Sanctuary ee-1

by Paul B. Thompson

  Adala didn’t move. “We’re bound for Khuri-Khan. Join us, or share in the infamy of betraying your nation.”

  His affable manner evaporated. “You’re in our hands now. Don’t make trouble, or there will be bloodshed. The whole of the Mikku are at my back.”

  “You would take up arms against your sisters and brothers of the desert?”

  “Anyone who threatens the Mikku is no brother-or sister-of mine.”

  A peal of thunder, startled the horses. Wapah looked up. The clouds had become heavy and dark. Lightning flickered among them. He was past fifty, and had seen rain only once before in his life, during a visit to Delphon twenty-two years ago.

  Adala paid no heed to the gathering storm. “I am chosen by Those on High to do what must be done, Shaccan of the Mikku. I cannot refuse, nor can you oppose me without risking the wrath of the gods. This is my maita.”

  “You’re mad as a mouse.”

  Shaccan ordered his warriors to take Adala in hand. Hardly had the words left his lips than a tremendously loud burst of thunder broke over them. Horses shied and bucked, and the men struggled to keep their animals calm. Only Little Thorn, his eyes protected from sand and sun by an embroidered cowl, stood placidly.

  Rain began to fall, the fat droplets sending up tiny puffs of dust when they hit the ground. The Mikku, young men all, had never seen rain before. They began muttering among themselves. When he heard them use the word “maita,” Shaccan angrily drew his sword.

  “Idiots! Does a madwoman make the rain? Seize her! Immediately!”

  Wind swept over them, driving warm rain into their faces. Wapah turned his horse’s head away from the gusts.

  Mikku, thinking he was trying to flee, thrust his sword at Wapah. It would have pierced his side, had not Adala intervened. She caught the blade in her hand and shoved. Angry at being thwarted, the Mikku jerked his sword back, laying open Adala’s palm. She hissed in pain.

  Outraged, Wapah yelled. He pulled out a scarf and tied it tightly around her injured hand.

  The rain fell even more heavily. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed directly overhead, blinding flash and earsplitting noise coming almost simultaneously. This was too much for the Mikku’s horses. The animals reared and fled, taking their riders back down the slope to the main body of warriors. Only Shaccan remained, his horned helmet gleaming dully in the gray light filtering through the thick clouds. He glared at the pair before him.

  “Widow or not, your life is over!” he cried. “Here is your maita!”

  He raised his blade high, to cleave the impassive Adala from head to waist. No sooner had the sword reached its apex than another bolt of lightning sliced down from the sky. It struck the Mikku’s sword, searing down the steel blade and the warmaster’s arm.

  The blast knocked everyone down. Adala hit the sand and rolled to avoid being crushed by her falling donkey. When her head cleared, she crawled up the slope to Wapah. He was dazed but uninjured.

  Where Shaccan had been was now a smoking pit in the sand. Adala crawled to its edge and looked down. What she found was ghastly. Horse and man were dead, horribly burned. Most of Shaccan’s sword had melted and run down his arm like candle wax. His flesh, inside his armor, was charred black. His helmet was gone, for which Adala was profoundly sorry as it left bare the unbelievable ruin that had been his face.

  She looked away from the grotesque visage and noticed the sand around Shaccan had changed. No longer filled with loose pale grains, the crater in which he lay resembled a bowl of crude glass, blue-green in color. Adala immediately was reminded of the hidden valley. Did its soil’s blue-green tint come from the same source, the fire from heaven?

  Raindrops sizzled and hissed into steam when they hit the blasted corpse and glassy crater. The other Mikku gathered slowly, dismounting and staring down into the crater. So great was the terror on their faces as they regarded Adala, Wapah was certain they would slay her forthwith. Disregarding the deeply ingrained stricture against touching the Weyadan, he crawled frantically to her and flung his body over hers.

  “Away with all of you, lest Those on High strike you down as well!” he shouted at the sword-wielding Mikku.

  Wapah had misread the warriors. They had no intention of lifting their weapons against Adala. Instead, all fell on their knees, calling to her to forgive them, pledging to serve her, affirming their belief in the power of Those on High.

  Adala tried to rise. As she shifted beneath him, Wapah flushed in embarrassment and moved swiftly off. She sat up, straightening her black robes.

