Sir Breckton rose and stood before the assembly, wearing a long black cape over his dress tunic. All eyes turned to him, not just because he was about to speak, but because Sir Breckton was one of those men who commanded attention. There was something in the way he held himself. He managed to appear taller, straighter, and stouter than other men. Breckton made a formal bow to the empress, then faced the table.
“While none of the scouts managed to pierce the advance troops to report on the main body of the elven army, what we have learned is unsettling enough. We now believe that at midnight on Wintertide, elements of the Erivan Empire crossed the Nidwalden River with a force estimated at over a hundred thousand. They conquered the kingdom of Dunmore in less than a week and Glamrendor is gone. King Roswort, Queen Freda, and their entire court—lost, presumably on their return trip from the Wintertide celebration.”
Heads turned left and right and Hadrian heard the words hundred thousand and less than a week repeated between them. Breckton paused for only a moment before speaking again.
“The elven host continued west, entering unopposed into Ghent. Estimates suggest they conquered it in eight days. Whether Ghent put up a fight, we don’t know. It has been confirmed, however, that the university at Sheridan was burned and Ervanon destroyed.”
The men at the table shifted with more anxiety but less was said.
“They entered Melengar next,” he told them, and a few heads turned toward Alric. “Drondil Fields made a last stand, heroically providing time for as many as possible to escape south. The fortress managed to hold out for one day.”
“A day?” King Vincent exclaimed. He looked at Alric, who nodded solemnly. “How can this be?”
“King Fredrick.” The empress addressed the monarch seated to her left. “Please repeat what you told us.”
King Fredrick stood up, brushing the folds from his clothes. He was a squat, balding man with a round belly that pressed the limits of the front of his tunic.
“Not long after the Wintertide holiday—perhaps a few days at most—travelers brought news of trouble in Calis. They told stories of Ghazel hitting the coast in droves. They called it The Flood. Hundreds of thousands of the mongrels stormed the cliffs at Gur Em Dal.”
“Are you saying the elves are in league with the Ghazel?” Cornelius DeLur asked.
The king shook his head. “No, they weren’t warriors. Well, some may have been, but the impression I got was that they too were refugees. They were fleeing and running where they could. The Calian warlords slaughtered many on the eastern coast, but the deluge was so great they could not entirely stem the wave. Within a week, bands of Ghazel were on the border of Galeannon and slipping into the Vilan Hills. We lost all communication with Calis—no more travelers have come out.”
Fredrick took his seat.
“As of this very afternoon,” Sir Breckton said, “we received word that a ship by the name of the Silver Fin was five days out of its port in Kilnar when it saw Wesbaden burning. Beyond it, the captain said he saw another column of smoke rising in the distance, which he guessed to be Dagastan.”
“Why would the elves launch an attack on both the Ghazel and us? Why open two fronts?” Sir Elgar asked.
“It’s likely they don’t consider either the Ghazel or ourselves to be a serious threat,” Breckton told them. “Sources report the elven host is accompanied by scores of dragons who burn everything in their path. Other reports speak of equally disturbing capabilities, such as the ability to control the weather and call down lightning. There are stories of huge monsters that shake the earth, burrowing beasts, lights that blind, and a mist that… devours people.”
“Are these fairy stories you would have us believe, Breckton?” Murthas asked. “Giants, monsters, mists, and elves? Who were these scouts? Old wives?”
This brought chuckles from both Elgar and Gilbert and a smile from Rudolf.
“They were good men, Sir Murthas, and it does not befit you to speak ill of the courageous dead.”
“I grieve for the lives of the men who died,” King Armand said. “But seriously, Breckton, a mist that kills people? You make them out to be the sum of all nightmares, as if every tale of boogeyman, ghost, or wraith spills out of the wood across the Nidwalden. These are only elves, after all. You make them sound like invincible gods that—”
They came with hardly a warning,
thousands both beautiful and terrible;
They came on brilliant white horses
wearing shining gold and shimmering blue;
They came with dragons and whirlwinds,
and giants made of stone and earth;
They came and nothing could stop them.
They are coming still.
The voice issued from the doorway and all heads turned as into the great hall entered an old man. It was hard to say what caught Hadrian’s eyes first, as so much was startling. The man’s hair, which did not begin until well behind his balding forehead, was long enough to reach the back of his knees and was beyond gray, beyond white, appearing almost purple, like the edges of a rotting potato. His mouth lacked lips, his eyes were without brows, and his cheeks were shriveled. He wore a cascade of glittering purple, gold, and red—robes displayed with relish—flaunting it with dramatic sweeps of his arms as he walked using a tall staff. Brilliant blue eyes shifted restlessly around the room, never pausing for too long on any one person. His jaw, held taut in an openmouthed grin, showed a surprising full complement of teeth, his expression a silent laugh.
Behind him entered two equally shocking guards. They wore shimmering gold breastplates over top shirts of vertical red, purple, and yellow stripes with long cuffs and billowing sleeves. Matching pants plumed out, gathering just below the knee into long striped stockings. Across their chests, stretching from their shoulders, hung silver braids and tassels of honor. They wore gold helms with messenger wings that hid their faces. Each held unusual weapons, long halberds with ornately curved blades at both ends, which they held tight to their sides with one arm straight down and the other high across their chests.
The guards halted in perfect unison, snapping their heels in one audible clack. The old man continued forward, approaching Modina. He stopped before her, slamming the metal tip of his staff down on the stone floor.
“Forgive me, Your Eminence,” the old man announced in a loud voice, and followed with an elaborate bow, which allowed him the opportunity to further display the grandeur of his robes. “My apologies cannot begin to elevate the depth of my sadness at having failed to arrive at the appointed time, but alas, I was irrevocably detained. I do hope you can forgive a feeble old man.”
Modina stared at him, her expression blank. She said nothing.
The old man waited, shifting his weight, tilting his head from side to side.
Modina glanced at Nimbus.
“Patriarch Nilnev,” the chancellor addressed the old man. “If you will please take your seat.”
The Patriarch looked at Nimbus, then back to Modina. With a curious expression, he nodded, walked to the empty chair, clacking his staff with each step, and sat down.