After an hour of fruitless slaughter, the nomads began to lose heart. They had expected to stampede the elves, and when the Lioness’s troops stood firm, nomad ardor waned. Without the discipline to carry on fighting all day, as the desert heat rose to its most incandescent the tribesmen rode away. The dust-caked elves gladly let them go. Kerian had no wish to pursue the foe. She didn’t have the resources for a long chase across the desert, and more hostile nomads might be lurking beyond the horizon.
Fewer than twenty of her warriors had been killed; half that many more had notable injuries. The desert was dotted with a dozen slain nomads. As elves moved among the fallen, scavenging food and precious water, they noticed many of the humans bore the mark of the Leaping Spider clan, the dominant clan in the Weya-Lu tribe.
“Why did they fight us?” Favaronas wondered. “We’ve done nothing to them.”
“We’re foreigners in their land,” Kerian replied grimly. It was a philosophy she understood. If armed Khurs had ridden through Qualinesti, her instinct would have been exactly the same: drive them out.
The scholar did not share her outlook. Shaking his head, he mumbled something about “live and let live.” She had no patience with such feeble notions, but held her tongue. Since finding his assistant lying dead beside him, Favaronas had been somewhat shaken. He took to keeping as close to Kerian as possible. Still, he did not complain and did not hamper her or her warriors.
They buried the dead, elf and human, to discourage scavengers, with the Lioness urging speed and taking a turn at the digging herself. Their second day on the High Plateau was waning, and she wanted to put as much distance between her people and the scene of battle as possible.
The Khalkist range bulked larger on the horizon. The gray peaks resembled low-lying clouds at this distance. The terrain began to change. The thick layer of sand gave way to sand and rocks, then broken gravel. Animal life was seen, even if they were only small creatures, easily frightened lizards sunning themselves on the rocks, their emerald green and burnished gold hides sparkling in the bright light. Foliage reappeared: stunted cedars, creosote bushes, thorny creepers, and a type of grass so wiry that even their hungry horses wouldn’t eat it. Still, the presence of plant life was a welcome change from the unrelieved sand of the High Plateau. They had passed out of the deep desert into the only slightly less hostile lowlands of the mountains.
Kerian sent an advance party forward to reconnoiter the way to the valley mouth. According to Gilthas’s map, the lone entrance to the Inath-Wakenti was a nondescript pass that gave no hint of its importance. They had to find the right one, the exact one, or their journey would be in vain.
The troop topped a small rise, carpeted with shards of gray slate. A startlingly cool breeze struck their faces. The wind coming down the mountains hadn’t yet acquired the desert’s desiccating heat. The Lioness gave word to halt.
Water was dispensed. Kerian removed the bowl-like bottom from the gourd, poured water into it, and let her horse drink. Then she squatted in the shade cast by her mount and drank from the leather-wrapped gourd herself. The water inside was so warm that she could have brewed tea with it.
A distant, loud cracking sound rent the air. Everyone paused and looked to the mountains, the apparent source of the sound. Thunder? It had been a long time since any of them had seen rain.
Favaronas, resting like the Lioness in the shadow of his horse, asked, “Will we get a shower, do you think?”
It seemed wishful thinking; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. “Probably just a rockfall,” she muttered.
Another boom echoed down from the gray peaks. Hearing it more clearly this time, the Lioness stood quickly, facing the desert. The sound actually was coming from the direction of the desert and echoing off the mountains. Yet all any of them could see was a stony landscape dotted with twisted cedars and spiky brown grass, and beyond that, a shimmering expanse of sand and mirage water.
When a third peal of thunder broke over the slate hill, Kerian ordered everyone to horse. The cooling wind had died away, and to the south a plume of dust rose straight into the air. The cloud was sizable and compact, indicating a tightly knit group of riders. The nomads were following them.
The Lioness sent Favaronas out of harm’s way, over the crest of the hill, then distributed her weary warriors in a wide, crescent formation, with the tips facing the approaching dust cloud. From her place in the center of the formation, she shaded her eyes with one hand and stared south. The column of dust dispersed in the wind as it rose higher into the air.
