Sanctuary

Chapter 7

The afternoon repose of Khuri-Khan was first broken by the jangle of sistrums and the clash of cymbals. Housewives lifted the shades covering their window openings and peered outside to see what the noise was about. Soukats, taking a respite from the morning’s trading, pushed back their hats or came out from under their awnings. Anticipating an event, wine merchants in the Grand Souks reopened their stands. The street dogs of Khuri-Khan, always alert, began barking.

The deep thump of a drum sounded, two slow beats followed by two quick. A quintet of guards appeared. Their helmets were askew, armor straps flapping, for they had been sleeping, too. They made a ragged line and ported arms, standing as much at attention as the Khan’s soldiers ever did. Someone was coming—someone important.

The curious Khurs first saw a double line of elf maidens, twenty strong. Each wore a white, knee-length silk gown and, as a concession to the punishing sun, a matching scarf tied around her head. Golden girdles draping their slim hips sparkled, as did the garland of golden leaves twining their necks. They carried white baskets, strewing the contents on the street before them. At home, this would have been flower petals. Here in Khuri-Khan it was white sand, washed and polished until it glittered like silver.

Behind the twenty maidens came thirty young elf males, also clad in white. Hands, feet, and faces were browned by years of desert life, but arms and legs were still pale as the forest shade had made them. Each elf wore abroad belt made of jointed golden plates. In the center of each plate flashed an enormous flat jewel, peridot or aquamarine. Each of the thirty elves held aloft a pole, laminated with gold. Ten poles were topped with the golden sun symbol, and ten with a stylized silver star. Atop the poles of the final ten was a flat plaque of lapis lazuli on which appeared a gold sun and silver star of equal size. The Khurs couldn’t know it, but the precious metal on these standards was only thin plating over common brass or copper. Still, they made an impressive display.

By now Khurs of all ages were spilling out of their houses to see this wondrous parade. For years, they’d sold meat, meal, cloth, and soap to the laddad, and nothing dispels mystery like such humble, practical transactions. The elves they’d met were nothing like the tales said. They were a somber people of few words, with reddened faces and dirty nails. Not so the glorious apparitions promenading down the street today. These were the elves of legend!

Trailing the elf maidens and standard bearers were musicians. Four pairs of tympani strode down the center of the road, flanked on either side by a dozen white-robed youths either shaking sistrums or clanging cymbals. The rhythm was insistent: two slow beats followed by two fast, again and again. On the heels of the drummers were twelve older, brown-skinned elves dressed in green. They were Kagonesti pipers, carrying twinned flutes of silver and brass. Not yet playing, they walked with proud precision, dark hair hanging loose below their shoulders, their heads covered by leather skullcaps.

The parade penetrated the wide Street of Salah-Khan, which ran along the western end of the Grand Souks, and the pipers raised their instruments. A trill of notes floated over the desert city. Elf voices answered, crying, “Esh! Esh!”—the ancient greeting elves made to the sun each morning. The thirty standards, of sun, of stars, and of the two conjoined, were lifted skyward.

After the pipers, Hamaramis and fifty warriors of the Speaker’s guard marched into view. They were arrayed in their best armor, with plumed helmets and brilliant green mantles. Boors might have noted the scuffs and dents in the armor, and how some plumes were broken, but such imperfections did not detract from the spectacle. Each warrior’s short sword was sheathed and slung over his back, a traditional method of indicating peaceful intent. Each soldier held a brass and iron buckler to his chest with his left hand, and in his right gripped a ceremonial mace made of ivory. The heads were shaped like a sun or a star.

In the last rank of these warriors marched a watchful Hytanthas. He’d been attached to the Speaker’s guard so he could point out the phantom he’d seen in the Speaker’s tent, should the creature make an appearance.

In the soldiers’ wake came a delegation of Silvanesti, led by Lord Morillon Ambrodel. They were dressed as Silvanesti lords had been for centuries, in deeply pleated robes of sky blue, sun yellow, or star white. Disdaining to mar their ensembles with practical headgear, the Silvanesti went bareheaded. They would pay for their pride later with bouts of sunburn and prickly heat.

Last of all came the Speaker himself, on foot. He could have ridden, but with every horse precious to his army, he chose not to. The way wasn’t long from Khurinost to the palace. Not nearly as long as from Qualinost to Khur.

He did not wear his best robes—the cloth-of-gold and fire-knap in which he’d been crowned—but a simple white gown, with elbow-length sleeves, which brushed his ankles. A rope of woven gold strands was tied around his waist, a collar of lapis bars encircled his throat, and gold bracelets decorated each wrist. He also had chosen not to wear a crown, neither the sun diadem of Qualinesti, nor the star circlet of Silvanesti. He was a Speaker in exile. Wearing crowns while homeless seemed to Gilthas the height of hubris.

Four favored senators walked around him, carrying poles supporting a light linen canopy. This spare shade was his only protection from the sun. Planchet walked at his left elbow. Where his consort should have walked, Gilthas deliberately left an open spot, honoring Kerianseray.

