One shake of his head and he concentrated on the Lioness, climbing a rock prior to addressing the riders. Far better to put his attention there than to think of Alhana or dwell on the upcoming ride. Porthios had not been astride a griffon since his own was blasted from beneath him by dragonflame. There was no time for fear or hesitation, however. He must go to Khur. Griffonback was the best way to get there. Nothing else must matter.
After outlining the route she and Alhana had chosen, Kerian said, “We’ve had no time to practice, so keep everything simple. Stay together. If anyone gets separated, make your way to the valley.”
“What formation do we use?” asked Hytanthas.
“Like a flight of geese. Alhana and I are on point. Samar and Orexas will fly behind us on the left. Hytanthas, you’re on my right.” She went on, specifying each rider’s place.
From her hiding place, Breetan could see her hooded target but didn’t have a clear shot, Elves kept passing in front of the Scarecrow, and he kept moving through the crowd. When he finally stood still, while an elf woman fixed his tunic, the female was squarely in Breetan’s line of fire.
“I could shoot her then get him with a second bolt when she falls,” she whispered.
“No!” Jeralund hissed. “The first strike will alert them, and you’ll never get another chance! Be patient, Lady.”
Be patient, she repeated silently to herself. Be patient. Breetan sighted the front ring on a spot directly between the elf woman’s shoulder blades. As soon as she moved, the target’s chest would be exposed.
Unfortunately, the Scarecrow moved first, and he placed himself behind yet another elf, a warrior with a weathered face.
Breetan murmured an obscenity.
Kerian finished outlining their flying formation and asked if anyone had questions. One of the riders wanted to know what they should do if separated from the group and forced to land somewhere other than Inath-Wakenti.
“Tell no one who you are, where you’ve come from, or where you’re going.”
There were no other questions. The riders looked at her expectantly. It was the time a commander would say something to bolster their courage and prepare them for the great adventure ahead. The sun was just peering over the eastern peaks. Its light washed Kerian’s helmet in gold. She drew a deep breath.
“Keep your seats. Let the griffons do the flying. We go to bring our wayward cousins home from Khur.”
“Sivvanesu!” shouted the guards.
Hytanthas, not to be outdone, cried, “For the Speaker of the Sun and Stars!” The Bianost elves cheered.
Accustomed to her much larger Royal griffon, Kerian had no trouble vaulting onto Chisa’s back. She wrapped the reins around one gloved hand and checked the straps of her makeshift riding harness. All were tight. She told Alhana to climb on.
The former queen ducked under the griffon’s partially unfurled wing and put her foot in the rear saddle brace. She sprang gracefully onto the griffon’s back, landing lightly.
“You’ve done this before,” Kerian joked.
“Since before you were born,” Alhana shot back.
She tied herself to the saddle, and Kerian offered advice on how to ride pillion. Alhana chuckled suddenly.
“I suppose you know all this already too,” Kerian muttered.
“I do, actually, but that’s not why I was laughing. It’s Chisa. She’s very”-Alhana hunted for the right word-”proud of herself just now. Smug.”
“Why?”
“Because she has two riders. Only she and Ironhead can claim that distinction!”
It was time to go. Kerian cried, “Ay-hai-hai!” Chisa spread her wings and ran forward three hopping steps. On the third bounce, she took to the sky. Despite her formidable dignity, Alhana let out a whoop of joy as the ground fell away. Hytanthas’s griffon, Kanan, sprang down the slope and took off. Samar turned Ironhead’s mighty head and snapped the reins. Unlike the short, bounding run taken by the first two, the big male griffon reared up on his hind legs, crouched, spread his wings wide, and launched himself skyward from a standing start.
All Breetan could see was pounding wings, rising griffons, and bobbing riders. She had four bolts before she must reload. The Scarecrow was on the largest griffon, sitting behind a warrior elf. With four arrows, she could bring down their griffon. If the fall didn’t kill the target, she would reload and finish the job.
She began to stand, to track the flying beast, but Jeralund grabbed her sword belt and dragged her down again.
“What are you doing?” she cried. “He’s getting away!”