The elves glimpsed movement at the bottom of the hill. Something burnished and bright flashed between the bushes. The Lioness squinted. It was a single object, larger than a man on horseback, and not a group of hard-riding nomads. She wondered what it could be.
The answer appeared the next second. In a blur of preternatural motion, the approaching creature leaped from the foot of the hill and landed in front of the elves, barely a dozen yards away. Its rapid motion generated a sound like thunder. Horses reared, neighing shrilly in fright. Elves throughout the formation shouted with shock and dismay.
Standing before them was a terrifying apparition. It had four short powerful legs, a long tail studded with ivory barbs, a compact body four times larger than a bull, and a thick, upright neck. The creature’s head caught every elf’s attention. Long, angular, and covered with burnished green-gold scales, it was the head of a monstrous reptile.
“Dragon!” someone cried, but Kerian didn’t think so. Squat and wingless, this was an earthbound creature. A crown of vertical horns encircled the monster’s head from one earhole to the other, and a single thick horn erupted from its nose. Except for its unnatural size, it could have been a desert lizard.
“Archers!” the Lioness called. “Aim for its head!”
A hundred bowstrings twanged, and a hundred arrows arced through the air. The beast’s eyelids slid over its slanting green eyes with an audible click, and the missiles bounced off its metallic hide. Eyes opening, the monster launched itself into the center of the elf formation.
Its speed was terrifying. With great sideways swings of its head, it mowed down horses and elves right and left, ripping them apart with its horns. When a horse fell directly in front of it, the creature opened its jaws and snapped the living animal in two.
“Break! Break formation!” the Lioness cried. Like quicksilver under the blows of a hammer, the elves flew apart. The monster dashed after the slowest riders, knocking them off their mounts with its horned snout. Several dismounted elves ran upon the creature’s blind side and attacked it with swords. Their blows rang ineffectually against its hard scales.
At the Lioness’s command, the bugler sounded retreat. She tried to restore some order to her ranks, but every time a sizable body of elves formed, the creature dashed at them, ripping them apart and trampling them under its clawed feet. In a quarter of an hour it slew more elves than the nomads had in a morning’s combat.
Archers sniped at its eyes, and one succeeded in lodging a clothyard shaft in the right one. Grunting, the beast stuck out its blood-red tongue, snaked it around the offending arrow, and yanked. This procedure diverted the beast long enough to allow the elves to re-form and gallop for the crest of the slate hill. The monster caught up with them in two bounds.
The Lioness didn’t see the beast coming. One moment she was astride her horse, the next, she lay sprawled on her back, sliding over the rough, stony ground. Her horse, decapitated by the creature’s horns, was flung aside by one powerful clawed foot.
The beast advanced until it was standing over her. Dazed, she saw its wide, pale green belly blotting out the sky. She drew her dagger. With both hands, she rammed it into the creature’s underside. It felt as if she was stabbing an anvil. Her point skidded off and the dagger twisted out of her grasp. The monster’s right hind leg came forward, caught hold of Kerian’s leg, and threw her several yards.
She rolled over and over, coming to a halt against
the carcass of her dead horse. Her hands and forearms sang with pain, and her head pounded. Around her, shouts and screams resounded, but sounded faint and far away. Even the searing light of the sun seemed dim.
Is this any way to fight?
The calm voice echoed in her head-her conscience, she supposed-sounding very like Gilthas. Why not? In most ways he was her conscience. She could see his face before her, his eyes full of disappointment. Get up, he told her. Don’t just lie in the dirt beside your dead horse.
Laboriously, she pushed herself up on her hands, uttering an obscenity. Her leg ached where the creature had grabbed her, and she was certain she’d broken a rib.
The annoying voice in her head went on, telling her how stupid it was to fight such a beast with sword and bow. What else did they have?
It will stop the killing-at least for a time. Keep it close by, seeker.