The end of the parade was composed of dignitaries of all kinds. Each elf carried some sign of his or her office: a senator’s baton, a courtier’s medallion, a scholar’s scroll, a healer’s vial, and so forth.

Not all the Khurs watching the procession were charmed or dazzled. Some glowered, and a few shook fists at the elves, who marched solemnly ahead. Only once, as they were passing through the Grand Souks, was anything thrown. A few overripe fruits pelted the ceremonial guard. They never broke step, and the Khan’s soldiers charged into the crowd. They found the young offenders and dragged them away, beating them with olivewood staves.

The most direct route from the elves’ camp to the Khuri yl Nor was all narrow, winding alleys and shade-darkened lanes. Gilthas’s grand parade deliberately took a different way, following the widest streets in the city to give scope to his faded grandeur. In the great days of Sithel or Kith-Kanan, a Speaker’s royal procession would have numbered many thousands. Today it contained fewer than three hundred.

Only one other notable incident occurred during the elves’ passage, near the great Nak-Safal artesian well. The Street of Salah-Khan crossed the Temple Walk by the well. In a very real sense, this was the true center of Khuri-Khan, more sacred than any temple, more vital than palace or granary. Never in the harsh history of Khur had the well gone dry. When Malystryx scourged the city, it was to the Nak-Safal that the poor and destitute ran, knowing that whatever else befell them, they would not lack for life-giving water. Vexed by this display of faith, the red dragon tore a boulder from the city wall and flung it into the well. The great rock had been swallowed up by the white sand at the bottom of the well, and only a single corner showed above the water’s surface. The Nak-Safal overflowed for five days, gently washing the cobblestones of the square. Still imbedded in the sand, the boulder was known among city folk as Malsh-mekkek, Malys’s Tooth.

As the Speaker’s parade wound past the well, Hytanthas Ambrodel saw a hooded, rag-draped figure standing at its edge. The hood turned toward him, and the elf suddenly felt dizzy. Framed by moldering cloth was the face of the strange apparition he’d glimpsed in the Speaker’s tent the night before. The bizarre, solidly brown eyes locked onto Hytanthas’s own. His step faltered. Drums, pipes, and cymbals sounded far away. He felt a strange twisting sensation in his stomach, as though the ground had unexpectedly fallen away from his feet, and all at once he seemed to be standing outside his own body, watching himself walk shoulder to shoulder with the honor guard. The effect of seeing himself walking was utterly disorienting. Hytanthas began to fall.

A strong hand caught him by the back of the neck. “Steady, lad,” Planchet said, holding him upright. “Remember where you are!”

“He’s here!” Hytanthas gasped. “The ghostly spy I saw in the Speaker’s tent! He’s by the well, in the ragged brown robe!”

Planchet squinted against the glare. “But that’s no ghost. I can see him myself. Are you certain?”

“That’s him.”

As Hytanthas fixed his gaze on the ground, seeking to regain his balance, Planchet looked again at the scruffy figure in brown. He was still there, facing away from the valet. Then, seemingly from one heartbeat to the next, he vanished. Planchet blinked and stared, but the hunched fellow was gone. The valet shook his head. It took little imagination to think the fellow most likely a sorcerer or a mage. Perhaps even the mysterious Faeterus himself.

“Do you think so?” Hytanthas asked, looking more himself, and Planchet realized he’d voiced his speculation aloud.

“It’s possible,” the valet said, pushing Hytanthas back toward his place in the procession.

The parade of elves reached the square before the Khuri yl Nor and found Sahim-Khan’s household guard awaiting them, turned out in full regalia. While they lacked the grace and style of the elves, the Khan’s elite possessed a barbarous splendor of their own. Handpicked for height and physique, the guardsmen made an imposing show in their tall, spiked helmets, articulated breastplates, and panther-skin mantles. Arrayed outside the main gate of the citadel in two blocks, the guards struck the ground with their halberds, and shouted, “Sahim-Khan!”

The elves halted between the blocks of Khurish soldiers. The maidens and standard bearers stood aside, allowing the remainder of the procession to advance. Soon, Gilthas was being greeted at the palace gate by Sahim’s vizier, Zunda. A relic from the days of the dragon, Zunda had retained his place as vizier by being the oiliest, most obsequious courtier in Khuri-Khan. The tightly curled hair which fell past his shoulders was an obvious wig, and the flat black color of his elaborately curled beard was just as obviously due to dye.

“Greetings, O Light of the Elven Nations!” Zunda intoned loudly, bowing as low as his belly allowed. “The Great Khan of All the Khurs, Lion of the Desert, Vanquisher of Dragons, Sahim, son of Salah, welcomes you!”

Gilthas lowered his eyes briefly in acknowledgment. At his gesture, Lord Morillon stepped forward and answered the vizier.