“Don’t be foolish, Lady! You’d never hit him now! And if he is alerted by your shot, you’ll never get a second chance.” The target was quartering away from them at a speed greater than that of a horse at a full gallop. Adding to the impossibility of the shot were sweeping wings and the other griffons still rising from the plateau, crowding the target.
In her anger, Breetan saw none of that. “This is mutiny, Sergeant! Let me up!” She struggled, but the heavier man kept her from standing. “I’ll see you hanged for this!” she raged.
“As you wish, but if I’m to be gutted by a mob of furious elves, I would at least like the satisfaction of having succeeded in killing their leader.”
The griffons passed high overhead, and the two humans hid beneath the overhanging boulders. Jeralund put his lips next to Breetan’s ear. “He maybe gone, but where he goes, we can follow.”
Her teeth were bared in a hiss of fury. “How can we follow flying beasts?”
“Think,” he urged the impetuous knight. “We can find out where he intends to land.” He pointed to the elves in camp, all staring rather forlornly after their departing comrades. “All we have to do is get one of them and ask.”
As usual, the sergeant’s tactics were sensible. “You get one. I’ll ask the questions.”
When the griffons had circled away, Jeralund released her and raised up to peer down at the elves’ camp. Immediately, he felt the cold edge of Breetan’s dagger on his throat, just below his knotted kerchief.
“If you ever lay hands on me again, I will kill you.”
His voice was maddeningly calm. “My life is yours, Lady, for the duration of this mission.”
He slipped out of their hiding place and crept down the shadowed side of the promontory to waylay an elf from the camp. Leaning against a sun-warmed boulder, Breetan trembled with anger and more than a little hunter’s fever.
Chapter 22
The elves walked all night, across the wadi and up the opposite bank. There they waited while the various groups trickled in. Dawn was just brightening the eastern sky by the time the last of the stragglers arrived and the nation was once more a single great column. They had made it across the obstacle. No nomads had attacked. They began to congratulate themselves.
Their relief was premature. When the first blood-red sliver of the rising sun cleared the eastern mountains, the nomads fell upon them.
The Mikku, familiar with the wadi, had ridden hard and crossed it at a low point farther down. They caught the elves with their backs to the dry riverbed. Of Taranath and the rear- guard cavalry, there was no sign, only more and more Khurs. Like ants converging on a dying serpent, riders emerged from a screen of low trees and charged. Only forty yards separated them from the elves, so they hadn’t room to gain much momentum. They were counting on swords, rather than the impact of their galloping horses, to drive the laddad nation to its death over the steep side of the wadi.
Gilthas, at the head of his people, had just cleared a stand of juniper and seen the pass into Inath-Wakenti ahead when the sounds of battle reached him. Joy evaporated in an instant. Despite all his people’s sacrifices, the nomads had caught up with them.
He slipped out of their hiding place and crept down the shadowed side of the promontory to waylay an elf from the camp. Leaning against a sun-warmed boulder, Breetan trembled with anger and more than little hunter’s fever.
The elves wa
lked all night, across the wadi and up the opposite bank. There they waited while the various groups trickled in. Dawn was just brightening the eastern sky by the time the last of the stragglers arrived and the nation was once more a single great column. They had made it across the obstacle. No nomads had attacked. They began to congratulate themselves.
Their relief was premature. When the first blood-red sliver of the rising sun cleared the eastern mountains, the nomads fell upon them.
The Mikku, familiar with the wadi, had ridden hard and crossed it at a low point farther down. They caught the elves with their backs to the dry riverbed. Of Taranath and the rear- guard cavalry, there was no sign, only more and more Khurs. Like ants converging on a dying serpent, riders emerged from a screen of low trees and charged. Only forty yards separated them from the elves, so they hadn’t room to gain much momentum. They were counting on swords, rather than the impact of their galloping horses, to drive the laddad nation to its death over the steep side of the wadi.
Gilthas, at the head of his people, had just cleared a stand of juniper and seen the pass into Inath-Wakenti ahead when the sounds of battle reached him. Joy evaporated in an instant. Despite all his people’s sacrifices, the nomads had caught up with them.
