Venom and Song (31 page)

“Okay,” said Tommy. “I can see that. Kat?”

“Yeah, that seems right. And if we find this Keystone, then we find the Rainsong . . . whatever either of those things are.”

Tentatively hopeful, they nodded one by one. “Well, I think we now know what we need to do,” said Tommy.

“Uh-huh,” said Jett. “We need to get that Rainsong and go kick some Spider King butt.”

18
Invasion of Nightwish

“IT'S BEEN nearly three months, Alwynn,” said the elder called Danhelm, slamming his fist down on the council table. “The Spider King could attack at any moment, and we sit here shaking in our burrows like field mice. But we have accrued a sizable army, outfitted with the very best of weaponry and supplies, and our people are strong. Yet you're content to let the Seven remain in the care of Grimwarden, mastering outdated fighting styles and cooing to superstitious myths? How can you even consent to such folly? Is it because”—the council member paused, drawing all eyes for his final blow—“you are a dissenter?”

An audible gasp went up around the room, Sentinels speaking behind their hands, Dreadnaughts mumbling with heads bent low.

“Order!” Manaelkin bellowed, slamming his gavel down numerous times. “Order, I say!” When the room was brought back to yet another uncomfortable calm, Manaelkin eyed Danhelm. “My dear friend, the words you utter forth against our brother are quite . . . bold.”

Not that you haven't fed them to him yourself,
Alwynn replied behind an expressionless face.

Manaelkin continued. “Yet still, it would seem that certain attitudes, shared by more than one among us, would see our people— through apathy and inaction—fall once more . . . to the Spider King.”

“I contend!” Alwynn stood and pushed his chair back, and with him dozens more Elves raised their voices. The council chamber burst into a shouting match, Elves just inches from one another's faces, veins bulging, fists clenched.

“ORDER!” Manaelkin demanded, striking his gavel so hard that the handle broke and the head skittered across the stone table. But it was just a show. Appear to mediate the discussion, appear to be appalled by the reactions, and most of all, appear not to take sides—that was Manaelkin's way. While Manaelkin had held to the controversial vote taken half a year before—agreeing to let Grimwarden have the time he needed to train the young lords—he had done everything in his power to undermine it from the inside. A true politician. And seeing his work now manifest in the foul tempers of his compatriots, he contented himself to sit back down, letting the arguments unfold before his very eyes . . . his smiling eyes.

In all the commotion not a single one of them noticed the chamber door fling open and a pale-looking errand boy enter. He struggled to gain the nerve to speak, eventually waving an arm. Then he resorted to yelling, but still his dire plea went ignored, added to the throng of violent words spewing forth like poison. Desperate, the youth reached for one of the dremask stones, held it aloft, then shielded his eyes. He cast the luminous crystal onto the council table where it exploded, the dremask vein splattering across the room like bits of flaming lava. Instantly, the males of the council brushed the flaming puddles of silvery fluid from their clothes and leaped back, searching for the cause of the explosion.

“What in the name of—?”

“Reports from our scouts, both in the aquifers and through the tunnels, a large army approaches. The Spider King has come!”

Ages beneath the surface had given the Elves time to hone their defensive procedures to a point sharper than their razor-tipped arrowheads. Quietly and efficiently, the elderly, the infirm, nonmilitary males and women, and all children were evacuated into boats and shepherded through canals by flet soldiers to emergency shelters west of their underground refuge.

The Elven military, too, had made constructive use of time, conducting invasion and defense drills and preparing fortifications and weapons. Thousands of flet soldiers lay hidden. The invasion of Berinfell left a fiery red brand on the mind of every Elf. They would be ready . . . this time.

Now, Nightwish Caverns held its collective breath. Massive dremask torches burned in the highest towers, illuminating the stone city in waving hues of blue and gray and casting long shadows. The central aquifer shimmered like a vein of incandescent blood, running slowly between the towering structures—fortresses, keeps, and turrets— where no fire or light burned in any window. There were only darkened sockets, lidless, empty eyes staring at everything . . . and nothing. A city of ghosts.

“Perhaps he will think the city abandoned”—whispered Alwynn, leaning on a cold balcony wall overlooking the city—“and return to Vesper Crag.”

“You'd like that, would you?” asked Manaelkin, standing behind him.

