Sanctuary ee-1

by Paul B. Thompson

  Surprise did not rob them of their voices. Numerous warriors demanded to know why.

  “I was told that my transgressions were these: I left my company in the field to fly to my husband’s side. I fought nomads who attacked me first.” She lifted her head and stared at the elves around her. “I who have fought with all my strength to save the elven race from destruction! I continue to fight! If you’ll follow me, we can save our people!”

  Her appeal met with a mixed reaction. The warriors of long service, whether Silvanesti or Qualinesti, found the idea of flouting the Speaker’s authority deeply troubling. Others, younger fighters who’d known no other leader than the Lioness, were not so hesitant. Two stood, then six, then ten, vowing to follow the Lioness wherever she led. In moments, nearly half the warriors present had declared for her.

  It was to the rest that she addressed herself. “I know you wish to keep faith with the Speaker. That is your choice. But know this: He is consumed by a dream to transplant the elven nation to a hidden valley in the Khalkist Mountains, the place from which I have just returned. I tell you now, that valley is no place for us. It is rife with strange magic, which cost our band a dozen warriors. And there is no game; no deer, no rabbits, not even insects or birds live in the valley.”

  She paused to watch the elf work on her hand, then added, “There’s only one true home for us, the home in which we were born! I swear I will dedicate my life to freeing those homes from the foreign oppressors who hold them now. The Speaker”-she swallowed hard-”has given the homeland up. He thinks we can live happily in a tiny foreign valley, kept safe only by the good graces of the Khan of Khur and our neighbors beyond the mountains, the Knights of Neraka!”

  Her stirring, heartfelt speech moved many of the holdouts to declare for her, but a number of warriors still remained silent. They stood and made to leave the warriors’ communal tent. A few younger elves moved to stop them, but Kerian waved them off.

  “Let them go,” she said. “They’re honorable warriors. They must follow their own hearts.”

  “They’ll go to the Speaker!” one of her supporters pro-

  “They should. He needs to know where we stand.”

  The officers dispersed to rouse their sleeping troops. Even should some of the troops switch sides, Kerian reckoned she would have seven to eight thousand elves pledged to her. That would give Gilthas pause. It was one thing to consider arresting a few malcontents, quite another to restrain eight thousand seasoned warriors.

  By the time Kerian’s loyalists assembled on the north side of Khurinost dawn was breaking. A column of riders appeared from the south, heading straight for them. This was the night patrol led by Taranath. He’d mistaken Kerian’s band for his morning relief.

  As economically as she could, Kerian explained she had broken with Gilthas. She didn’t try to minimize her own failings, but laid out the whole tale.

  Taranath listened in silence and when she was done said, “This is the wrong course, Commander. You’re splitting the army, and a divided host is a weakened host.”

  The most ardent among her supporters began to shout challenges at Taranath, demanding to know whether he believed it was their destiny to regain their lost lands.

  Before he could answer, a third column of riders emerged from Khurinost and rode steadily toward them. At their head was old Hamaramis, in full martial splendor. With him were the officers who had first declined to stand with Kerian.

  When Hamaramis drew near he called, “Lady, give over your sword to me at once! Those are the Speaker’s orders!”

  His use of her title rather than her rank caused her to flinch slightly. Some of the older elves tended to prefer her title as a matter of course, but the difference had taken on a new significance now that Gilthas had dismissed her.

  Recovering, she smiled a dark and dangerous smile. “If the Speaker wants my sword, he’ll have to ask for it in person.”

  “Please don’t provoke a fight, lady,” Taranath pleaded quietly.

  “Then don’t fight me, Taran. Join me.”

  The sky above was still cloudy, but a narrow band of clear air lay on the eastern horizon. The disk of the rising sun shone through that clear band, flooding the desert with roseate light. The brilliance only made the clouds appear even darker by contrast.

  “What will it be?” she asked. “Our swords together, hilt to hilt, or opposed, point to point?”

  An elfin Taranath’s company interrupted, drawing their attention to the city. The battlements of Khuri-Khan bristled with signal flags. Even as the elves turned to look, the deep blat of rams’ horns rang out from the city, sounding a general alarm.

  “The Khurs think we’re going to attack!” growled Hamaramis.

  “And so we should,” Kerian retorted. “Take the city. Make it the base from which our campaign begins!”

  The old general, twice her age, stared at her from under his dented, gilded helmet. “You’ve gone mad, lady,” he said soberly. “Utterly mad.”

  The conclave was interrupted again. A trio of elven scouts came galloping across the western desert, bent low over their racing steeds. Before they reached the mass of cavalry, one rider slid from his horse. His back bristled with arrows. The other two kept coming.

  They rode straight into the center of the three forces gathered on the slight rise west of Khuri-Khan. Somewhat confused by the presence of three senior commanders, they saluted the Lioness.

  “Commander! An army of nomads approaches!”

  Hamaramis was all set to inform them that he, not the Lioness, was in command, but their news drove the words from his lips. Consternation was general and loud. Only the Lioness seemed unfazed.

  “How many, and where?” she snapped.

  Some ten thousand nomads were approaching from the west, one scout reported. They were no more than six miles away.

