Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [112]
Wheeling, he flew toward the center of town and saw
that he had been right. A griffon was indeed tethered, all by itself, in a corral near the center of town. The other windriders' steeds were nowhere in sight.
Leifander landed on the roof of the town's highest building, the House of Gond. Hopping along its soft lead gutter, he peered down from the temple's two-story height, past the heavy iron battlements that supported its walls. Smoke and the occasional bright red cinder drifted from the building's numerous chimneys. The blacksmith priests of Gond must have been working through the night, forging the weapons of war.
He saw more humans-residents of Essembra-on the streets below. Many of them had swords at their hips, having no doubt been pressed into service with the militia. There were also knights in full armor and a handful of elves. Some were forest elves, padding along in bare feet with bows in hand; others had the haughty bearing and pale skin of Silver elves and were clad in chain mail and helms. All seemed to be moving in the same direction, toward the sprawling, multi-hailed building known as Ilmeth's Manor.
The massive iron doors at the front of the manor were open to the street. Elves and humans hurried up the front stairs and into its lantern-lit interior. Leifander hopped off the temple roof and flapped his way to the manor, landing atop one of the massive wooden pillars that fronted the building. By twisting his neck, he was able to peer under the rooftop and get a look inside the doors. What he saw there nearly froze his blood.
The hall had been trimmed with all of the trappings of war, including battle standards and ceremonial lances. It was filled with human soldiers-both Lord Ilmeth's and the Red Plumes. The latter stood across the room from where the elves had assembled, no doubt warily keeping their distance. Flanking a table at the far end of the room was a group of high-ranking elves and Red Plumes officers, standing so close to one another they were almost rubbing shoulders. Worse still was the sight of Lord
Ilmeth and half a dozen members of the Elven Council- including Lord Kierin-standing around a table with none other than Maalthiir, first lord of Hillsfar.
Leifander nearly gagged at the sight of the man. Short and stocky, Maalthiir had dark red hair shaved close to his scalp and eyebrows that joined above bis nose in a V-shape, giving him a perpetual scowl. His jaw was square and blocky, his nose a mere stub. Had Leifander not known better, he would have guessed the man to have some ore blood in him. Perhaps that guess was correct. Self-loathing could explain the disdain Maalthiir felt for any but "trueblood" humans.
With barely suppressed hatred, Leifander stared at the man whose edicts had caused Chandrell's death. The man's hands might appear clean, but they were stained with the blood of countless innocent elves.
Regardless of this terrible fact, Maalthiir seemed welcome in Lord Ilmeth's manor. He stood quietly with the group at the table, watching as each person in turn took up a quill and signed a piece of parchment that had been spread on the tabletop. He smiled pleasantly as he took the pen from Lord Kierin's hand-an elf s hand-to sign the document himself.
The ceremony reached its conclusion, and Lord Ilmeth picked up the parchment and held it out before him. The assembled crowd immediately fell into a respectful hush, broken only by the faint clink of armor as soldiers shifted for a better look.
"By this document," Lord Ilmeth's voice rang out, "Lord Maalthiir of Hillsfar pledges his soldiers-ten thousand swords-to the elven cause."
"Madness!" Leifander cawed, but his protest was lost in the cheer that echoed through the hall.