The slightest hint of a breeze whispered out of the north. She shuddered and only then realized how cold it was. As she bent to the firebed, hands trembling, her breath came out in a thick white fog.
Last night's fire had fallen to a bed of ash, but she could feel warmth coming off it. She took a stick from their small pile of kindling, stirred the ashes, and blew the coals into embers. She added a bit of dry grass, which smoked at once. She blew again, and tiny flames caught and grew. Adding larger twigs and finally several sticks-she would not touch the dried dung no matter what Gyaidun said-she soon had a healthy blaze going.
Light was finally beginning to gather in the grass and tussocks above the little gully, but Amira knew the first sliver of sun would not pass over the horizon for some time yet.
A caw shattered the silence. Amira looked up. Durja was circling the camp in low, erratic sweeps. Every third pass or so he let out a harsh cry.
Amira was about to bend down to add more fuel to the fire when a lump of shadow she'd taken for a tussock or bush moved. She froze, watching it. Whoever it was must have seen her watching, for after a moment it moved again, standing up. It was a man, much shorter than Gyaidun, but stocky with muscle. Another about an easy stone's throw to the man's left stood up, then another just behind them. They started walking toward her, other shapes rising from the grass and behind bushes.
She turned. Four others approached from the other side of the gully. Nine in all.
Where had Gyaidun gone? Damn the man. She knew she could probably manage all nine if she could keep them at a distance-and if none of them had bows. But their build and swagger told her they were Tuigan-she couldn't make out enough details to discern the tribe-and the Tuigan always had bows.
Amira retrieved her staff and climbed out of the gully on the east side, putting the wide gash in the earth between her and the four coming in from the west. They'd have to cross it to get at her, and if the sun peaked over the horizon in time, they'd be staring into the sun.
The men kept coming at an easy pace, not hurrying, obviously sizing her up. Tuigan were a superstitious lot, and even if these were nothing more than bandits outcast from their clans, even if they'd forsaken all vows of honor and hospitality, they'd still be wary of anything unknown. Especially a woman alone on the steppe. If she played this right, she might be able to scare them off.
The nearest was only a few dozen paces away.
Amira raised her staff and shouted, "Stop!" in the Khassidi dialect.
The men stopped. They stood in stark silhouette against the brightening horizon. The two on the outside held bows with arrows on the strings. The three in the middle kept their hands on the swords sheathed at their waists.
"You are not Khassidi," said the one in the middle.
"No." She lowered her staff. "I'm not."
"We are not Khassidi."
Amira sifted his words, his accent. The slight roll in his r's and his broad vowels gave him away as a southerner. Commani, perhaps?
Maybe raiding into Khassidi territory, if they were clanless bandits.
"Who you are does not concern me," she said. "What do you want?"
"We saw your fire and hoped you might offer us hospitality."
Amira risked a quick glance over her shoulder. The other four had stopped at the opposite edge of the gully. Three of them had bows.
Damn, she thought. She prayed for the sun to hurry. Direct sunlight in their faces might give her an added edge. If Gyaidun didn't return soon, she'd need it. Where had he gone?
Durja landed several paces behind the leader and cawed, but the men ignored him.
"Let me gather my things," Amira said, "and you can have the fire to yourselves. I have a long way to go."
"Where is a fine woman like yourself going all alone in these hard lands?"
"I am not alone."
The leader chuckled and looked to his men. "Ah, yes. The big one.
We saw him as we came in."
"Skulked in, more like."
The leader shrugged. "One must take care. You might have been bandits trying to lure us in by your fire."
"As I said, let me leave and the fire is yours. There's enough fuel there to last a while."
"Your friend, the big one, where has he gone?"
Durja cawed several times, loud and harsh. It gave her an idea.
"That was my slave," she said. "He displeased me, so I turned him into a raven. That raven." She pointed at Durja with her staff and gave it a theatrical shake.
The men didn't move, but she saw them go stiff and still. The bowmen's fingers tightened round the nocks of their arrows.
"You are a witch?" said the leader. "A Rashemi witch, then?"
"No. I am a War Wizard of Cormyr. Our apprentices practice on the Rashemi witches."
The men made the Tuigan sign to ward off evil, and two of them exchanged nervous glances.
