02 The Kinslayer Wars

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Dragonlance

~|~ The Kinslayer Wars ~|~

The Elven Nations Trilogy

Volume Two

Douglas Niles

Prologue

Winter, Year of the Ram, 2215 (PC)

"The Emperor arrives - he enters the fortress at the South Gate!"

The cry rang from the walls of Caergoth, blared by a thousand trumpets and

heard by a million ears. Excitement spread through the massive tent city

around the great castle, while the towering fortress itself fairly tingled with

anticipation.

The carriage of Emperor Quivalin Soth V, sometimes called Ullves, rumbled

through the huge gates, pulled by a team of twelve white horses, trailed by an

escort of five thousand men. From every parapet, every castellated tower top

and high rampart in sprawling Caergoth, silk-gowned ladies, proud noblemen,

and courtiers waved and cheered.

Sheer, gray-fronted walls of granite towered over the procession, dominating

the surrounding farmlands as a mountain looms over a plain. Four massive

gates, each formed from planks of vallenwood eighty feet long, barred the

sides of the great structure against any conceivable foe-indeed, they proudly

bore the scars of dragonbreath, inflicted during the Second Dragon War more

than four centuries earlier.

The interior of Caergoth consisted of winding avenues, tall and narrow gates,

stone buildings crowded together, and always the high walls. They curved

about and climbed in terrace after terrace toward the heart of the massive

castle, forming a granite maze for all who entered.

The carriage trundled through the outer gatehouse with imperial dignity and

rolled along the streets, through open gates, and down the widest avenue

toward the center of the fortress. Banners, in black and deep red and dark

blue, hung from the ramparts. Everywhere the cheering of the crowds

thundered around the emperor's coach.

Outside the walls, a vast sea of tents covered the fields around the fortress,

and from these poured the men-at-arms of the emperor's army-some two

hundred thousand in all. Though they did not mingle with the nobles and

captains of the fortress, their joy was no less boisterous. They surged toward

the castle in the wake of the emperor's procession, their shouts and hurrahs

penetrating the heavy stone walls.

Finally the procession entered a broad plaza, cool and misty from the spray of

a hundred fountains. Beyond, soaring to the very clouds themselves, arose the

true wonder of Caergoth: the palace of the king. Tall towers jutted up from

high walls, and lofty, peaked roofs seemed distant and unreachable. Crystal

windows reflected sunlight in dazzling rainbows, filtering and flashing their

colors through the shimmering haze of the fountains.

The coach rumbled down the wide, paved roadway to the gates of the palace.

These portals, solid silver shined to mirrorlike brilliance, stood open wide. In

their place stood the royal personage himself, King Trangath II, Lord of

Caergoth and most loyal servant to the Emperor of Ergoth.

Here the royal coach halted. A dozen men-at-arms snapped their halberds to

their chests as the king's own daughter opened the door of the gleaming steel

carriage. The crowd surged across the plaza, even through the pools of the

fountains, in an effort to see the great person who rode within. Around the

plaza, from the surrounding walls and towers, teeming thousands shouted their

adulation.

The emperor's green eyes flashed as he stepped from the high vehicle with a

grace that belied his fifty years. His beard and hair now showed streaks of

gray, but his iron will had hardened over his decades of rule until he was

known, truthfully, as a ruthless and determined leader who had led his people

into a prosperity they had never before known.

Now this regal leader, his robe of crimson fur flowing over a black silk tunic

trimmed in platinum, ignored the King of Caergoth, stepping quickly to the

three men who stood silently behind that suddenly embarrassed monarch.

Each of these was bearded and wore a cap and breastplate of gleaming steel

plate. Tall boots rose above their knees, and each held a pair of gauntlets

under his arm as he waited to greet the most powerful man in all of Ansalon.

The shrieks of the crowd reached a crescendo as the emperor seized each of

these men, one after the other, in an embrace of deepest affection. He turned

once more and waved to the masses.

Then Quivalin V led the three men toward the crystal doors of the king's

palace. The portals parted smoothly, and when they closed, the hysteria

beyond fell to a muted rumble.

"Find us a place where we can speak privately," the emperor commanded,

without turning to look at King Trangath.

Immediately that royal personage scuttled ahead, bowing obsequiously and

beckoning the emperor's party through a towering door of dark mahogany.

"I hope fervently that my humble library will suit my most esteemed lord's

needs," the old king huffed, bowing so deeply he tottered for a moment,

almost losing his balance.