“The noble Speaker of the Sun and Stars, Gilthas, of favored name, earnestly desires an audience with the Great Khan.” The Silvanesti would not be outdone by a mere Khur when it came to flowery speech.

“The glorious Sahim, Father of Khur and Fount of All Justice, has heard of your coming. He bids me, his most unworthy vizier, to convey you to his awesome presence.”

All eyes but the Speaker’s switched back to Morillon.

The Silvanesti pressed a hand to his chest and bowed his head, smiling with magnificent condescension. “Gracious Vizier, we are awed by the generosity of your Great Khan. I, Morillon Ambrodel, son of Kenthalantas Ambrodel and councilor to the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, beg you to lead on, and we shall enter with gratitude into the presence of your mighty lord.”

Everyone looked back to Zunda. This was obviously a battle to the death.

“My heart overflows, noble Morillon! Should I perish at this moment, I would die in blissful content to have known the celebrated personages of my Great Khan, Sahim son of Salah, the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, and your most noble self! You have but to follow, and this auspicious audience shall commence!”

Immediately, Zunda backed away, bowing three times as he went. Hamaramis gave the command and the honor guard started after him.

As he passed the red-faced Morillon, Gilthas murmured, “I think he won.”

The Khuri yl Nor was still in poor shape, though repairs continued day and night. The inner yard had been swept clean of debris, but the restored façades of the Nor-Khan and the Khanate (Sahim’s private residence) still were marked by large sections of unglazed brick and raw timber. The banner of Khur, with its pair of rampant golden dragons, hung from the battlement of the Great Keep, flapping slowly in the hot breeze. It had been rent by Malys’s claws, giving it the look of a pennon.

Straining guards opened the heavy bronze doors. Within the keep, the air was pleasantly cool. On the seaward side of the palace, enormous canvas funnels channeled sea breezes inside. This cooled the palace and filled it with the scent of the ocean.

The Nor-Khan was a maze of broad, high-ceilinged halls and long, low-roofed corridors. In part this was intentional, to confuse intruders, but it also reflected the varied history of Khur. Khans with money built lavishly. Those who were poor did not. The result was a hodgepodge palace, which only experienced lackeys and courtiers like Zunda could navigate successfully.

During their journey through the hallways, Planchet realized they were passing beneath the same area of cracked ceiling plaster for a second time. He murmured, “Sire, they’re leading us in circles.”

Gilthas smiled. “Sahim-Khan needs time to prepare his welcome.”

When at last Zunda conducted the elf delegation into the audience hall, Sahim was seated on the Sapphire Throne, waiting. He wore a splendid gown of dark blue silk; along its hem were embroidered dragons in red and gold. The red crown of Khur sat upon his head, and his beard had been combed and arranged in neat curls. He smiled broadly when Zunda announced the Speaker of the Sun and Stars.

“My brother!” he proclaimed, rising to his feet. “To what do I owe this inestimable honor?”

Gilthas halted at the foot of the throne dais. He did not bow. As heir to two of the oldest monarchies in the known world, he took precedence over an upstart like Sahim. However, protocol was not as important as diplomacy, so he found a way to pay homage to his host. With an outward sweep of his arm, Gilthas managed to convey the spirit of a bow without actually performing one.

“Great Khan, I have come to confer with you about the troublesome situation growing in your city,” he said. As you know, my consort, Lady Kerianseray, was set upon in the Temple Walk. Two days after that, a mob of Khurs rioted in the markets, seeking out elves to beat and kill.”

“Ah, yes.” Sahim sat back down. “The perpetrators are known to me, and are being rounded up for punishment even now.”

Most of the elven delegation silently fumed at seeing their Speaker forced to stand before the Khan like an ordinary supplicant. For his part, Gilthas adopted the bland mask he’d worn for so long during Marshal Medan’s occupation of Qualinost.

“Who are these people? Criminals?”

“They are now!” Sahim said, and laughed unpleasantly. “They’re fanatics, religious fanatics.”

“How have my people offended them?”

“Only by your existence, Great Speaker. Worshipers of Torghan love their country, but the presence of”—he almost said laddad—“elves in Khur is seen by them as an affront to the nation and their god.”

The exchange between rulers, polite on its surface, went on, with the Speaker seeking assurances that no further attacks would be made on his people, while Sahim eluded any promises. Planchet used the time to study the inhabitants of the throne room, those he could see without turning his head. The most glaring absence was that of Sahim’s heir. Prince Shobbat had not been glimpsed in public for some time. It was rumored he was quite ill. The walls of the room were lined with a motley collection of Khurs, city folk and nomads. Nobles from Delphon and Kortal were identifiable by their distinctive fashions: flat-topped, conical hats on the Delphonians and the western-style attire worn by those from Kortal, a territory situated near the border with Neraka.

“Some of the miscreants have in fact confessed,” the Khan said, and Planchet’s attention snapped back to him. Given the sort of persuasion meted out in the Khan’s dungeon, his prisoners would confess to anything.