He dodged among his frightened people, shouting for any with weapons to get to the front. An elderly female was knocked to the rocky ground in front of him. Gilthas picked her up and passed her to an elf running in the opposite direction.
Hamaramis had no more than two hundred warriors on hand, and all were on foot because of the shortage of horses. Without hesitation, the old general led his warriors out of the disorganized mob, hoping to draw the nomads’ attention, but the humans rode around his well-armed company to attack the civilians. With cooking pots, sticks, and pitifully few spears, the elves fought desperately to fend off the nomad horsemen. The weak and old were gathered in the center of defensive squares and circles. While the women labored to build barricades from baggage, stones, windfall tree limbs, and anything else to hand, the males drove Tondoon and Mikku riders back with rakes and shovels. Keen-eyed elves of both sexes emptied more than a few saddles with well- aimed stones.
Gilthas moved from square to square, comforting the frightened and urging the fighters to greater efforts.
“Taranath and the warriors will return soon,” he assured them. “Take heart! I have seen the entrance to the hidden valley. It is just ahead. We’re almost there!”
The elves knew the nomads would not follow them into Inath-Wakenti. The nomads considered the valley the last home of the gods before they departed the mortal plane. As such, it was taboo. If the elves could reach the valley, they would be safe. If.
Hamaramis marched his soldiers back to the Speaker. The warriors moved with shields locked, presenting a fearsome hedgehog of spears. Several tribes feigned thrusts, but none dared close. The humans had learned just how hard elven blades could be.
“Great Speaker!” Hamaramis had taken a hard rap and the nasal of his helmet had cut his nose. Blood trickled down like a crimson mustache. “The enemy is not yet here in full strength! I estimate five or six hundred.”
That meant many thousands of nomads were still to arrive.
“We must get the people moving!” Gilthas declared. “Immediately! Inath-Wakenti is just beyond those trees!”
He raised his voice, exhorting the people to follow him. “Our journey is almost over! The valley, our safety, is beyond that grove of trees! Follow me there!”
The elves could see only the fierce tribesmen milling beyond the reach of makeshift defenses. None moved. Gilthas redoubled his efforts, pulling at arms, clapping backs or shoulders. A few dozen elves struggled to their feet, but the majority stayed where they were, too tired and too fearful to comprehend the desperate truth the Speaker was telling them.
Gilthas coughed. Dust clogged his sickly lungs, and the illness the healer’s potions had eased came roaring back. Hamaramis saw him double over and ran to him. Blood stained Gilthas’s chin. The old general cried out, but Gilthas waved him away. When he could speak, Gilthas asked, “Where is Wapah?”
Puzzled, Hamaramis said, “With the head of the column, I think. Why, sire?”
“I must find him.”
Gathering his strength, Gilthas walked to the outside ring of elves, still anxiously watching the nomads. The riders would circle, attack small bands of elves who dared move, and circle again. Unfortunate elves marooned when the lines broke apart were ridden down and mercilessly put to the sword. The horrible spectacle so captured the elves’ attention, they didn’t react at first when Gilthas approached. He began tugging them apart to make his way through the crowd. Ingrained respect for the Speaker finally penetrated their terror and they complied. Only after he was through did the elves realize he was leaving the protection of the circle.
Hamaramis yelled for him to stop. Others took up the plea. A few dared take his arm or grasp the back of his tattered geb.
He looked coldly at the hands gripping him and one by one they fell away. Head high, he strode onward, in the direction of Inath-Wakenti.
Several Mikku saw him break the circle. Shouting, spurring their mounts, they rode at the lone laddad.
Hamaramis broke into a run, bawling at his warriors to protect their sovereign.
“The Speaker! The Speaker!” The cry went up from dozens of throats. Warriors and civilians alike ran after Gilthas. Rather than try to hamper his progress, they formed a double wall between him and the advancing nomads, with warriors on the outer face and civilians on the inner. As he moved, the walls moved with him. Elf warriors and Mikku riders collided, and a skirmish began. Tondoon warmasters mustered their men to join the attack on the pocket of elves walking from one square to another.