"My father was a powerful shaman," said the leader. "His cloak shadows me. I do not fear you."
"What about your men? I think that one there would make a fine donkey." She shook her staff in his direction, and he started backward, staring nervously at his leader. "I could ride him out of here. Save my feet the journey."
Durja cawed again and flapped his wings. The two men flanking the leader spared the raven a nervous glance, but the bowmen kept their gaze fixed on Amira.
"We wish you no trouble," said the leader. "Nor trouble on us.
Give us some hospitality and we will be on our way."
"Hospitality?"
"A drink. Maybe a bite or two and some gold if you have it."
"You are robbing me?" Amira put every ounce of steel she could muster into her voice, stood straight and tall, and readied her staff.
Rise, rise, rise, she called to the sun. Come up now!
The leader feigned shock. "Rob? Curse the notion, holy one! You are a guest in these lands and so do not know our ways. We offer you the gift of our protection. It is custom that you offer us a gift in return. Some food, drink, and maybe a little gold to trade in the caravans would warm our hearts."
Bright light flickered on the tallest bushes and began to bleed downward. The sun was coming up at last. Durja called out again, this time hopping and flapping his wings.
"I care nothing for you or your customs," said Amira. "Be off before I become angry and turn you all into donkeys. I'll herd you to the nearest settlement and geld the lot of you!"
Durja raised a racket and would not stop. The Tuigan nearest to him, one of the bowmen, scowled and turned to him.
"Ujren!" he called. "Look here!"
The leader kept his eyes on Amira. "What is it?"
"The raven. He's standing on a bit of cloth buried in the dirt, and there's some silver."
"Silver?"
"Looks like a bit of necklace or something."
The leader gave Amira a hard look. "You buried your belongings, did you? Stay there. We will take our gift ourselves, then be off."
"I don't know what you mean," said Amira. "Ravens are hoarders.
Probably just a trinket he found on the steppe."
"You said this raven was your slave."
"He wanders." Amira shrugged. "One of the reasons I turned him into a raven. I can't abide a worthless slave."
Still keeping his gaze fixed on Amira, the leader said, "See it, Geshtai."
The bowman looped one finger round the arrow on his bow to hold it in place while freeing his other hand. He approached the ground where Durja was still keeping up his racket. The raven glared at the Tuigan, his cries becoming enraged. When the man was a few paces away, Durja hopped backward, his wings flapping. Finally, he gave up and flew a short distance before landing again and resuming his racket.
Chuckling, the bowman bent over, his free hand reaching out.
The ground at his feet erupted.
Through the spray of dirt Amira saw the glint of the new sun on a blade, and the bowman screamed as if he were being flayed alive. He went down
, his shrieks increasing, and through the cloud of dirt, Gyaidun stood, a bloody knife in one hand and his long black iron club in the other.
Amira had an instant to decide-three swordsmen and a bowman facing Gyaidun in front of her and at least three bowmen and two others at her back. She chose.
Amira spun as she fell, whipping her staff around to face the four bowmen on the other side of the gully. She took a breath even as they raised their bows and pulled feathers to cheeks.
"Vranis!" she shouted.
Flames roared from the ground at the four Tuigan's feet, a gout of fire that turned grass to ash in a rush of breath, caught in the fur lining the men's trousers and continued its way up into their wool shirts-all in the time it took them to gasp in shock. Each man fell screaming to the ground, and their arrows flew harmlessly away. All but one, which skidded through the grass near Durja, who cried out and took to the air.
Amira returned her attention to the foes in front of her. She saw fear in their eyes, but also determination. They knew death was before them, and their only hope was to face it and fight.
Gyaidun had already made it to the first swordsman. With his comrades standing between him and the large warrior, the remaining Tuigan bowman pivoted and brought his aim to bear on Amira.
"No!" she shouted. She'd had no time to prepare any shields.
Her attention focused, becoming acute so that the scene before her seemed frozen. She saw the fingers of the bowman's right hand open, and the tension held in the bow relaxed. Amira took one step back and leaped, partly hoping she'd make it back into the gully and partly dreading the fall.