This time the voice in Kerian’s head belonged to Sa’ida, high priestess of Elir-Sana. Her words rang clear as mountain ice, cutting through the pain and the fog of exhaustion. She realized she had indeed been tossed back onto the body of her own horse. She tore open the small saddlebag, thanking the gods who live that the poor animal had fallen on its right side. Groping through the dried leaves, she drew out the odd stone.
Sa’ida’s mysterious gift, the beautiful opal egg, lay heavy in her hand.
Now what? The priestess had given her no instructions, no explanation of how the gemstone was supposed to help her. Should she touch the monster with it? Daunting prospect! Perhaps if she tied it to an arrow and loosed it at the beast.
The elves had scattered, trying to keep out of the monster’s reach. It made sudden, blindingly fast rushes at the small groups.
Her face scratched and bleeding, hair standing wildly around her head, the Lioness stalked the creature. It saw her. Its eyelids clicked together, and the soulless reptilian visage never changed as it advanced. No dizzying rush this time. Instead, it came on slowly, raising one foot at a time like a prowling cat preparing to pounce. When it was ten yards away, the Lioness held up Sa’ida’s gift.
“Here’s a present for you, monster!” she shouted.
So saying, she leaned back and hurled the opal. Her aim was true. The orb hit the beast in the center of its chest, stuck there briefly, then fell to the ground. The creature’s forward motion halted abruptly. It froze, one foreleg lifted off the ground, for the space of two seconds, then its legs unaccountably collapsed. It struck the ground so hard that the shock knocked the Lioness off her feet.
On horseback or on foot, the elves slowly converged on the fallen beast. It did not move. Kerian kept her sword in hand, ready to fight, but the monster was like a statue.
“Is it dead, General?” one of her warriors called.
Its breath washed over her feet. “No! Seems to be sleeping!”
Eight officers galloped up. Swinging out of their saddles, they ringed the monster’s head. They struck the beast with their swords, but neither points nor blade edges would penetrate it. The swords merely bounced off the beast, doing no harm to its armored hide.
“Merciful Quen!” an elf exclaimed. “Can’t we kill it?”
Kerian squatted by the beast. One eye, as big as her head, was half open. The bright green orb was as malign as ever and moved slightly to track her as she shifted position. She realized the creature could see her, but must be compelled by the power of the priestess’s gift to lie quiescent. The question was, for how long?
The officers speculated what to do. As the discussion continued, the Lioness went and retrieved the opal egg. Its color had changed. Once glowingly white, it was now a dull ivory color, the pink and gold streaks on its surface faded.
She slipped it in her belt pouch. She owed Sa’ida a very large debt.
Favaronas come trotting over the crest of the hill. The archivist made his way to them, both hands clutching the pommel of his saddle, his attention fixed on the creature lying before them.
“Merciful gods and goddesses!” he exclaimed. “It’s a sand beast!”
“You recognize this abomination?”
“After a fashion, General. Sand beasts dwell in the deepest, most desolate tracts of the desert. Sahim-Khan has the head of one preserved in his palace. They’re very rare-”
“Not rare enough,” she said dryly. Raising her voice, she ordered her elves to saddle.
A horse was brought to replace her slain mount. The wounded who could ride would double up with healthy riders. They would take their dead with them as well. The monster might revive, and the Lioness wouldn’t risk leaving honorable warriors to its savage attentions.
The sand beast had slain fifty-two elves and wounded as many more. If Sa’ida’s magic hadn’t stopped it, the entire company likely would have perished.
They rode due north. Favaronas kept looking back over his shoulder, afraid the paralyzed creature might revive and be upon them again. Kerian had a different worry: Why had the sand beast attacked them in the first place? This mission was fraught with unexpected dangers, as though the desert was uniting against them, to stop the Speaker’s search for the valley of legend.
The archivist couldn’t help with her questions about the sand beast. From all he’d read, sand beasts were wild animals who, despite their ferocity, avoided contact with humans or elves.