Gilthas reached the next defensive circle. Its near side opened to allow him to pass. Sheltered within, a tiny blond Silvanesti child regarded him with frank curiosity. “Where are you going, Speaker Pathfinder?” she asked.
He smiled. “I’m going home, little one. Will you come with me?”
The girl left the cover of a pile of baggage and came to him. Without hesitation, she took his hand.
He kept walking. Soon hundreds of elves had joined him, walking alongside and behind their Speaker. Nomads sallied in, hacking at the fringes of the moving crowd, but were driven off when the elves swarmed around them, attacking from all sides. Not even the best swordsman could defend against thirty or forty foes armed with farm tools and a great deal of determination. The elves were fighting not only for their own lives, but for the life of their Speaker. Fear for his safety outweighed fear for their own.
Gilthas gave his tiny companion over to her father and walked faster. Every strike of his heels against the stony ground shook his whole body. Every rapid breath burned in his chest like fire. But he smiled and waved jauntily at his astonished people. His route encompassed circle after circle, until the entire front half of the nation was in motion. Word was passed back to the rear. Not yet under attack, the remainder of the elves picked up their bundles and came on.
At the last circle, Gilthas found Wapah standing with sword bared in the midst of hostile and worried elves. The circle opened and Gilthas entered. He hailed the nomad. Wapah doffed his sun hat.
“Greetings to you, khan of the laddad. You bring your nation on your heels.”
“They only want a leader to show them the way, and I need a scout to show me. Will you enter the Valley of the Blue Sands?”
Wapah’s chin lifted. “If the Speaker so orders.”
He returned his weapon to its brass scabbard. Side by side, Speaker and nomad headed for the juniper grove. Mikku and Tondoon riders followed, not engaging but staying always within sight. Gilthas wondered what they were doing.
“Some stratagem of the Weyadan’s,” Wapah told him. “Beware, Khan-Speaker. My cousin is a shrewd woman.”
Beyond the gnarled junipers, the distant, blue-gray slopes of the Khalkist Mountains rose. These were
the first real mountains the elves had seen since coming to Khur. The elves walked faster.
Wapah had ridden into the pass years earlier, although of course he’d not entered the valley proper. He explained the pass was like a funnel, narrow at the near end and wide at the valley end.
Gilthas pushed low-hanging juniper branches out of his way and stepped through to open air. Wapah emerged a few steps away. When human and elf beheld what awaited them, both stopped dead.
“Merciful E’li,” Gilthas whispered.
The bulk of the nomad army was arrayed in a vast semicircle a hundred yards away. Thirty thousand warriors faced the thunderstruck Speaker. All seven tribes of Khur were represented, although the coastal Fin-Maskar tribe had sent only a token presence and even fewer of Sahim-Khan’s Khur tribe had joined Adala’s venture. The men sat motionless and silent, morning sun glinting off the swords resting on their shoulders. Their horses, trapped in the colors of their rider’s clan or tribe, were bright as a rainbow. Positioned in the center of the line was one member of the vast army mounted on a small gray donkey.
“The Weyadan.”
Wapah’s identification was unnecessary. Gilthas recognized the black-robed figure of Adala Fahim, Hamaramis and his small band of soldiers came crashing through the trees. The general uttered an oath when he saw they’d fallen into a trap. He urged the Speaker to come away. Gilthas ignored him, The nomads’ horses snorted, pawed the ground, and switched their tails, but the men did not move. “What are they waiting for?” he asked Wapah.
“What?” Hamaramis demanded.
“The single moment in time when a thing is destined to happen. The Weyadan is mistress of the ifran.”
“I’ll ask for a parley,” Gilthas said, but Wapah shook his head, “There will be no more talking.”
A cry rose from the Khurish host. It began low then grew and grew until it seemed the nomads might beat the elves back by the very power of their joined voices. The roar cut off abruptly, and in the sudden silence, over the ringing in his ears, Gilthas heard Wapah murmur, “Ifran.”
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