The arrow passed so close that she heard the buzz of the wind through its fletching as it passed over her. Her hip hit the lip of the gully, and she went down head first into the dry wash. The fall knocked the breath out of her, and when she opened her mouth to fill her lungs, her mouth filled with dirt. She rolled to her hands and knees, coughing and spitting. She could hear screaming, the clash of weapons, the fire from her spell still burning on the other side of the gully over her, and above it all, Durja raising a holy racket.
Though every breath felt as if she were drawing needles into her lungs, she forced herself to her feet and risked a look above the rim of the gully. Only three Tuigan were still standing, Gyaidun facing off against the leader and the other swordsman. The third had another arrow ready, and as she watched he pulled it to his cheek and took aim at Gyaidun.
Amira thrust one arm forward, pointed at the bowman, and forced out a single word-"Dramasthe!"
It was one of the first spells she'd learned as an apprentice, one of the first spells every apprentice learned for its simplicity and sheer effectiveness. A bright beam only slightly longer than the Tuigan's arrow shot forth from her finger and struck the bowman square in the chest. He flew backward as if struck by a hammer, his arrow streaking into the grass a few paces away and his bow falling to the ground where he'd stood.
Amira shifted her aim to the leader and struggled to draw in another breath.
Tuigan learned to fight from horseback not long after they learned to walk. As cavalry, few in Faer?n could match their ferocity. But fine swordsmen they were not, and these two relied upon superior numbers and brute force, charging Gyaidun together, one stabbing while the other swiped his blade at Gyaidun's midsection.
Rather than try to block both swords, Gyaidun simply stepped backward out of their reach.
Amira tried to speak the incantation, but it came out a harsh rasp that turned into a cough. Some of the dirt she'd been unable to spit out had gone down her throat and she couldn't form the syllables.
Gyaidun swiped at the leader with his club, but the Tuigan merely leaned away. Following through, Gyaidun brought the club back around.
Again the Tuigan leaned away, but this time Gyaidun let go of his weapon. The long shaft of heavy iron shot forward and slammed into the leader's face. Even over the crackling of the flames and Durja's racket, Amira heard bone crunch. The bandit leader collapsed like a newborn foal.
The handle of Gyaidun's club had about two paces of leather cord braided through it, the other end of which was bound to the big man's wrist. With a flick of his arm he brought the iron club toward him and slapped it back into his hand.
The remaining Tuigan stood alone against a larger foe and a wizard. Amira half-expected him to turn and run. But the Tuigan apparently decided-and rightly so-that it was kill or be killed, and he attacked with renewed ferocity.
Gyaidun blocked two slashes of the man's blade with his club and swiped at the Tuigan with his knife. He missed and the Tuigan lowered his blade and thrust. Gyaidun brought the full weight of his club down on the sword, and the steel blade snapped a hand's length above the hilt. Thrown off-balance, the Tuigan stumbled, and before he could right himself, Gyaidun's long knife swiped under his chin. Blood fountained outward in a long arc as the man fell back.
The Tuigan hammered the ground with his hands and heels. Amira could hear him trying to draw breath into his lungs, and she winced at the wet gurgle. The man coughed, blood and bile sprayed out of the gash in his throat, and Amira looked away. She'd seen worse. Many times. But never did it do anything but fill her with revulsion.
"Good," her old master had told her long ago. "That's good. Don't fight the horror. If you do, one day you won't feel the horror at killing anymore. On that day, put away your battle spells and retire to a life of scholarship. Cormyr needs warriors, not murderers."
The fight done, Amira rummaged through their belongings until she found her waterskin. She untied the knot, sloshed water through her mouth and spat, repeating until she could no longer feel grit in her throat. Then she took a long drink, tied the skin shut, and climbed out of the gully.
The fire on the other side was dying. Dry as the grasses were, the cold night had brought dew, and with her magic no longer fueling them, the flames were having a hard time spreading. Steam was rising off four blackened corpses, and for the first time Amira noticed the sweet smell of roasted flesh. She turned away and walked to Gyaidun, who was cleaning his knife and club on the tunic of the dead bandit leader.
The Tuigan's skull was bashed in.
