Tharash sagged, rather out of breath and to Pirvan's eyes somewhat astounded at his own boldness. Then he handed the staff back to Lauthin, who nearly let it drop to the trampled ground from nerveless fingers. He finally gripped it with one hand, and used a corner of his robe to wipe off the smears of dirt.

He stood motionless for a time, hardly even breathing. Then he turned and marched off, striking his staff rhythmically on the ground ahead of him. His four guards fell in behind him, although Pirvan saw one look briefly back; he could almost imagine that the elf had winked.

Perhaps he had. Perhaps Lauthin would see reason. His archers would certainly be taking to the walls and the woods whether he did or not. Even Silvanesti elves could not forever pass by those in need. Even Silvanesti elves could succumb to the love of a good fight.

If there was such a thing. Pirvan remembered the face of one of the men he'd killed today-hardly more than a boy, and too slender to really wear armor. The soldier hadn't worn anything except a helmet, which helped him not at all when Pirvan's dagger ripped open his neck- He remembered another dead opponent-a man who was as much too old for the field as the boy had been too young. Gray in his beard, wrinkles on the face above the beard, probably a sell-sword to keep his farm or earn a dowry for his daughter ... No dowry now, and his family turned out on the road like the refugees, without dwarves or elves or Knights of Solamnia to help them.

Before a third face could present itself, Pirvan turned and stumbled blindly toward the stairs to the keep. He wanted to be alone for a while ...

... alone when somebody brought him the news that Threehands and Rynthala had come to blows and needed him to counsel peace!

Haimya found Pirvan, sitting on the bed in the dark chamber. His hands dangled between his knees, and his eyes stared at the floor, or perhaps at nothing.

"Pirvan?"

He recognized the name and even the voice, but the name was not his, and the voice was a stranger's.

"Pirvan. The dwarves have almost finished the tunnel. Tarothin helped them."

Tarothin? He was a Red Robe wizard, wasn't he? Where was this tunnel?

Oh, he was in the citadel of Belkuthas, which needed water. The tunnel would bring it.

As a matter of fact, he commanded the citadel of Belkuthas. He was Sir Pirvan of Tirabot, Knight of the Sword, and this day he had with his sword slain- "Gods!"

Pirvan wept. Presently the woman who was no longer a stranger, whom he remembered sharing joy and sorrow with for twenty years, sat down on the bed beside him. She took him in his arms and held him as he had seen her hold their children.

After what seemed half the night, the tears ended.

"Don't talk," Haimya said. "Unless you want to," she added.

Pirvan knew there was one person in the world who would listen to anything he had to say. That was one more person than most people had. Moreover, she was right here on the bed with him.

He still feared to sound-not like a coward; he had heard too many noble confessions of weakness to fear that-but like a witling. Belkuthas needed him in his right senses.

He needed himself in his right senses.

Pirvan began to talk.

"It was the men I fought today-the men I killed."

"Everyone speaks of your valor. You see it-otherwise?"

"Tonight, the word 'valor' chokes me."

She stroked his hair. "Go on."

"They started coming to me. I could see them in front of me as clearly as I can see you now. I started thinking about how each one had a life of his own that I had ended. For what I thought-I think now-is a good reason. But they're still dead, all of them. I hoped one of them would speak."

"To forgive you?"

"No. I-no, not that. Just to show that we could talk to each other. If-I thought of apologizing, but that would have been silly. Many of them probably couldn't even speak Common."

Pirvan became aware that his head had begun resting on cloth, and now rested on bare skin. Then he became aware of hands at work on his own breeches, his only garment.

"What are you doing?"

"We are going to talk in an old language, that we have spoken for twenty years. Do you remember it?"

Pirvan's reply lacked words.

"It was the language we spoke that night, when I came to your house in the village. I said that we had stood far apart long enough and now it was time to stand close."

"We aren't standing now."

Haimya pulled off the last of her husband's garments and the last of her own. "No, we are lying down on the bed."

On that bed, in that language, they had a long conversation. Pirvan fell asleep quickly afterward, and Haimya was slower getting to sleep only because her husband started to snore as she had never heard him do, and she had to stifle her giggles to keep from waking him.

Chapter 16.

While Pirvan slept, the dwarven tunnel between the wells broke through. A line of sweating, weary, smiling soldiers and refugees began replenishing the water.

Two days later, the first party of refugees left the citadel of Belkuthas, for whatever safety the forest might offer. They were fifty, all the dwarves could promise to shelter at the moment, mostly women and children, but with enough men to keep watch and hunt.

With them also went Tharash and twenty-five scouts and rangers. They were a mixture of Lauthin's guards and Belkuthans. It was noted that while Lord Lauthin said nothing in favor of their going, he also said nothing against it. He kept very much to his chamber, and except for the guards actually on duty there, his archers began to take their turns on the walls.