Emperor Quivalin said nothing-until he and the three men had entered the

library and the doors had soundlessly closed behind them. A deep black marble

floor stretched into the far comers of the huge room. Above them, the ceiling

lofted into the distance, a dark surface of rich, brown wood. The only light

came from high, narrow windows of crystal; it fell around them as beams of

heat and warmth before its reflections vanished in the light-absorbent darkness

of the floor.

Though several soft chairs stood along the walls, none of the men moved to

sit. Instead, the emperor fixed each of the others with a stare of piercing

strength and impelling command.

"You three men are my greatest generals," Quivalin V said, his voice

surprisingly soft beneath the intensity of his gaze. "And now you are the hope

and the future of all humankind!"

The three stood a little taller at his words, their shoulders growing a trifle

more broad. The emperor continued. "We have borne the elven savagery long

enough. Their stubborn refusal to allow humans their rightful place in the

plains has become too much to bear. The racial arrogance of their Speaker has

turned diplomacy into insults. Our reasonable demands are mocked. Silvanesti

intransigence must be wiped out."

Abruptly Quivalin's gaze flashed to one of the trio-the oldest, if his white

beard and long hair of the same color were any indication. Lines of strain and

character marked the man's face, and his short stature nevertheless bespoke a

quiet, contained power.

"Now, High General Barnet, tell me your plans."

The older warrior cleared his throat. A veteran of four decades of service to

this emperor-and to Quivalin IV before him-Barnet nevertheless couldn't

entirely calm himself in the face of that august presence.

"Excellency, we will advance into the plains in three great wings-a powerful

thrust from the center, and two great hooks to the north and south. I myself

will command the central wing-a thousand heavy lancers and fifty thousand

sturdy footmen with metal armor, shields, and pikes. Sailors and woodsmen

from Daltigoth and the south, mainly, including ten thousand with crossbows.

"We shall drive directly toward Sithelbec, which we know is the heart of the

elven defense-a place the elven general must defend. Our aim is to force the

enemy into combat before us, while the northern and southern wings complete

the encirclement. They will serve as the mobile hammers, gathering the enemy

against the anvil of my own solid force."

High General Barnett looked to one of his co-commanders. "General Xalthan

commands the southern wing."

Xalthan, a red-bearded warrior with bristling eyebrows and missing front

teeth, seemed to glower at the emperor with a savage aspect, but this was

simply an effect of his warlike appearance. His voice, as he spoke, was

deferential. "I have three brigades of heavy lancers, Excellency, and as many

footmen as Barnett-armored in leather, to move more quickly."

Xalthan seemed to hesitate a moment, as if embarrassed, then he plunged

boldly ahead. "The gnomish artillery, I must admit, has not lived up to

expectations. But their engineers are busy even as we speak. I feel certain that

the lava cannons will be activated early in the campaign."

The emperor's eyes narrowed slightly at the news. No one saw the facial

gesture except for Xalthan, but the other two noticed that veteran

commander's ruddy complexion grow visibly pale.

"And you, Giarna?" asked the emperor, turning to the third man. "How goes

the grandest campaign of the Boy General?"

Giarna, whose youthfulness was apparent in his smooth skin and soft, curling

beard, didn't react to his nickname. Instead, he stood easily, with a casualness

that might have been interpreted as insolence, except there was crisp respect

reflected in his expression as he pondered his answer. Even so, his eyes

unsettled the watchers, even the emperor. They were dark and full of a deep

and abiding menace that made him seem older than his years.

The other two generals scowled privately at the young man. After all, it was

common knowledge that Giarna's favored status with the emperor was due

more to the Duchess Suzine des Quivalin-niece of the emperor, and reputed

mistress to the general himself-than to any inherent military skill.

Still, Giarna's battle prowess, demonstrated against rebellious keeps across

the Vingaard Plains, was grudgingly admitted even by his critics. It was his

mastery of strate-gy, not his individual courage or his grasp of tactics, that had

yet to be proven.

Under ordinary circumstances, General Giarna's army command skills would

not have been tested on the battlefield for some years yet-until he was older

and more sea-soned. However, a recent rash of tragic accidents-a panicked

horse bucking, a jealous husband returning home, and a misunderstood

command to retreat-had cost the lives of the three generals who had stood in

line for this post. Thus Giarna, youthful though he was, had been given his

opportunity.

Now he stood proudly before his emperor and replied.