  On her feet again, she looked around at the kneeling Mikku. “Will you believe in my maita?” she asked them. “Will you follow where I lead and fight only for the purity of Khur?”

  To a man, they vowed they would.

  Wapah went to round up his mount and Adala’s donkey. The rain was easing, and as Wapah returned, it ceased altogether. He brought with him more than their mounts, Shaccan’s helmet was cradled in his arm. The tall golden- horned helm had been flung many yards away. It appeared completely untouched by the lightning that had so utterly destroyed its owner.

  While Wapah was marveling over this, and admiring the shining craftsmanship of the helmet, the scouts Shaccan had dispatched over the ridge came galloping back. They were pursued by Weya-Lu riders. Adala, leading Little Thorn, went to intercede. Mikku and Weya-Lu drew apart as the Weyadan stood between them.

  “Judgment has been rendered upon Shaccan,” she declared. “The Mikku have chosen to join us.”

  The warriors who already had pledged themselves to Adala’s cause related the momentous events to their brethren. The scouts could hardly credit the tale, but the steaming crater and their dead warmaster brooked no argument.

  The Weya-Lu raised a cheer, and the Mikku joined in. Adala acknowledged their support with a nod, then asked Wapah for his arm. He aided her in climbing back onto Little Thorn. Her face and hands were pink with flash burn, while her eyebrows and eyelashes were completely gone. Concerned, he asked if she was well.

  The clouds had broken, allowing shafts of morning sunlight to slice through. The southern plain was dappled with these columns of golden light. Steam rose from the drying sand. Adala stared out at the view and said only, “Your hat is in sad shape, cousin. Take it off and I’ll sew the tears quickly, before the sun returns.”

  And she did. A healer salved and bandaged her injured hand, then Adala worked steadily on the torn hat as she and Wapah rode down the ridge. The Weya-Lu streamed after them. The Mikku watched in awe until they fell in at the rear of the formation. Word of Shaccan’s demise spread, and more and more of the Mikku joined the procession. The ranks of Adala’s band had swelled from five hundred to more than five thousand.

  Chapter 12

  When the sun rose on Khuri-Khan, the city gates opened as the Khan had promised. However, the soldiers on the western portal, having lifted the iron portcullises and swung the great wooden doors inward, gaped in consternation at what they faced on the other side.

  The road, dusty and sand-scoured, sloped away from Malys’s Anvil to the outer ring of elf tents. Many of these had been torn down during the recent rioting, but beyond them was the vast elven encampment. Elves stirred like hornets around a disturbed nest. Gathered on the road facing Khuri-Khan were ten thousand elf lancers and archers in well-used armor.

  The Khurish soldiers had fought a bloody skirmish with wild fanatics the evening before, and now they stared across forty yards of desert at ranks of elven cavalry, poised to strike.

  For a long time neither side moved. The sun lifted itself above the Khurman Sea. Lofty bales of clouds, blown in from the sea, maneuvered silently overhead, covering the ground with strange, ever-moving shadows. Word of the massed elven cavalry reached the Khuri yl Nor, and Sahim-Khan dispatched General Hakkam to find out the laddad’s intentions. Lord Morillon’s warning about the elves storming the city was on everyone’s mind, and no one’s lips.

  Hakkam, who as a boy had been sh
ield-bearer to Sahim’s father, was a burly, impatient man. His armor was too tight, and it chafed him unmercifully at the neck and waist. He was constantly being given impossible or contradictory tasks by Sahim-Khan, then receiving his master’s ire when things did not turn out as he desired. Because of this, Hakkam was in a perpetually bad mood.

  Facing the city wall with the morning sun in their eyes, the elves were hardly in better temper. Taranath commanded the ten thousand riders, sorted into squadrons of fifty, as in the old Silvanesti army. Under their battered helmets and sun-bleached mantles they were lean, spare, and ready to ride at any enemy they were commanded to destroy.

  Word flashed back to the Speaker that the gates had opened. Throwing on an old robe of white silk (with most of the gold embroidery torn out, for it was too valuable to leave as mere decoration), Gilthas hurried to the eastern edge of Khurinost with Planchet at his heels.