“To a man they insist the trouble began when elves paid for goods using debased coinage.”

The soft background chatter ceased throughout the hail. Sahim had just accused the elves of passing coins made of inferior mixtures of metal rather than pure steel, gold, silver, or copper. The Speaker’s slender brows drew together. Those who knew him well recognized the stirring of anger.

“I know nothing of this,” he said tersely.

Sahim leaned forward, his expression one of concern. “Traders in the Souks are shrewd, but many live on the knife-edge of ruin. A day’s wages lost in bad coinage can mean starvation for their families. I am told that word of the false coins reached the Sons of the Crimson Vulture, and they sought to make the offending elves pay in genuine metal.” He leaned back again, spreading his hands expansively. “Alas! They could not tell the guilty from the innocent, and waylaid all elves they found. But be assured, Great Speaker, the matter is resolved. The offenders will pay with their heads.”

He announced this with the same casual air another man might adopt when promising a simple favor. The Speaker’s entourage wore grim expressions. Sahim, while vowing to punish the rioters, plainly blamed the elves for the trouble and was daring the Speaker to contradict him.

A faint smile crossed Gilthas’s lips. “The Mighty Khan’s justice be done,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “Might I make an offer, in the interest of good relations between our peoples?” Grandly, the Khan waved for him to continue. “Let me repay those vendors who lost money, and the families of the men who face your judgment. This I will do out of my own treasury.”

The humans filling the edges of the hall shifted, murmuring among themselves. They had not expected this.

Sahim-Khan, on the other hand, could not stop the grin that split his face. He beamed, saying the Speaker’s generosity would not be wasted.

Polite robbery! thought Hytanthas. From his place with the honor guard, he seethed at the injustice of the gesture that the Speaker should pay for a riot not of the elves’ making. Sahim was stealing just as surely as if he held the Speaker at the point of a knife and demanded his purse! And Hytanthas had no doubt every steel piece of the so-called indemnity would end in the Khan’s pockets.

To distract himself from his anger, Hytanthas let his gaze wander. The honor guard was divided into two lines, each facing inward toward the Speaker. Hytanthas was on the Speaker’s right, looking toward the Khurs on Sahim’s right, those crowded along the north wall of the hall.

As he scanned the Khurs, he hoped to see the rag-draped man among them, but be did not. He did spot Lord Hengriff. Although draped in civilian dress, the Nerakan was unmistakable. Standing behind him were four more large humans. Like him they were clean-shaven and dressed in civilian finery. Hytanthas had no trouble recognizing them for what they were—the Knight’s personal bodyguard and most probably the same men who had tried to take Hytanthas and Planchet at the Temple of Elir-Sana last night.

Hamaramis suddenly barked an order. The honor guard made a quarter-turn, facing away from the throne. The Speaker bowed slightly as the Khan slipped away. His audience was over.

The elves went out with proud dignity, but every heart burned with shame, and every jaw was clenched tight. Only the Speaker appeared calm. He spoke a few words to his valet. Planchet’s angry color lessened. He nodded obediently, and drifted away from the Speaker’s side.

Outside, musicians, courtiers, and standard bearers began to form up again. Hytanthas took his place at the rear of the honor guard, but was pulled aside.

Planchet pushed a Khurish robe at him and hissed, “Shed your armor, and don this. You’re staying in the city.”

The captain knew why: to look for Faeterus. Unbuckling his breastplate under cover of his milling countrymen, he whispered, “What do I do if I find him?”

“Send word. We’ll take care of the rest.” Planchet added, “The word is ‘Eagle Eye.’ That will mean you’ve found the sorcerer.”

Hytanthas pulled the robe over his head. It smelled as though it had just come off its previous owner. With a sun hat pulled down over his ears and his chin down to hide his hairless cheeks, he slipped away from his comrades.

An investigation of the robe’s pockets yielded a purse containing twenty steel, a sizable sum. It ought to be enough to buy the information he needed.

One of the forward scouts came galloping back, his horse’s hooves clattering loudly on the stony soil. Kerian reined up, halting the column. Although the Qualinesti said nothing until he’d halted his mount before her, she could tell by his face that he’d been successful.

“I found the pass, General! The entrance to the valley!”

He confirmed the identifying landmarks Kerian had memorized from Gilthas’s map. The three peaks, snowcapped, were there, lined up abreast. No tracks went in or out of the pass.

Kerian was relieved. She didn’t imagine the nomads were done with them yet, but at least they hadn’t reached the pass first. The sand beast, too, haunted her thoughts. There was no telling when the creature might turn up again.

While the scout and his panting horse quenched their thirsts, she turned to another important task. It was time to apprise Gilthas of their progress. The sun was low in the late afternoon sky, but she didn’t want to wait until morning to dispatch a courier.

She chose a rugged Kagonesti named Redhawk to return to Khurinost with the reports she’d composed. The sealed letters went into a leather pouch, which the Kagonesti looped around his neck. She handed him one last missive, a flat parcel wrapped in oilskin and sealed with wax.