“If it means saving Elven lives, yes,” replied the high cleric.

Manaelkin sniffed loudly. “Even you must realize this battle cannot be avoided forever.”

“Alas that it cannot,” said Alwynn, scanning the upper gates for any sign of the enemy. “So deep is his bitterness, the Spider King is bent on rooting us out. Yes, even I know we must fight. But I fear the time is not right . . . not without the Seven Lords.”

“So we agree at last?” said Manaelkin. “That is the very thing I have been striving to avoid. It was a fool's errand to send our strength to a place as remote as Whitehall. The lords should be here . . . here to lead us to greatest victory.”

“Nay, Elder,” answered Alwynn. “And think twice before you tarnish the name of Allyra's greatest commander. Were it not for Grimwarden, there would be no remnant of Elves to resist. Fool's errand!” This time, Alwynn sniffed. “He is no fool who seeks to do what is right.”

“Indeed?” Manaelkin scoffed, stroking his beard. “But where is Grimwarden now?”

Alwynn did not respond. Manaelkin would not see, would not relent. He would go on arguing even as brave Elves bled to death on the streets below. It made Alwynn sick to his stomach. So Alwynn remained silent. Vigilance was needed.

Manaelkin turned to one of his runners. “Send two companies into the catacombs, spearman in front. Tell Travin to speed his retreat. Archers to their positions. And ready the layadine cannons.” The runner crossed his forearms and bowed slightly, then turned on his heels and disappeared.

“Layadine? Already? You think . . . Warspiders?” Alwynn asked.

“You wouldn't?” Manaelkin's face was etched with cynicism.

“But what if the Spider King has not brought his full force? What if, as before, he has only extended one arm? He himself may not even be—”

Manaelkin turned sharply. “I warn you, Alwynn: oppose me here and I will have the guards put you under lock and key. And when we are victorious, I will see to it that your name is remembered only for wishing to betray our people, content to watch them beaten into oblivion.”

Alwynn raised his chin ever so slightly. “And if we lose?”

The council chief thought for but a moment. “Then . . . I will be vindicated. Grimwarden himself will realize he never should have separated the lords—again—from their people. But being right will bring no joy to the dead.”

Commander Travin led the foremost legions himself; it was how Grimwarden would have done it . . . how Grimwarden had taught him to do it.
“Never ask a man to go where you yourself will not go first.”
The burly warrior led his flet soldiers to the far side of the city. Leaving the last of the dwellings behind, he and his men crossed the South Bridge and began the short hike up the stone steps, finally arriving at the entrance of the gated openings of a series of tunnels.

With a single wave of his hand, three thousand flet soldiers— spearmen, archers, and infantry—seemed to disappear, blending instantly with the forest of stalagmites that covered this end of the cavern. Travin smiled. What a surprise it would be when the Spider King's forces burst through these gates . . . only to find the seemingly empty city. Disoriented and wary, the enemy would seek to traverse the stalagmites and WHAM! the trap would be sprung.

Travin massaged the thick muscle on his bare forearms. He was tense. Not just for the anticipation of battle. He was half Elven, half Gwar. Ever true to the forces of Berinfell, he still felt torn.
Why had it come to this? Why was the Spider King so intent on spilling blood?

Travin loosed his heavy mace from his back holster and watched the gates. Any minute now.

Manaelkin and Alwynn had watched Travin's forces vanish into the stalagmites. Alwynn was pensive, wringing his hands half the time, rubbing his temples the rest.

Manaelkin would not admit it, but he, too, was very worried. In Grimwarden's absence, he had directed their defensive plan. It was a sound plan to be sure. But the Elves were best suited for forest warfare. They had learned through many hard years how to adapt to Nightwish Caverns, but still, they were not natural cave fighters like the Gwar.

A high, haunting sound from the south snapped Manaelkin from his thoughts and snatched their gaze to the south.

Screee!

Screee!
The keening sound made the hair stand up on Travin's forearms.
SLAM!
A tremendous blow shivered the gate directly in front of Travin's spearmen.
They're here,
Travin thought, swallowing back bile. Another crash into the gate. Other percussions sounded from the other gates.

Steady, lads,
Travin silently willed his soldiers. The slams continued, blasting the iron gates in a strange rhythm, like the heartbeat of a mechanical beast.
Steady
.