glistening Falls is, shall we say, renowned for its perils. The human bones that litter those shores are a testimony to that. And if that were not enough, those lands are riddled with jewel bandits, thieves, pirates further down the cliffs. There are also Cave Deviants. Oh, and Hounds towards the end of the descent here.”
“Hounds are better than mercenaries, Prince,” said Pan’assár.
But Sontúr was not convinced. “If we take the High Path, we will find Mountain Deviants along the way. It will lead us to the heart of a forest that may not welcome Alpines, and true, Fel’annár here will be recognised. If we travel the Cor’hidén and to the Glistening Falls, we risk the wiles of nature, Hounds and human bandits. And still, Fel’annár will be recognised. At least in the forest he will have allies, where in Port Helia, it is the Alpine merchants who will recognise him. Allies, I think not.”
“The risks are balanced, Prince. But the southern sea route takes two weeks off our travelling time. The question is, do we risk it for the sake of arriving sooner?” asked Pan’assár. He barely had time to rake his eyes over Gor’sadén, The Company and his prince, for his answer lay in Handir’s eyes.
“We must. These missives were written some time ago. That vote is imminent, but with some luck, we will arrive in time. Time is the key to our success. Risks must be taken for the stakes are as high as they can be. I say we travel south, and we do it unannounced, anonymously. An Alpine lord and his retinue of courtiers and warriors, or perhaps merchants, travelling together for added security.”