On the fifth day, the lines around the citadel drew tight again-at least tight enough to make it fortunate that the water carne in and the refugees out by means no sell-sword could discover. Some of the Gryphons thought the siege lines were so thin that a brisk mounted sortie would shatter them all over again. Then everyone could ride for home.

"This is the home of Krythis, Tulia, Rynthala, and their folk," Pirvan reminded Threehands. "If we leave, they can only go with us by abandoning their home and becoming wanderers."

"Yes, eldest son of Redthorn," Hawkbrother added. "Remember also that our fighting for half-elves greatly annoys Lauthin. You once said that you would love to be a leech on a part of his body that he has probably not used for centuries. This is even better. We can be a worm in his guts."

So there were no wild raids, only scouts slipping in and out through the tunnels and sometimes on the surface when rain or clouds made the darkness thicker than usual. The men on the walls kept the besiegers out of bow shot, the scouts took an occasional prisoner to gain recent knowledge of the world outside Belkuthas, and Tarothin and Sirbones healed the sick and the handful of wounded.

The day the last refugees squeezed themselves into the tunnel to the forest, Tarothin came to Pirvan with a frown on his face. The Red Robe seemed to wear moroseness like a cloak these days. It certainly fit his gaunt frame better than any of the warm garments Haimya had made for him over the years. But this was more than Pirvan had seen.

"I fear Wilthur the Brown has not finished with us."

This seemed likely enough. The nightmares and the ghosts of his slain no longer troubled Pirvan much, but he had small patience with being told what he already knew. He said so plainly.

Tarothin shook his head. "I believe he has withheld his major spells for two reasons. One, he exhausted himself emptying the old well. That had to have been brutal work, mixing all three colors of magic. Such sorceries are even more wearying to the spellcaster than spells of only one shade."

That Pirvan knew to be true. The conflict between white, black, and red could be overcome by a mage with sufficient power and a sufficient lack of scruples. A dire tension remained, which had to be constantly fought lest it sunder the spell-and probably the mage-in midcasting.

"The other is that I think someone-perhaps our friend Zephros-has command of the besiegers. He may be waiting for reinforcements so that he can exploit any opening Wilthur's magic may give him. Or he may fear that Wilthur will reduce Belkuthas to blackened rubble. That would make Zephros's name stink even worse and for far longer than our corpses."

"Your good cheer knows no bounds," Pirvan said. "When did you last eat?"

"My good cheer, you could bound in a thimble," Tarothin said. "My appetite, you could pass through the eye of a needle."

Gildas Aurhinius wadded up the parchment of Carolius Migmar's latest letter and threw it at the door. He had moved his quarters into a rough stone building, and the parchment struck the wood just as it opened to admit Nemyotes.

"What does Migmar think he is doing?" Aurhinius exclaimed.

"I become more and more persuaded that not as much thinking is being done in this campaign as has been the case with past ones."

Aurhinius glared. "Do you include me in that remark?"

"Well, my lord, you did say that you would give much to find a way of lifting the siege of Belkuthas. But what have we done here?"

"Not enough, I admit. But from this letter, Migmar will throw an iron wall around Belkuthas within the month. Thousands of sell-swords, siege engines, the gods only know what magic if the kingpriest turns a blind eye-enough to finish the work."

"Perhaps, if you are not there."

"And if I were? Migmar has years of rank over me, apart from favor in Istar. Also my orders are to remain here, to hold the Silvanesti in the front."

"We are a long way from the nearest elf, if the reports are true. The desert riders will leave us alone if we return the favor, and the cliff-dwellers have not come out of their holes in living memory. As for orders-did you not once speak of establishing a line of outposts, between this camp and Belkuthas? Would not that be work so important that you had to command it yourself, and report to Migmar afterward? I acknowledge that Carolius Migmar will still have command when you are together. But much may happen when you are at Belkuthas, things that cannot happen when you are here."

"You speak of what could well end our service, or even our lives, Nemyotes."

"I know that, my lord."

Aurhinius laughed softly. "And to think I was being so careful to remain loyal, for the sake of you and others who might fall with me. Who else thinks as you do?"

"A good many captains. Enough that the camp will be safe if you march west."

"Then I shall do so. Nemyotes, arrange matters for that purpose, and also bring me writing material. No, forget that. This must remain a surprise, even to Migmar and our kin."

"I would say, especially to Migmar."

"Don't cut them that way, you dolt! If the horses don't charge aright, they won't hit the sentries! Who do you think you are?"

Horimpsot Elderdrake glared at his companion. It was plainly a glare on his face, even in the darkness and under the dirt of many days in the forest. It was fortunate that kender grow no facial hair, or both of them could have had beards well down toward their chests. The hair on their heads was frightful enough.

"I am someone who has learned much about horses. And you are making too much noise."