“This,” she said, “is for the Speaker personally. No one else. The other dispatches may be handed to Planchet or Hamaramis, but this goes into no hands but Gilthas Pathfinder’s.”

Redhawk swore to carry out the mission exactly. Laying a blue-tattooed hand on the pouch around his neck, he vowed, “This will not leave me so long as I live.” None knew better than she the seriousness of a Wilder pledge.

When Redhawk had diminished to a smudge of dust on the horizon, she turned her attention back to the Qualinesti scout.

“Lead us to the entrance into the pass. We’ll camp there for the night.”

With the Qualinesti in the lead, the column moved out.

The three mountain peaks loomed ahead, blotting out all sight of the way beyond. Kerian stared in amazement at their snowy tops. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d seen snow.

As the column entered the mouth of the pass, the last fingernail slice of sun vanished below the western range to their left. With the light gone, the temperature plummeted, leaving shivering riders to don long-unused cloaks. It really wasn’t so cold, but compared to the blast furnace of the High Plateau, the air felt frigid indeed.

The pass was a silent place. The wind, which had swirled around the elves since the Khalkist mountains first came in view, died away. Although there were more plants about—scrub pines and gnarled junipers, thorny greasebushes and spiky aloe—the area seemed oddly lifeless. The only sound to be heard was the clink of their horses’ hooves on the pebbly soil. No birds chattered from the trees, no insects buzzed.

Color was returning. To elven eyes, the desert was dull, all tans, browns, and grays surmounted always by a blue sky that, cloudless, seemed oddly flat. At the mouth of the Inath-Wakenti, subtle shadings were restored to the landscape’s palette. The mountainsides were softly washed in purple and blue. Dark green pines stood over dwarf junipers in lighter greens. Moss and lichen mottled the rocks in silvery gray, or a green as bright as the limes popular in Khuri-Khan.

Kerian did not like it. When the valley had been nothing more than a spot on a map, she’d had many reasons for not wanting to come here, much less to live here. Now that it was real, now that she was here, her objections only increased. The very feel of the place was wrong. Tainted somehow.

She wasn’t the only one to notice this. Favaronas had drawn his cape close around his shoulders. “Feels like a graveyard,” he muttered, his eyes darting left and right.

Unconsciously, the elves slowed their pace. They’d come through the fiery crucible of the High Plateau, losing many of their number to nomads, the sand beast, and heat stroke, and they had reached their goal at last, yet no one felt any joy. No one smiled. Like Favaronas, all were looking around uncertainly, not drinking in the sight of their fabled destination, but regarding it with suspicion. Talk ceased. Every face reflected the same thought: What sort of place have we come to?

“General! Tracks!”

Kerian shook off the tomblike mood and urged her mount into a trot. The vanguard riders had found an area of prints. Horses had crossed the elves’ intended path, from left and right. Kerian dismounted and joined one of the scouts, kneeling to study the prints.

“Small hooves. Unshod,” she observed.

“Nomad ponies,” agreed the Wilder scout. “Many.”

“How long ago?”

He put his sun-darkened face scant inches from the prints, then lifted a handful of trampled dirt, crushed it, and let it fall from his fingers. “Half a day or less, but more than an hour,” he reckoned.

So much for having beaten the nomads to the pass, she thought unhappily. Kerian rose. Favaronas arrived leading his horse. He asked what they had found.

“Nomads,” she said. “Probably the same ones we’ve fought twice before.”

“Why? We aren’t in their desert anymore,” the archivist said, exasperated.

“To keep us out of the valley.” Dusk had come and gone. Stars were appearing overhead. Kerian realized that even she, with her keen eyesight, found it difficult to penetrate the shadows ahead. A sudden shiver chased itself down her spine, and she muttered, “I almost wish they would.”

The howl of a wolf pierced the air. Immediately it was answered by others both ahead and behind the elves. Kerian’s gloomy mood shattered.

“Stand to horse!” she cried, drawing her sword.

Favaronas did as she ordered, but didn’t see the need for such alarm. Surely even a large pack of wolves wouldn’t attack a column of armed elves.

The Lioness glowered at him. “Those aren’t wolves, librarian! The enemy is upon us!”

Her officers came cantering up, the balance of the company following.

“Deploy your riders, now!” she ordered.

Favaronas’s uncertainty evaporated abruptly as a hail of arrows fell out of the darkened sky. The wolf cry was a nomad signal.

With a hundred riders, the Lioness moved down the slight slope to the east, seeking the hidden archers. The ground was broken by deep gullies cut during winter rains. Nomads skulked in these crevices, raising their heads long enough to loose an arrow, then ducking under cover again. The mounted elves were forced to bend low to saber the enemy, but in a few minutes they put the archers to rout. Whooping with victory, they would’ve chased the fleeing humans, but the Lioness called them back.

