Curse of the Spider King (10 page)

“How else could they get past the Gap? The walls? How could they know just where to hit us . . . or that the Seven would all be here?” Her eyes narrowed. “It was the Gwar attendants, I'm sure of it.”

“Come now, Elle, surely you don't believe that!” Brynn bristled. “We've come too far as a people to go back to antiquated notions and judg—”

“Who else, then?” Elle asked. “One of our own?”

“Just as likely,” said Brynn.

Grimwarden cleared his throat. “I would be inclined to agree with Elle,” he said, “but there might be a third possibility.”

“Wisps,” Brynn muttered.

“Precisely.” Grimwarden gripped the pommel of his rychesword, his knuckles whitened. “We ignorantly believed they were all dead. How simple it would have been for the enemy. Just lie in wait for one of our scouting patrols and replace a true Elf with a treason-minded Wisp.”

“Guardmaster Grimwarden!” a flet soldier yelled from the hall's entrance. Grimwarden raised a hand. The Elf approached at once, delivering his news as he came. “The east gate of the city has been breached!”

“What?” Grimwarden spun around, furious. “But we have more than a battalion there . . . and archers.”

The soldier at the entrance was clearly beside himself, growing paler with his commander's response. “The gate itself is thrown down,” he said. “But our forces were able to waylay the enemy in Sentinel Garden. There, we hold the higher ground. But for how long, I cannot say. What are your orders?”

Thrown down?
Grimwarden rose slowly, eyeing the messenger and then surveying the body-strewn hall with great sorrow. So much loss, so much death. If he did not act quickly, even more innocent lives would be lost.

Brynn sensed Grimwarden's distress.

“Sir”—said the soldier again—“your orders?”

Grimwarden still did not answer. The Gap had been crossed . . . the city walls overrun. The Seven Lords murdered, their infant children taken to some horrible end. And now, the final gate thrown down. The Spider King had not come to defeat the Elves; he'd come to wipe them from the face of Allyra.

Grimwarden glanced once more past the thrones. He knew what he must do. But he shuddered to think what it might cost, what dire destiny he would bind his people to. And if they survived, he knew that history would not reflect his decision kindly. He would be known as the coward who led the Children of the Light into the abysses of the deep . . . and what of the light? If he could not find a way to get his people sunlight . . . he shuddered to think.

Grimwarden straightened his back. “You are Xander, aren't you? Belarius and Thenna's boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then, Xander, gird yourself for this task. For never in the long history of our beloved city has this command been spoken, and it makes my heart heavy to do so.” He waited a deep breath and said, “Light the blue beacons.”

Xander's mouth hung slack. He muttered in shock, “The blue beacons . . . but that means—”

“I know very well what it means,” Grimwarden barked. His prominent jaw jutted out even more as he spoke. “But we will not be wiped like a stain from this world. We will live to fight another day. Light the blue beacons, NOW!”

Xander sprinted away. Grimwarden turned to Brynn. “Can you get to your remaining commanders and order them to gather reinforcements to Sentinel Garden? We must have time for the women and children to get here.”

“I will make it happen,” she replied. “But we cannot allow the citizens to travel unguarded and by open ways. The enemy will slaughter them.”

Grimwarden was thoughtful. “No, we cannot. Brynn, you must lead them. See to it that your commanders take a full battalion or more to the garden, but muster at least a troop for yourself. Shepherd our people here by whatever concealed ways you can find. We are going underground.”

Brynn crossed her wrists and bowed. “I will bring our people here safely.”

Grimwarden bowed. But even as he watched Brynn depart from the hall, he thought more on what she'd said.
We cannot allow the citizens to travel
unguarded and by open ways. The enemy will slaughter them.
If the enemy saw their route of escape, they would pour after them like a pack of wolves trailing a wounded gazelle. Grimwarden's eyes flared, then narrowed. A final piece to the puzzle had fallen into place.