The final bandit to fall had stopped his struggles. He lay on his back in a sickly mud, drenched in his own blood, his empty eyes staring up at the cloudless sky. Several paces away lay the body of the first bowman. Gyaidun's blade had cut him deep on the inside of his thigh from knee to groin. Amira knew from her years on the battlefield that such a wound bled a man to death in moments.
Gyaidun stood and sheathed his knife. He was covered with dirt from lying in wait under his sand-covered cloak. He looked to Amira.
"You did well, though the fire wasn't the best idea." Amira bristled.
"And why is that?" "Fire means smoke. A big fire like that made a lot of smoke. Everyone within thirty miles will know right where we are."
Durja landed on a tussock near Gyaidun, let out a final caw, then fell silent. "I'm a war wizard," Amira said. "I needed something to take them all down fast. It worked." Gyaidun grunted and walked over to the bowman whom Amira had taken down. Amira followed him. The man lay in the grass. He clutched at his chest, his face twisted in pain and tears streaking his face. But he was very much alive, though he seemed to be struggling to breathe. Gyaidun stood over the man. "You and your friends," he said, "you had horses, yes?" The man glared up at Gyaidun. "Kill me. Spare me my… my shame." "The horses." The Tuigan took in a shaking breath, then spat on Gyaidun's boots. Gyaidun shook his head, then placed one heavy foot on the man's chest and pressed down. The man's eyes went wide and his mouth opened as if to scream, but nothing came out. "The horses," said Gyaidun. The Tuigan pounded his head on the ground, struggling to breathe. Gyaidun stepped off. "I won't ask again." The man raised one trembling hand and pointed northward. "That… way. A mile. No more." "How many guards?"
"One," the Tuigan said. "Ujren's… son. Don't harm… him. Just a boy." Gyaidun scowled. "I'll leave him mos
t of your horses. The rest is up to him. Your thievery made him fatherless today." The Tuigan said nothing, just lay there struggling to breathe. So fast that Amira jumped, Gyaidun brought his iron club down on the man's skull. Amira looked away, but she heard the wet crunch. Durja cawed twice, and in the following silence, she could no longer hear the man's harsh breathing. She looked on Gyaidun in shock. "Why did you do that?"
Gyaidun's brow fell as he looked down on her. "I could have used the knife, but he would have suffered. The club was quicker." "He might not have died. There was no need!" "You're in the Wastes now, girl.
That-" "Do not call me 'girl!'" Gyaidun continued undeterred. "That man tried to kill you. If we'd left him to recover and nurse his wounded pride, he might well have come after us. The Commani-even outcasts-do not forgive an affront. We have enough to worry about without setting enemies on our trail." She held his gaze and considered pressing the point. But it hit her: He was right. She was a long way from home, and her notions of honor and chivalry weren't going to get Jalan back to her. And Gyaidun knew this country, knew it like she knew the Hiloar meadows. Finally, she dropped her gaze, careful to avoid the corpse at her feet, and said, "You won't… you won't harm the boy?" "Not if he's smart. Let's get our things and be gone before anyone curious decides to have a closer look at your smoke."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Endless Wastes
Sitting in the grass, his wrists and elbows bound behind his back with rough strips of elkhide cord, Lendri watched the first edge of the sun peek over the horizon. He sat in the middle of the Vil Adanrath, wolves and their elf brothers seeming to mix in equal measure, on a long rise of land that was not quite steep enough to be called a hill. Nearly a quarter mile of land rose at his back, and twice that fell at his feet so that he seemed to look down upon the sunrise. Mingan lay near his feet, sound asleep. Tension ran through the camp like mice in the grass-more felt and heard than seen. Every elf or wolf walking about or lounging in the grass shot furtive, suspicious glances at them. Some stared in open malice. Still, once Mingan had realized there would be no immediate violence, he had settled down. It was the first time he'd been among his own kind in many seasons. The elves, both men and women, had the same pale complexion and hair as Lendri, but they wore even less clothing-barely enough for modesty, and none wore any covering on their feet. They too had skin decorated in many swirls and thorns-the younger members of the pack sporting only a few while the elders seemed more black lines than white skin. This had been a hunt, not a permanent camp, and they were still a ways from the nearest cache, so few of the elves had weapons. A dagger or rough spear here and there, but nothing more.
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