Returned to the main body of warriors, she sat motionless in the saddle, her head up, straining to hear the slightest sound. She divided her attention between north and south. From one direction or the other, the main attack would come. She was beginning to understand nomad thinking. Feint into ambush was practically their only tactic. Wolf calls and a burst of arrows were intended to strike fear, to fix the enemy’s attention in one direction, while the main assault came from elsewhere. The pass here was too wide for a strike from the west; it would come from the north, directly ahead, or the south.

“Keep alert,” she called. “Watch the shadows.”

From the north came the rumble of approaching horses. The Lioness spread out her small band in skirmishing order, each rider seven or eight feet from his neighbor. By the sound of the enemy’s approach, she estimated she faced a force slightly greater in size than her own.

Others in the line had made the same mental calculation. An anxious voice asked, “Should we sit still and receive their charge?”

“Unless you want to die tonight,” the Lioness replied. She was certain this was yet another feint. The main attack still had not shown itself.

A dark mass of riders appeared out of the north. The nomads were strung out in a long, thin line, stretching beyond the limits of the elves’ small formation. Fortunately, the rough ground prevented the Khurs from charging at full speed. They had to pick their way around broken ground and small trees, then climb through steep gullies in small groups. Under the Lioness’s steady hand, the elves waited. When the first nomads reached level ground, she ordered half her command to charge. A brisk melee began, with the elves battling the Khurs as they arrived, piecemeal. This effectively destroyed the nomads’ numerical advantage.

The battle continued, Khurs and elves wheeling and turning on the ground as the stars overhead performed their own slow, stately march between the high peaks. A rider made his way to the Lioness. He reported large numbers of nomads coming up from the south.

She felt a kind of relief. At least the waiting was over. “How many?” she asked.

“Difficult to say, General. Three hundred, maybe more.”

She sent him back to his comrades. Three hundred nomads against fewer than one hundred of her soldiers, awaiting their charge. Even with the advantage of darkness, those were daunting odds.

The elves around her watched her in silence. The veterans, with her since the days of rebellion in Qualinesti, sat as motionless as she. Younger warriors shifted nervously. Since she was the Lioness—admired just short of worship, yet first among equals—one spoke up, asking what her orders were.

She turned a thoughtful look on him. “Who carries our fire?” she asked.

Certain elves in the warband were detailed to carry live coals in clay pots. From these each night’s campfires were lit. The young elf couldn’t fathom why the Lioness would ask about this now, but he replied after only a brief, confused pause: “Sergeant Vitianthus has our fire, General.”

She knew Vitianthus. A Silvanesti volunteer, he was a former horse trainer and an elegant rider.

“Tell the sergeant I want fire—lots of it.” Twisting in the saddle, she pointed to a copse of cedars forty yards distant, on their right flank. “Have him set fire to those trees.”

The young elf saluted and galloped away.

“Everyone is to remain where they are,” Kerian commanded. At her order, swords were drawn and rested on shoulders.

Sergeant Vitianthus and a contingent broke off from the band and galloped to the cedar copse. For a long interval nothing could be seen, then sharp elven eyesight noted smoke rising, nearly invisible in the night air. The sweet cedar smoke drifted back over the motionless warriors. An orange flame leaped up. Then another.

To the main body of nomads, advancing steadily from the south, the sight of fire was a shock. The leading elements of Adala’s tribe faltered, uncertain what was happening. Adala, mounted on her donkey, saw the flickering flames and shrugged.

“So much the better. A fire will make it easier to see the laddad and kill them.”

Gwarali, who had begged for the honor of leading the attack, agreed with her. The burning trees clearly showed him elves on horseback waving fiery brands. It seemed a futile gesture. The trees were too few to make a blaze large enough to ward off the nomad warband. All the desperate elves were doing was illuminating their own destruction.

He drew his sword and uttered the new war cry—“Adala maita!”

Hundreds echoed him, as he led the men forward. Wisely, they did not gallop toward the foe, but rode at a fast trot. They saw the elves who’d started the fire retreating from the burning copse, and naturally went for the enemy they could see.

As the nomads skirted the blaze, the crackle of burning wood and snap of boiling sap masked other sounds. The Weya-Lu never heard the hail of arrows that emptied a score of their saddles.

“Where are they coming from?” Gwarali shouted. The firestarters were still in view, galloping away to the north.

No one could answer him. Another wave of arrows fell. These weren’t random volleys, lofted in the general direction of the Khurs. Every missile found a target; the arrows were well aimed. Even nomads farther from the fire and not illuminated by its light were being hit.

The answer hit Gwarali like a bolt of lightning: Laddad could see in the dark!

He shouted a warning. It was echoed back through the ranks, and the Weya-Lu faltered. Gwarali roared, “They can die in the dark, too! Up swords!”

More arrows came, scything across the starlit landscape, each wave bringing down men and horses. Gwarali pulled his horse up short, causing the pony to rear on its hind legs. He bellowed, “Will you leave your murdered families unavenged? Did your fathers and brothers die in battle for nothing? Are you men?”