  “No word from Lord Morillon or Captain Ambrodel?” Gilthas asked.

  Planchet shook his head. “No, sire. They may not have been able to reach us while the gates were closed.”

  The unexplained disappearance of one of the Speaker’s councilors had only increased the tensions in the elven camp. Gilthas knew it would take very little for a confrontation to explode. The sight of numerous Khurish guards on the city gate was just the spark this volatile situation did not need.

  They reached the closely packed ranks of riders, and Planchet bawled, “Make way for the Speaker! Make way!”

  The riders chivvied their mounts to one side or the other to allow the Speaker to walk between them. Hair in disarray, sweat beading under his hollow eyes, the Speaker of the Sun and Stars made straight for the front line. When the last line of riders broke ranks for him, he found himself standing on the rubble-stone road before the city wall. Khurish pot helmets were thick on the battlements. As Gilthas looked on, their numbers increased.

  “Has anyone come out, or spoken to you?” he asked the nearest rider.

  “No one, Great Speaker.”

  Worried by his councilor’s absence, Gilthas was nevertheless pleased to see the gate open. Perhaps Morillon had succeeded. Perhaps he would be coming out at any moment, unless the Khan had opened the portal for his own, possibly nefarious, reasons.

  “What do you make of this?”

  Planchet studied the city wall left and right before answering. “They look as surprised to see us as we are to see them.”

  Gilthas agreed. If Sahim-Khan meant to attack, his troops would have rushed out immediately, not gathered on the walls and gawked for half an hour.

  “Find me a herald,” he said. “Let’s see if we can’t find out what’s happening, without bloodshed.”

  Planchet offered to go himself, and Gilthas agreed. Planchet’s face was known to the Khurs and he carried the weight of the Speaker’s favor. He was wearing a native geb, perfect attire for the task. No sense appearing as a warrior when a diplomat was needed.

  A scrap of cloth tied to a lance made a serviceable white banner. Once Planchet was mounted, Gilthas took hold of his horse’s halter.

  “Find out their intentions, and stress that ours are peaceful,” he said. “Make certain our people still have access to the city’s wells.” Already the grip of thirst was on the tent city. “Don’t mention Morillon-not just yet.”

  Planchet nodded and started up the sloping road at a slow trot. Wind hissed over the northern dunes. As he reached the place where the road leveled out, he halted his horse. The clouds parted and a beam of sunlight fell on him. Gilthas was cheered. It was a good omen.

  The mounted elf waited, exposed and alone, until the Khurs sent out riders of their own. After five long minutes, a quintet of armored soldiers came out the gate. A scarlet and gold pennant flew from one rider’s stirrup-post.

  The Khurs approached slowly, as though wary of treachery. At one point Planchet waved a biting fly away from his face, and the Khurs froze. He realized they were very frightened.

  In the center of the quintet, flanked by imposing cavalry men rode a squat human with a thick neck and a beet-red face. As the Khurs drew nearer, Planchet recognized him.

  “Hail, General Hakkam!” he called. “Peace be with you!”

  “And with you, Planchet of Qualinost,” rumbled the choleric general. “What in Kargath’s name goes on here?”

  “I was about to ask you the same question. The city gates have been closed to us since yesterday afternoon. Our only supply of water is what we carry from Khuri-Khan’s wells.

  We were beginning to get thirsty.”

  “Is that why you called out your army?”

  Why else? “Gangs have been assaulting us for the past two days, General. Tents have been burned and our people beaten, some quite badly. We didn’t know what might come forth next from the city.”

  “The Sons of the Crimson Vulture have caused much trouble, for you and for the mighty Sahim-Khan. Consequently many of them have been sent to meet their ancestors.”

  “Then the city is open to us?”

  “I have no orders otherwise.”

  A fresh gust, smelling of the sea, swept over the parley.

  Planchet’s truce banner snapped in the wind. Twisting in the saddle, he raised the banner high, and waved it at the horde of elven warriors who watched in silent concern. When Planchet turned back, Hakkam and his escort had their hands on their sword hilts.

  “I was merely alerting our soldiers that all was well,’ Planchet said mildly.

  “Who’s that coming?”

