“What about the SeaKings?” he asked.
Sir Lathan grunted. “Keep awake, elf. I said that the tytans have attacked them. They’ve been routed, seemingly. The bastards actually had the nerve to beg us for help.”
The innkeeper returned with the ale, set the mug down in front of the knight.
“Back off,” Lathan commanded, waving a greasy hand.
“And did you send aid?” Paithan inquired.
“They’re the enemy. It could have been a trick.”
“But it wasn’t, was it?”
“No,” the knight admitted. “I guess not. They were soundly trounced, according to some of the refugees we talked to before we turned them away from the walls-”
‘Turned them away!”
Sir Lathan lifted the mug, drank long and deep, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, “What would happen if we sent sorinth for aid, elf. What would happen if we asked your people for help?”
Paithan felt a hot flush spread from his neck to his cheeks. “But you and the SeaKings are both human.” It was lame, but all he could think of to say.
“Meaning you’d help us if we were your kind? Well, you can make good on that one, elf, because we’ve heard rumors that your people in the Fartherness Reaches have been attacked, as well.”
“That means,” said Roland, quickly calculating, “that the tytans are spreading out, moving est and vars, surrounding us, surrounding Equilan,” he said with emphasis.
“I’ve got to go! Got to warn them,” murmured Paithan. “When do you expect them to reach Griffith?”
“Any day now,” said Lathan. Wiping his hands on the table-doth, he rose to his feet, the tyro armor making a clattering sound. “The flood of refugees has stopped, which means they’re all probably dead. And we’ve heard nothing from our scouts, which means they’re probably dead, too.”
“You’re being awfully cool about this.”
“We’ll stop them,” said Sir Lathan, buckling on his sword belt.
Roland stared at the sword, with its honed, wooden blade and suddenly began to laugh, a high-pitched, shrill cackle that made Paithan shudder. By Orn, maybe the dwarf wasn’t the only one going crazy.
“I’ve seen them!” cried Roland, in a low, hollow voice. “I saw them beat a man. … He was tied up. They hit him and hit him”-his voice rose, fists clenched-“and hit him and-”
“Roland!”
The human was curling up, body hunching over, fingers twitching spasmodically. He seemed to be falling apart.
“Roland!” Paithan flung his arms around the man, gripped the shoulders hard, fingers digging into the flesh.
“Get him out of here,” said Sir Lathan, in disgust. “I’ve no use for cowards.” He paused a moment, considering his words, Tolling them in his mouth as if they tasted bad. “Could you get weapons to us, elf?” He asked the question grudgingly.
No, Paithan was on the verge of saying. But he stopped the words, nearly biting off his tongue to keep them from blurting out. I need to reach Equilan. Fast. And I can’t if I’m going to be stopped and questioned at every border between here and Varsport.
“Yes, I’ll get you weapons. But I’m a long way from home-”
Roland lifted a ravaged face. “You’re going to die! We’re all going to die!”
Other knights, hearing the commotion, peered in the window. The innkeeper’s face had gone livid. He began to babble, his wife started to wail. Sir Lathan put his hand on his sword, loosened the blade in its scabbard. “Shut him up before I run him through!”
Roland shoved the elf aside, bolted for the door. Chairs toppled, he overturned a table, and nearly knocked down two knights trying to stop him. At Lathan’s gesture, they let him pass. Glancing through a window, Paithan saw Roland staggering down the street, weaving on unsteady feet like a drunken man.
“I’ll give you a permit,” said Lathan.
“Cargans as well.” The elf pictured the puny barricades, imagined the tytans smashing through them, walking over them as if they were nothing but piles of leaves thrown in their path. This town was dead.
Paithan made up his mind. I’ll take Rega to Equilan-with me. She won’t go without Roland, so I’ll take him back, too. He’s not a bad fellow. Not really.