Backs straightened, blood surged anew. The Weya-Lu lifted swords high and prepared to charge.

“Believe in your maita, Sons of the sand! Follow me! For your gods! For—”

A perfectly aimed arrow cut off Gwarali’s rallying cry. The point took him in the left eye, burying itself deep. The nomad chief was dead even as he toppled backward off his horse.

The Lioness watched with satisfaction as the Weya-Lu attack melted away. The fire had worked even better than she’d hoped. By lighting it on their right flank, the elves drew the nomads to that point. The flames weren’t enough to light the battlefield for the humans—in fact, their proximity to it served to ruin what little night sight they had—but the elves, with their keener vision, could clearly see the nomad riders.

There was no time to celebrate. The fire was dying out. Stung by the elves’ arrows, the nomads would probably return with everything they had. It was time to go. She and the archers rejoined the northern half of her army. They had empty saddles of their own. This was not a horseman’s battle, blundering through gullies with archers about.

According to Gilthas’s map, the pass narrowed about a mile in. Kerian decided they would advance and make a stand there.

The noise of the enemy approaching from behind them grew louder. In close order, the elves rode straight down the center of the pass. Favaronas kept close to the Lioness. With luck and her tactical skill, he hoped they might yet escape the nomads’ pursuit.

Adala took the loss of Gwarali in stride. Bilath, brother of Adala’s dead husband, was leading the flanking riders now. Gwarali’s nephew Bindas took his uncle’s place at the head of the southern warband. Bolstered by the Weyadan’s calm conviction, Weya-Lu warriors once more pushed forward, eager to close with the laddad.

On a rocky pinnacle three miles away, the sand beast raised its head and tasted the wind. Its prey was close by, and in great numbers. The itch in its iron claws soon would be salved by elf blood. It gathered itself to spring. There were humans in its path, but they posed no obstacle. One blinding rush and all the elves would die, then the burning in its heart would be extinguished. One rush, and it would all be over—

Anew odor, propelled by the east wind, teased its nostrils.

The sand beast froze. The scent was familiar, an ancient memory, one that caused the scales on its back to ripple in fear.

A strange warbling cry pierced the night High overhead, a black object occluded the stars.

Kerian heard it over the thud and jingle of her troops in motion. Hardly believing her ears, she looked skyward.

“Eagle Eye!”

Favaronas, slightly ahead of her, tried to look back while maintaining his seat. “What?”

“My griffon! That’s his cry! I know it as well as my own voice!”

She had no idea how Eagle Eye could be here, when she’d left him in Khurinost, but the griffon’s call was unmistakable. Standing in her stirrups, she whistled shrilly. To her delight, Eagle Eye answered, sounding closer now.

When the warbling screech came a second time, the sand beast bolted. Strong as it was, the urge to hunt elves could not overcome the primal fear inspired by the sound of a natural enemy. Descending the hill in one great bound, the sand beast lowered its head, struck the Opposite hillside, and immediately began burrowing. It tore through slabs of slate as easily as a child digs in sand. Before the shadow of the griffon crossed the hill where the sand beast had been, it was completely buried, lying still as the rock around it.

The Lioness stopped, and her warriors followed suit. They could now see the griffon’s black shape moving in the sky. Kerian cupped her hands around her mouth and whistled again.

The griffon descended rapidly, flaring his wings and hovering over the elves. None of them could enjoy the sight; all were too busy trying to control their plunging horses. Kerian solved this dilemma for herself by vaulting from the saddle. Rising to her feet, she held up a hand to the griffon and called his name. Eagle Eye, utterly ignoring the chaos around him, landed next to her and lowered his hooked beak, tucking it under her arm like a pet songbird.

“You old monster,” she said fondly. “I’m glad to see you, too. Your timing is excellent!”

A shout interrupted the reunion. Favaronas, engaged in a losing battle with his terrified horse, yelled, “The nomads are getting close!”

Two hundred yards away, the main body of nomads was in plain view. Their advance from the south had been halted temporarily as they, too, had to cope with frightened mounts. From the east, a second force of nomads was likewise delayed. Kerian estimated some four hundred Khurs remained.

“Form up! Form up!” she called, even as she leapt onto the griffon’s back. She was airborne in the next heartbeat, Eagle Eye’s muscular hindquarters sending them into the air with a breath-snatching rush. Kerian turned his head toward the larger (and closer) southern nomad band, shouting at her elves, “Into the valley—at a gallop! There’s no time to waste!”

Her warriors sorted themselves into riding formation. Reins snapped and spurs dug in. They surged northward. On their right, the second party of Khurs was angling to cut them off. With the Lioness forced to concentrate first on the southern nomads, the eastern band was beginning to regain control of their horses.