"My force is the smallest, Excellency, but also the fastest. I have twenty

thousand riders-horse archers and lancers-and also ten thousand footmen each

of sword and longbowmen. It is my intention to march swiftly and come

between the Wildrunners and their base in Sithelbec. Then I will wait for Kith-

Kanan to come to me, and I will shred his army with my arrows and my

horsemen."

Giarna made his report coolly, without so much as a nod to his peers, as if

the other two commanders were excessive baggage on this, the Boy General's

first great expedition. The older generals fumed; the implication was not lost

on them.

Nor on the emperor. Quivalin V smiled at the plans of his generals. Beyond

the walls of the cavernous library, within the vast palace, the roar of the

admiring crowd could still be heard.

Abruptly the emperor clapped his hands, the sound echoing sharply through

the large chamber. A side door to the room opened, and a woman advanced

across the gleaming marble. Even the two older generals, both of whom

distrusted and resented her, would have admitted that her beauty was

stunning.

Her hair, of coppery red, spiraled around a diamond-encrusted tiara of rich

platinum. A gown of green silk conformed to the full outline of her breasts and

hips, accented by a belt of rubies and emeralds that enclosed her narrow waist.

But it was her face that was most striking, with her high cheekbones and

proud, narrow chin and, most significant, her eyes. They glowed with the same

vibrance as the emeralds on her belt, the almost unnatural green of the

Quivalin line.

Suzine Des Quivalin curtsied deeply to her uncle, the emperor. Her eyes

remained downcast as she awaited his questions.

"What can you tell us about the state of the enemy's forces?" asked the ruler.

"Has your mirror been of use in this regard?"

"Indeed, Excellency," she replied. "Though the range to the elven army is

great, conditions have been good. I have been able to see much.

"The elven general, Kith-Kanan, has deployed his forces in thin screens

throughout the plain, well forward of the fortress of Sithelbec. He has few

horsemen-perhaps five hundred, certainly less than a thousand. Any one of

your army's wings will outnumber his entire force, perhaps by a factor of two

or three."

"Splendid," noted Quivalin. Again he clapped, this time twice.

The figure that emerged from a different door was perhaps as opposite from

the woman as was conceivable. Suzine turned to leave as this stocky individual

clumped into the room. She paused only long enough to meet Giarna's gaze,

as if she was searching for something in his eyes. Whatever it was, she didn't

find it. She saw nothing but the dark, insatiable hunger for war. In another

moment, she disappeared through the same door she had entered.

In the meantime, the other figure advanced toward the four men. The

newcomer was stooped, almost apelike in posture, and barely four feet tall. His

face was grotesque, an effect accentuated by his leering grin. And where

Suzine's eyes crowned her beauty with pride and dignity, the mad, staring eyes

of the dwarf showed white all around the tiny pupils and seemed to dart

frantically from person to person.

If he felt any repugnance at the dwarf's appearance, the emperor didn't show

it. Instead, he simply asked a question.

"What is the status of Thorbardin's involvement?"

"Most Exalted One, my own dwarves of the Theiwar Clan offer you their

unequivocal support. We share your hatred of the arrogant elves and wish

nothing more than their defeat and destruction."

"Nothing more, unless it be a sum of profit in the bargain," remarked the

emperor, his voice neutral.

The dwarf bowed again, too thick-skinned to be offended. "Your Eminence

may take reassurance from the fact that loyalty purchased is always owed to

the wealthiest patron-and here you have no competition in all of Krynn."

"Indeed," Quivalin added dryly. "But what of the other dwarves-the Hylar, the

Daergar?"

"Alas," sighed the Theiwar dwarf. "They have not been so open-minded as

my own clan. The Hylar, in particular, seem bound by ancient treaties and

affections. Our influence is great, but thus far insufficient to break these ties."

The dwarf lowered his voice conspiratorially. "However, your lordliness, we

have an agent in place-a Theiwar-and should be able to ensure that little

excess of comfort is delivered to your enemies."

"Splendid," agreed the emperor. If he was curious as to the precise identity

of the Theiwar agent, he gave no sign. "A vigorous season of warfare should

bring them to heel. I hope to drive them from the plains before winter. The

elven cowards will be ready to sign a treaty by spring!"

The emperor's eyes suddenly glowed with dull fire, the calculated sense of

power and brutality that had allowed him to send thousands of men to their

deaths in a dozen of his empire's wars. They flamed brighter at the thought of

the arrogance of the long-lived elves and their accursed stubbornness. His

voice became a growl.