  Two elven riders emerged from the line of heavy cavalry and cantered to where Planchet and Hakkam waited. It didn’t take long to recognize the Speaker and a single escorting warrior, General Taranath. When they arrived, Planchet explained the situation.

  “Thank you, General,” the Speaker said to Hakkam. He extended a lean hand. “Your duty has been well served.”

  With little enthusiasm the general shook the Speaker’s hand. Gilthas assured him he would withdraw his warriors, then added, “One other matter. My councilor, Lord Morillon, did not return last night. Is he inside the city?”

  “He had an audience with Sahim-Khan, then left the palace.”

  “Is he well?”

  Hakkam frowned. “How would I know? He left the palace. That’s all I know.”

  With a curt nod, Hakkam turned his horse around. Planchet was aghast at the human’s rudeness, turning his back on a reigning Speaker without so much as a by-your- leave!

  The shaft of sunlight, so long shining on Planchet and Gilthas, at last faded. Gilthas looked up at the roiling clouds. He frowned. A slender object, dark against the sky, seemed to hang in the air over the city. No, not hang. It was moving, falling.

  “Arrow!” Planchet shouted.

  He threw himself in front of the Speaker, but the missile was plummeting from such a height its path was almost straight down. The broadhead cut Gilthas’s jaw and struck him in the hollow of the neck, on the right side.

  Pandemonium erupted. Gilthas was saved from hitting the ground by Taranath, who caught him by the shoulders and bore him up. Hakkam’s guards drew swords, whirling their horses in tight circles to see who had loosed the arrow.

  A shout went up from the front rank of elven warriors. They had seen the arrow’s fall and its awful termination. The shout was followed by a hedge of swords sprouting along the line. In ragged order, for the rear ranks did not yet know what had happened, the elves charged up the hill to their monarch’s defense.

  The thunder of the oncoming elves sent Hakkam’s escort spurring for the city. The thick-necked general roared, “Come back, you wretches! Stand your ground!” One halted. The rest made straight for the city gate, now swinging shut.

  “What treachery is this?” Planchet cried, kicking his feet free of the stirrups and leaping from his horse. The Speaker had collapsed over his horse’s neck.

  “It is not by my order!” Hakkam retorted, also dismounting.

  He and Planchet took the Spe
aker from his horse and j lowered him gently to the road. The arrow was still embedded in Gilthas’s neck.

  “That did not come from my men,” said Hakkam. “It’s not a Khurish war arrow.”

  “What is it, then?” Planchet demanded.

  “A hunting arrow. My men aren’t issued such.”

  It was fortunate for Gilthas the missile wasn’t a war arrow. Stoutly shafted, with a square or triangular iron head and leather fletching, a war arrow would have driven deep into the elf’s slender body. The hunting missile, lightly made, with a flat broadhead and white pigeon-feather fletching, had struck Gilthas’s collar bone and stopped. The wound was nasty, but with prompt care it would not be fatal.

  A wave of shouting elf warriors galloped by the figures kneeling on the road. A handful halted, but most kept going, charging the city gate.

  Their angry shouts reached the weakened Gilthas. From somewhere deep within himself, he tapped an unknown source of strength. Face white, he struggled to rise. Planchet holding him down, begged him to be still.

  “Stop it,” Gilthas said through clenched teeth.

  Thinking he was hurting the Speaker, Planchet felt tears come to his eyes. He whispered, “I’m sorry, sire, but you must be still. Please don’t move.”

  “No, Planchet. Stop the warriors! Don’t let them fight! I command it!”

  Taranath heard the Speaker’s order. He snatched a trumpet from his saddle and blew “Recall.” He had to repeat it four times before all the hard-riding warriors heard and heeded. The foremost ground to a halt only yards from the city wall.

  In between trumpet blasts, Hakkam was shouting at his own soldiers. “Hold! If any man looses an arrow, I’ll have his head!” he roared. None of the Khurish soldiers loosed arrows or threw spears at the elves. Men and elves looked at each other in mutual confusion and alarm until the elves turned and galloped back to Taranath.

  Healers from Khurinost hastened through the press of warriors. When they arrived, the Speaker was sitting up, head bowed, his white geb covered with a spreading crimson stain. The first healer to reach him was a Kagonesti with callused hands and dark tattoos on her face and arms.