Eagle Eye flew so low over the nomad horsemen that Kerian could have kicked their hats with her boot. Instead, she crouched low over her mount’s neck. It wouldn’t do to pick up an arrow from a sharp-eyed nomad archer. The griffon’s screeching cries sent the horses into a frenzy. Their riders seemed scarcely more composed. Tribesmen in Eagle Eye’s path flung themselves off their mounts.

Eagle Eye banked, flapped hard for altitude, and soared back over the hectic scene. Kerian aimed to rejoin her fleeing command. Her bird’s-eye perspective showed a dire situation.

The flanking nomads, riding hard from the east, had succeeded in getting in front of her elves. She growled in frustration; the trap she feared had caught them. Nomads were ahead and, however disordered, also behind them. Their only hope of survival was the Inath-Wakenti, where they would have room to maneuver—and hide.

She reached her diminished band and hovered high above them. “Draw swords, all!” she cried. Three hundred-odd blades rose in unison. “Forward! Don’t falter! If the humans get in your way, cut them down, but don’t stop to fight. Go!”

Boot to boot, the wedge of elves hit the nomads head-on. The elves, highly trained veterans on taller, heavier horses, pushed through the loose nomad formation, trading sword cuts as they went Bilath tried to hold his men as Adala had instructed, but the elves would not be denied. Bilath himself received a slash on the temple. A second cut might have finished him, but the elf warrior tore by without pause.

On the southern front, the Weya-Lu led by Bindas were coming up fast. Their desert ponies were a hardy lot, and the animals’ fear had faded as they grew accustomed to the griffon’s strange scent. Adala’s stolid donkey had never given in to the terror. On beholding the griffon, Adala proclaimed the strange flying beast a sign. Monsters from the Abyss had been raised against them, she told her rapt followers. The wicked laddad thought to cow them, but Torghan the Avenger would strengthen Weya-Lu sword-arms and steel their hearts. The Weya-Lu shouted, “Adala maita!” Then they thundered forward at a gallop.

Riding near the Weyadan, Wapah stared uncertainly at the griffon. He recognized it as a creature associated with the Silvanesti and didn’t quite understand how it could be both a sign from Those on High and a monster raised by the laddad for use against the people of the desert.

Shrugging, he decided this was just another example of what happened when a man strayed from the hard edges of the desert. Here, mountains pierced the sky, letting in confusion.

The griffon swooped in, hovering in front of the nomad band: Adala tugged Little Thorn’s reins, halting the donkey. Her warriors stopped as well.

“Begone, monster!” Adala shouted to the griffon. “Return to the wicked land of your ancestors!”

“That’s just what I plan to do!” said a voice from the creature’s back, and a javelin came flying at Adala.

The mother of the Weya-Lu held her place. The javelin struck the ground a few feet in front of Little Thorn’s hooves, burying its iron head six inches into the hard soil. The shaft vibrated with the force of the throw. The griffon wheeled and flew off into the night.

Etosh came riding back from the head of the nomad band.

“Weyadan, the laddad are entering the valley! We have failed!”

The anger Adala had felt on hearing the laddad voice subsided. Her face resumed its patient cast. “All is well, brother. They have gone into the sacred valley, but there they will perish.”

The tribe, she said, would camp here, blocking the only pass out of the valley. When the laddad tried to escape, they would be destroyed. She urged Little Thorn forward, grasped the javelin, and worked it free of the soil. Wapah came up beside her as she was studying the weapon.

“We should not stay here, Weyadan,” he said. “This land is not good. The hard edges are dulled. Unnatural things abide.”

“We must stay. Our land and our honor demand it.” She looked up at him, taller than she on his pony, and added, “I have seen a new vision of our path, cousin. It’s not enough to expel the foreigners from the valley. When the laddad here have been dealt with, we will raise the tribes, all the tribes of Khur, and lead them to Khuri-Khan. We will deal with the laddad there, too.”

She handed him the javelin, and turned her animal away. He touched the tip of the slender spear lightly; it was keen enough to make his thumb bleed. Had it hit the Weyadan, it easily would have pierced her back to front. Wrapping the sharp head in a length of protective cloth, Wapah lashed the javelin across the rear of his saddle. Nomads were never wasteful.

Six miles away, the Lioness brought Eagle Eye to ground far enough in front of her warriors that their horses wouldn’t go wild. They reined up. Elves and horses alike were panting for breath. Her officers and Favaronas joined her on foot next to the griffon.

“They didn’t follow us,” she said. “I think they’re afraid—of the valley or Eagle Eye, I’m not sure which.”

Favaronas said, “Lucky your creature found us. I thought the time for such wonders was past!”

Kerian, too, had been marveling at the griffon’s cleverness. With the rush of battle behind her she realized how odd it was that Eagle Eye had arrived fully saddled, with weapons of battle, like the javelin quiver, in place. She certainly hadn’t left him stabled that way.

The answer to the conundrum was tucked inside the javelin quiver. It was a folded parchment whose message convinced her that wonders were no match for the everyday power of love.

Thought you could use a friend, the note said. It was signed simply, “G.”