Kerian’s horse stumbled, jarring her. She coughed as new pain lanced through her side. Favaronas offered a handkerchief.
“There’s blood on your face, General.”
She wiped her chin, dismissing his concern. “I took a few whacks. I’ve had worse.”
Day’s end was magnificent. The sinking sun gilded the forward range of the mountains, changing them from slate gray to bronze and copper. Dust was much less a problem here, as the ground was more stone than sand, and they could see for miles in every direction.
Drained from their battles, the elves slumped in the saddle. Their horses walked slowly with heads hanging. Talk around the Lioness had turned to finding a campsite for the night, when a scout came cantering back with news.
She reined up and waited for the excited young Qualinesti to reach her. The scout, a recent recruit, almost fell from his horse when he jerked the reins too sharply and his foam- flecked animal skidded to a halt on its haunches.
“Calm yourself, lad,” the Lioness said. “What is it?”
“A nomad camp, not a mile east of where we sit right now!”
Her officers crowded closer. The Lioness’s fingers flexed around her reins. “How many?”
“Big. More than a hundred tents. Maybe two hundred!”
Too vague. He should’ve brought an exact number. “No one saw you?” she asked. The young scout shook his head decisively.
“We should take the initiative-attack!” said a Wilder elf named Avalyn, one of the Lioness’s longtime followers.
“We don’t know these people,” Favaronas protested. “They may be one of the harmless tribes!”
“What difference does it make what tribe they are?” Avalyn retorted. “Nomads are all the same!”
“That’s ridiculous!”
The Lioness interceded. “We’re not here to make war on every wandering desert clan.”
“If they’re hostile, we can’t just pass them by, General,” another officer put in. “They’ll be behind us, between us and Khurinost.”
This was true enough. Kerian decided to detour from their mission long enough to inspect the nomad camp. If the tribe seemed a peaceful one, the elves would pass on. But if the nomads were recognizable enemies, the Lioness would strike.
Weariness dragged at every warrior, but no one complained as the Lioness led them away. It would be dark soon-only the highest peaks of the mountains ahead were still touched by sunlight-and this aided their cause. Humans were hampered by darkness, whereas elves could see almost as well at night as in full daylight.
The Qualinesti scout led them over a series of alluvial hills, formed of soil and gravel washed down f
rom the mountains over the eons. The sky darkened from sapphire to indigo, and the first stars appeared. A distinctly chilly wind teased the riders every time they climbed out of a hollow and topped a hill. The breeze brought the smell of smoke. Cookfires.
Holding up her hand, the Lioness halted the column in a shallow ravine. Wordlessly she indicated Favaronas and Avalyn should follow her. The rest of the company would remain here.
The three followed the dry streambed through the ravine, halting where it emptied onto open ground. There, spread out in a ring pattern typical of Khurish nomads, lay several hundred conical tents. The Lioness halted her horse behind a screen of cedars. Silently she and her two companions studied the scene.
In the center of the ring of tents, figures moved about, silhouetted against a dozen campfires. There were no men to be seen, only nomad women in their sand-colored gebs, making supper, and children darting among the tents or helping with the cooking.
Avalyn shifted in his saddle. “This must be the base camp of the band that attacked us! All the warrior-age men are missing!” he whispered loudly.
“Even so, we don’t make war on unarmed women and children.”
“General, they would slaughter our loved ones, if they had the chance!”
“You don’t know that!” Favaronas said.
“It was done in Qualinesti!”
She silenced them both. “This is not Qualinesti. And we are not Dark Knights.”
They returned to the waiting army. The Lioness gave the order to ride, and the elves faded into the night.
Theirs weren’t the only eyes watching in the darkness. On the south side of the nomad camp, two yellow eyes stared at the ring of tents. The sand beast, recovered from the spell put on it by the opal of Elir-Sana, lay concealed by loose dirt and rocks. Its tongue flicked out, tasting the night air. Smoke smell was strong, as was human, but beneath that, the beast detected traces of elf.
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