10

Leaving the Sunlight

G
rimwarden stood alone behind the thrones of the seven slain lords. The doorway leading to the Royal Chambers was half torn from its hinges. There was no escape that way. But to the left of that arch, the wide stone wall had been emblazoned with an etching of a great tree. He studied the tree: its thick, tapering, gray trunk; sprawling limbs; and vast canopy of foliage. He strode up to a certain leaf. It appeared no different from the others. But when he touched the leaf, it slid away from his fingertip and receded an inch into the wall. One by one and in the proper combination, he pressed seven leaves. From somewhere behind the wall there came a light tinkling of notes as if from a wind chime.

Dust fell away from the outline of a wide arched doorway in the wall. Taking with it the roots, trunk, and thickest branches of the etched tree, the door slid backward until it was lost in shadow, revealing thick, gaping darkness . . . but not for long. A green torch kindled on the inner wall. Grimwarden stepped back and raised his spear. Nine yards into the passage, another torch sprang to life. Then another. Soon a long, curling tunnel was revealed.

“
Humph
,” Grimwarden muttered to himself as he lowered his spear. “I didn't expect torches.” Then he called back over his shoulder to one of the flet soldiers attending to the bodies of the Seven Lords.

The young Elven soldier came and stood by his commander and gaped when he saw the passage.

“Graylan,” Grimwarden said. “Soon, all living Elves of Berinfell will travel this passage, and we will depart from our homeland. It is only fitting, however, that the Seven Lords lead the way one final time.”

“Sir? The lords knew of this passage?” Graylan shook his head.

“Yes, . . . they knew.” Grimwarden's voice became strained. The rims of his eyelids reddened.

“But why didn't they . . . I mean, couldn't they have . . .”

“So I thought as well, lad. But the lords were far wiser. The horde the Spider King sent here was an assassination force. They would have pursued our lords to the ends of Allyra. Had our lords fled, the hidden passage to Nightwish Caverns would have been uncovered. Our only real escape would have been lost, and the race of Elves might have been blotted out forever.”

“May Ellos rest their souls,” said Graylan.

“He will, but now the lords shall enter. Do what you can to quickly prepare the bodies. Then you and your men take the Seven Lords and follow the path. Go past the Guardian, over the Jade Bow, and through the Hall of Echoes.”

“The Jade Bow? Hall of Echoes? How will I—?”

“You'll know.” He took Graylan by the arms. “Bear them safely at last to the Nightwish Cavern. In due time, we will lay the Seven Lords to rest among the only flowers in Allyra that bloom in the dark.”

“Yes, sir, but ah . . . how soon until you and the rest follow?”

Grimswarden looked past the thrones to the entrance of the Great Hall. “I wish I knew.”

As Graylan went back to the team of flet soldiers preparing the Seven Lords, Grimwarden searched the hall for a certain warrior. At last he spotted the Elf he wanted. In the smoke and shadow, there was just a burly silhouette, but it had to be him. No one else could heave such heavy debris around like him. “Travin!” he shouted across the hall.

The silhouette stopped, looked up, and then rushed over to the commander. Travin was a head shorter than Grimwarden but much broader across the back and chest. He had such huge forearms and fists that he never wore bracers or gauntlets. His ears were pointed like all Elves', but his skin tone had more gray than most. He was, in fact, the offspring of a Berinfell Gwar and an Elf maiden. But Grimwarden had no doubts about this warrior. Travin had proved himself faithful to Berinfell and sturdy in battle.

“Sir?” Travin was still out of breath.

“The blue beacons are lit,” said Grimwarden. “Flet Marshall Brynn is even now seeking out women, children, and all citizenry not fit to fight. She will do what she can to lead them here safely. She'll need to stay hidden, keep the enemy's eyes off them. But for such a large group, moving at once, that will be terribly difficult. The Spider King's main force is yet held at bay at Sentinel Garden, but likely not for long. We need to buy our people more time.”