"But if they continue to resist, we will not be content to wage war on the

plains. Then you will march on the elven capital itself. If it is necessary to

prove our might, we will reduce Silvanost itself to ashes."

The generals bowed to their ruler, determined to do his bidding. Two of them

felt fear-fear of his power and his whim. Beads of sweat collected upon their

foreheads, dripping unnoticed down cheeks and beards.

General Giarna's brow, however, remained quite dry.

Part 1: A Taste of Killing

1 - Late Winter, Year of the Raven, 2214 (PC)

The forest vanished into the distance on all sides, comfortingly huge, eternal,

and unchanging. That expanse was the true heart, the most enduring symbol,

of the elven na-tion of Silvanesti. The towering pines, with lush green needles

so dark they were almost black, dominated, but glades of oak and maple,

aspen, and birch flourished in many iso-lated pockets, giving the forest a

diverse and ever-changing character.

Only from a truly exalted vantage-such as from the Tower of the Stars, the

central feature of Silvanost-could the view be fully appreciated. This was where

Sithas, Speaker of the Stars and ruler of Silvanesti, came to meditate and

contemplate.

The sky loomed vast and distant overhead, a dome of black filled with

glittering pinpoints of light. Krynn's moons had not yet risen, and this made

the pristine beauty of the stars more brilliant, more commanding.

For a long time, Sithas stood at the lip of the tower's parapet. He found

comfort in the stars and in the deep and eternal woods beyond this island,

beyond this city. Sithas sensed that the forest was the true symbol of his

people's supremacy. Like the great trunks of forest giants, the ancient,

centuries-living elves stood above the scurrying, scampering lesser creatures of

the world.

Finally the Speaker of the Stars lowered his eyes to look upon that city, and

immediately the sense of peace and splendor he had known dissipated.

Instead, his mind focused on Silvanost, the ancient elven capital, the city that

held his palace and his throne.

Faint traces of a drunken chant rose through the night air to disturb his ears.

The song thrummed in the guttural basso of dwarves, as if to mock his concern

and consternation.

Dwarves! They are everywhere in Silvanost! Everywhere, in the city of elves,

he thought grimly.

Yet the dwarves were a necessary evil, Sithas admitted with a sigh. The war

with the humans called for extremely careful negotiations with powerful

Thorbardin, the dwarven stronghold south of the disputed lands. The power of

that vast and warlike nation, thrown behind either human Ergoth or elven

Silvanesti, could well prove decisive.

Once, a year earlier, the Speaker of the Stars had assumed the dwarves were

firmly in the elven camp. His negotiations with the esteemed Hylar dwarf

Dunbarth Ironthumb had presented a unified front against human

encroachment. Sithas had assumed that dwarven troops would soon stand

beside the elves in the disputed plainslands.

Yet, to date, King Hal-Waith of Thorbardin had not yet sent a single regiment

of dwarven fighters, nor had he released to Kith-Kanan's growing army any of

the great stocks of dwarven weapons. The patient dwarves were not about to

be hurried into any rash wars.

So a dwarven diplomatic mission was a necessity in Silvanost. And now that

war had begun, such missions required sizable escorts-in the case of the

recently arrived dwarven general Than-Kar, some one thousand loyal axemen.

Surprising himself, Sithas thought with fondness of the previous dwarven

ambassador. Dunbarth Ironthumb had fully possessed all the usual

uncouthness of a dwarf, but he also had a sense of humor and was self-

effacing, traits that had relaxed and amused Sithas.

Than-Kar had none of these traits. A swarthy complected Theiwar, the

general was rude to the point of belligerence. Impatient and uncooperative, the

ambassador actually seemed to act as an impediment to communication.

Take, for example, the messenger who had arrived from Thorbardin more

than a week ago. This dwarf, after his months'-long march, must certainly

have brought impor-tant news from the dwarven king. Yet, Than-Kar had said

nothing, had not even requested an audience with the Speaker of the Stars.

This was the reason for the conference Sithas had scheduled for the morrow,

peremptorily summoning Than-Kar to the meeting in order to find out what the

Theiwar knew.

His mood as thick as the night, Sithas let his gaze follow the dark outlines of

the river Thon-Thalas, the wide waterway surrounding Silvanost and its island.