It said much about the changed relationship between the two kender that Imsaffor Whistletrot was silent. He remained silent, as did the night, until all the tethers were cut. Then the two kender stationed themselves behind the horses, and went to work with hoopak and whippit to make as much noise as possible.

Suddenly breaking the silence of the night, the moans and whistles were enough to frighten spirits, let alone horses half starved for many days. As fast as their strength allowed, they bolted.

The sentries in their path did not stand their ground. They ran off in all directions so quickly that Elderdrake feared some of them would fall and hurt themselves. He and Whistletrot wanted Zephros's blood as much as ever, but they had scruples about shedding anyone else's.

They had even less wish to hurt horses. When they followed the trail of the mounts, over ground trampled by hooves and feet and littered with discarded weapons and equipment, they were alert for any fallen animals.

They found only one, but the gray mare was in dire case. She had fallen into a ditch and badly broken one leg. They looked, they frowned, they climbed down, and they tried to both calm the horse and heave her to her feet at the same time.

This understandably did not improve the mare's disposition. They had just leapt out of the ditch to avoid the mare's third attempt to bite them, when a soft voice spoke behind them.

"I always knew kender were thickheaded and stubborn, Tharash. If we leave them, they will be here until the day dawns or the enemy comes upon them."

The kender turned to see Tharash and another elf, a woman in a robe that was either dark-colored or even filthier than they. "If you want to help the mare, let me see what can be done," the woman said. She lifted her robe, revealing well-formed legs, and leapt down into the ditch.

Tharash handed her a staff that the kender recognized as bearing the signs of Mishakal. They also recognized her as someone who had come with Lauthin.

"Elansa came out with Lauthin's men. Said they needed a healer," Tharash added. "She's good-hearted and strong."

From his tone, the kender judged that the elven healer had been good-hearted enough to share Tharash's bed-if they could find such a thing in the forest. He thought yearningly of having Hallie Pinesweet out here with him.

Elansa's hands and staff moved over the mare's leg. At last she whispered, "Find cloth and sticks. We shall need to splint the leg, if she is to walk safely away from here."

They settled for two sticks and one of Tharash's sheathed knives, tied in place with strips of cloth torn one apiece from everybody's garments. It was a ragged party that finally trailed the mare away from a camp where either none had heard their noise or all were too afraid to come out and learn what made it.

"I'm going inside in a few days," Tharash said. "I can take you lads-ah, gentlemen-with me, if you wish."

"I hate dwarf tunnels," Whistletrot said.

"Odd, seeing as how you fit in them better than I do," the elven ranger said. "But no matter. If you want to stay out here until you have Zephros's head, I will help all I can. For the gods' sake and your friends,' though, take a bath. Your clothes must already stand up by themselves, and soon sentries will be able to nose you out from upwind!"

Then the two light-treading elves were gone.

Carolius Migmar heard the rumble and squeal of wagons climbing a slope, the crack of whips, and the shouts of teamsters. He would go out to inspect the arriving siege train in a few moments, but he would not hasten unduly.

He also had to ponder whether to reply to Zephros's letter-which should not have been written in the first place. Admitting dealings with Wilthur the Brown was a sufficient addition to Zephros's crimes to give him a death sentence. Also, the letter revealed something that might still have been a secret to some of their enemies, if the letter had been read by unfriendly eyes. Still, a Red Robe of Tarothin's skill would have already discovered Wilthur's presence and even countered some of his spells.

Migmar decided that for now there would be no reply to the letter-which, he hoped, would make further discourse unneeded when he reached Zephros's camp. The less recognition he could give the self-styled high captain, the better.

As for helping Wilthur the Brown back into the graces of the kingpriest, or even the Towers of High Sorcery-Migmar would rather become a eunuch!

A pity that, in this campaign, kingpriest, virtuous soldiers of Istar, and the Knights of Solamnia formed three factions like the sides of a triangle, rather than a single straight line facing their common enemies. Victory at Belkuthas, Migmar hoped, might help build that line.

Then the question of the "lesser races" would cease to excite such passions. Confronted with the union of such human powers, they would find reason to yield with honor, and with just treatment they would not again be a source of danger or even dissension.

To his own mind, Migmar had always been a soldier who worked to make his profession unnecessary. Victory at Belkuthas might be a fair step in that direction.

It would also be an easier step than many realized, including Wilthur the Brown. What need was there for sorcery when the siege engines were assembled? Indeed, what need for a fight when the defenders of the citadel would likely see the wisdom of yielding honorably to overwhelming force?

It was time to go out and inspect the newly arrived wagons carrying the ironmongery and tools for the siege train. Not only would this flatter the sappers, it would also be wise to see how robust the wagons were.

This was a land of many rocks and slopes and few broad roads. That had not mattered before, when Migmar's three thousand men (picked sell-swords and a thousand of the regular host of Istar) carried everything they needed on their backs, their saddles, or their pack animals. Even the host's meat rations walked.