“You will need a diversion,” said Travin.

“Yes,” replied Grimwarden, his voice more like a growl.

“Tell me what you want me to do.”

Grimwarden took Travin aside and told him the plan. Travin listened carefully and let out a low whistle. “I will need at least two hundred,” he said.

Grimwarden scanned the hall. “Leave only the flet soldiers necessary for our task here. Take the rest. That will give you about seventy-five.”

“I will scour what's left of the defenses between here and the marketplace and find the others I need.” Travin turned to leave. “We will make the enemy turn his head.”

“I have no doubt that you will, but you must be swift,” said Grimwarden. “If the garden defense fails before your diversion, the Spider King will drive our people like cattle to a slaughter.”

“The battle is far from over, Grimwarden.” Travin looked up and crossed his wrist over his armored chest. “Endurance and Victory.”

“Endurance and Victory,” Grimwarden replied. He grasped him by the arm. “Travin, one more thing.”

“Aye?”

“Should the enemy discover our ruse, I want you to seek the trees and, by the hidden ways, at last enter Nightwish Cavern. Whatever you accomplish, do not pursue the enemy back here. Dead heroes do nothing to protect their people tomorrow.”

Bleak, uneventful hours had passed. The painstaking search through the debris of the Great Hall was now complete. Only a handful of flet soldiers and Grimwarden, their commander, remained impatiently waiting. He stared beyond the jagged frame of the windows. A cold wind out of the northwest howled outside and bent the dark trees. They creaked and groaned. Limbs fell and leaves swirled, but no tree fell.
Like us
, Grimwarden thought.
We are battered and bent but not broken . . . not yet anyway.
A soft but perilous sound came from the main passage at the entrance to the Great Hall. It was the marching of many feet.

“Gulrain, Jissick, Arrador, into the tunnel,” Grimwarden commanded as the steady cadence of footfalls grew louder.

Jissick hesitated a moment. “Will we not fight?” he asked.

“It cuts against my spirit as well,” said Grimwarden. “But should we linger and fight as lions—even should we each slay fifty Gwar—we will still die, and the enemy will gain access to our underground. We must retreat for now, collapse the tunnel, and join the others in the caverns.”

Jissick nodded and joined the others at the mouth of the tunnel. They, like their commander, turned to watch the entrance to the Great Hall.

“Ready, flet soldiers!” Grimwarden called over his shoulder. “I will wait only long enough to see them in the moon's light.”

The march rose until it was like rolling thunder in the mountains, and the first dark forms entered the Great Hall. The group did not spread out, but marched behind one leader. Grimwarden watched him, saw the plate armor, the iron helmet, the long blade of—
Wait!
Grimwarden sprang up from behind the throne. “Brynn, thank the Highest you've returned to us!” He ran up to the flet marshall, but her expression stole the joy from the moment. Grimwarden stared at the train of Elven women and children funneling into the Great Hall. “How many?” he asked, but seeing the haunted look in his people's eyes he immediately regretted the question.

Brynn looked up as she continued to direct her people between piles of debris across the chamber. She wouldn't risk answering the question while the already terrified Elves might hear. She led Grimwarden into the shadows at the end of the thrones. “We searched every district, Olin. A few we found hiding in basements or church sanctuaries. A few in culverts or sewers.” Her eyes were wet, and her jaw trembled. “Near five thousand, as best we could count. We found ten times that many . . . dead.”

Five thousand?
Grimwarden fell to one knee.
How, in just one night, could
the thriving city of Berinfell be reduced to five thousand?
“Were you seen?”

“Yes, several times, but the lips of those Gwar sentries are now forever still. Teams of flet soldiers and archers protected our retreat.”

“Five thousand,” he muttered. He watched as Jissick and the other flet soldiers escorted them into the tunnel. So few, and yet it might well prove to be a number too large to evacuate in time if the enemy is at their heels. “What of the garden?”