The water was smooth, and he could see starlight reflected in its crystal

surface. Then the breeze rose again, clouding the surface with ripples and

washing the chant of the dwarven axemen away.

Seeing the river, the Speaker's mind filled with a new and most unwelcome

memory, a scene as clear in its every detail as it was painful in its recollection.

Two weeks ago or more it was now, yet it might as well have been that very

morning. That was when the newly recruited regiments had departed

westward, to join Kith-Kanan's forces.

The long columns of warriors had lined the riverbank, waiting their turns to

board the ferry and cross. From the far bank of the Thon-Thalas, they were

about to begin their long march to the disputed lands, five hundred miles to

the west. Their five thousand spears, swords, and longbows would prove an

important addition to the Wildrunners.

Yet, for the first time in the history of Silvanesti, the elves had needed to be

bribed into taking up arms for their Speaker, their nation. A hundred steel

bounty, paid upon recruitment, had been offered as incentive. Even this had

not brought volunteers flocking to the colors, though after several weeks of

recruitment regiments of sufficient size had finally been raised.

And then there had been the scene at the riverbank.

The cleric Miritelisina had just recently emerged from the cell where Sithas's

father, Sithel, had thrown her for treason a year earlier. The matriarch of the

faith of Quenesti Pah, benign goddess of healing and health, Miritelisina had

voiced loud objections to the war with the humans. She had had the audacity

to lead a group of elven females in a shrill, hysterical protest against the

conflict with Ergoth. It had been a sickening display, worthy more of humans

than of elves. Yet the cleric had enjoyed a surprisingly large amount of support

from the onlooking citizens of Silvanesti.

Sithas had promptly ordered Miritelisina back to prison, and his guard had

disrupted the gathering with crisp efficiency. Several females had been

wounded, one fatally. At the same time, one of the heavily laden river craft

had overturned, drowning several newly recruited elves. All in all, these were

bad omens.

At least, the Speaker realized, the outbreak of war had driven the last

humans from the city. The pathetic refugees of the troubles on the plains-many

with elven spouses-had marched back to their homelands. Those who could

fight had joined the Wildrunners, the army of Silvanost, centered around the

members of the House Protectorate. The others had taken shelter in the great

fortress of Sithelbec. Ironic, thought Sithas, that humans married to elves

should be sheltered in an elven fortress, safe against the onslaught of human

armies!

Still, in every other way, the city that Sithas loved seemed to be slipping

further and further from his control.

His gaze lingered to the west, rising to the horizon, and he wished he could

see beyond. Kith-Kanan was there somewhere under this same star-studded

sky. His twin brother might even be looking eastward at this moment; at least,

Sithas wanted to believe that he felt some contact.

For a moment, Sithas found himself wishing that his father still lived. How he

missed Sithel's wisdom, his steady counsel and firm guidance! Had his father

ever known these doubts, these insecurities? The idea seemed impossible to

the son. Sithel had been a pillar of strength and conviction. He would not have

wavered in his pursuit of this war in the protection of the elven nation against

outside corruption.

The purity of the elven race was a gift of the gods, with its longevity and its

serene majesty. Now that purity was threatened-by human blood, to be sure,

but also by ideas of intermingling, trade, artisanship, and social tolerance.

The nation faced a very crucial time indeed. In the west, he knew, elves and

humans had begun to intermarry with disturbing frequency, giving birth to a

whole bastard race of half-elves.

By all the gods, it was an abomination, an affront to the heavens themselves!

Sithas felt his face flush, and his hands clenched. If he had worn a sword, he

would have seized it then, so powerfully did the urge to fight come over him.

The elves must prevail-they would prevail!

Again he felt his distance from the conflict, and it loomed as a yawning chasm

of frustration before him. As yet they had received no word of battle, although

he knew that nearly a month earlier, the great invasion had begun. His brother

had reported three great human columns, all moving purposefully into the

plainslands. Sithas wanted to go and fight himself, to lend his strength to

winning the war, and it was all he could do to hold himself back. Inevitably his

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Dragonlance~|~TheKinslayerWars~|~TheElvenNationsTrilogyVolumeTwoDouglasNilesPrologueWinter,YearoftheRam,2215(PC)"TheEmperorarrives-heentersthefortressattheSouthGate!"ThecryrangfromthewallsofCaergoth,blaredbyathousandtrumpetsandheardbyamillionears.Excitementspreadthroughthemassivetentcityaroundthegre...

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02 The Kinslayer Wars

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