  Recollecting himself, Hamaramis called for couriers. One he sent to carry the news to the Speaker. Three others were to ride through Khurinost, alerting the people in general.

  “What are the people to do then?” Kerian demanded. Her horse began to prance, sensing her agitation. “Follow me, and we’ll stop the nomads before they reach the tents!”

  “They may not be hostile,” said Hamaramis, though even he did not believe this. The last time so great a concentration of nomads had assembled in Khur was to aid Salah-Khan against the hordes of Malys. Khurish tribes didn’t congregate in such numbers for any purpose but war.

  From the ranks of Hamaramis’s escort emerged Hytanthas Ambrodel. The captain was still bandaged from his encounters with the manticore and sand beast.

  “Commander, shall I fetch Eagle Eye?” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the ceaseless bleating of the horns in Khuri-Khan.

  “No time for that.” Kerian looked west, from whence ten thousands nomads approached. “Just cut his tether,” she added. “He’ll seek me out.”

  He hurried away as she wrenched her horse around. “General Hamaramis, an enemy is near. You can arrest me later. Right now we have a battle to fight.”

  She spurred forward, with her loyalists streaming after her. Without being ordered, the elves from the night patrol behind Taranath broke ranks and followed as well. Hamaramis’s two hundred warriors stirred, anxious to join their comrades. Some called for permission to ride after the Lioness.

  Hamaramis said, “The Speaker of the Sun and Stars earnestly wishes to avoid war. Those are his orders. I obey my Speaker.”

  Turning his horse, Hamaramis started back down the low dune for Khurinost, now alive with alarm. The first two rows of his warriors followed him, but the rest remained rooted where they were, dividing desperate glances between the disappearing Lioness and their valiant old leader. Someone finally snapped reins with a loud crack and bolted after the Lioness. Most others joined in, leaving Taranath, Hamaramis, and a couple dozen or so riders behind.

  Dawn’s light washed Taranath’s agonized expression. “I want to go, too,” he whispe
red.

  “So do I.” Hamaramis unbuckled his helmet and pried it off. Barely sunup, and already he was sweating. “But being a soldier means more than lusting for battle. It means you obey the orders of your lawful superiors. If you don’t, you’re no more than a barbarian.”

  He replaced his helmet. Proudly, the old warrior returned to his Speaker. With him went fourteen warriors. General Taranath fought his conscience for a few seconds more, then rode off with a handful of others to join the Lioness. For today, he was a barbarian.

  * * * * *

  From a ridge northwest of the city, Adala scrutinized Khuri-Khan. By the muted light of the cloudy new day, the place was little more than a brown smudge above the desert sands, but it was the first true city she’d ever seen. For days in advance of her arrival she’d sent spies into Khuri-Khan to learn what Sahim-Khan and the laddad were doing. The news they brought was very troubling. The laddad came and went as they pleased, while the Khan’s soldiers had violated the Temple of Torghan and arrested his holy priests. The holy ones were being blamed for an attack upon two laddad, an attack most likely done by thieves or beggars. To the chiefs and warmasters gathered with Adala it sounded as though the foreigners had Sahim-Khan doing their bidding.

  “What shall we do, Weyadan?” asked Hagath, chief of the Mikku.

  In the still air, the bearded men were sweating profusely. Even lifelong desert-dwellers needed a breeze. Adala gathered the long braid of her hair and pulled it forward over her shoulder. This helped cool her neck only a little.

  “I will speak to the khan of the laddad,” she announced.

  The men were shocked. What purpose could there be in talking to the foreign invaders?

  “Their necks are on the block. If the laddad swear to leave our homeland, I would let them go.”

  “What about the massacre of our parents, wives, and children?” cried Bindas.

  With her eyebrows and eyelashes singed off, Adala’s face looked stark and fearless. “The guilty will not escape. Their lives are part of our price. If the laddad khan gives over the killers of our people, then his nation may depart in peace, but they must go out from Khur!”

  Bindas asked who should go with her to meet the elves. Adala proposed they all go. She felt it would be best for the chiefs and warmasters of the tribes to hear what the foreigners said, and how she answered them.

  The party rode out, flanked by riders carrying spears with inverted water jugs on their points, the traditional nomad symbol of truce. At Adala’s command the men kept their swords sheathed and bows unstrung. She herself went unarmed, as always.

  During their discussions, thunder had rumbled. As they crested a long ridge, a fork of lightning flashed directly over Adala’s party, and thunder cracked immediately. The horses shied, but the anxious horde of nomads let out a cheer. Those on High were signifying their favor again! Anyone could see it. The fire from on high followed the Weyadan and did not harm her.

  A small patrol of elven cavalry saw the party of nomads come trotting out of the desert. The patrol had not yet heard of the nomad horde’s approach, but they were wary of the small band in front of them. One of the elves recognized the truce sign and explained to his captain the meaning of the upside-down pots on the escorts’ spears.

  “Send a message to Lord Planchet,” the captain said calmly. “Tell him some nomads are paying us a friendly visit.” He turned to the courier. “Emphasize friendly.”

  The sun had risen beyond the clear air on the eastern horizon and was once more sheathed in clouds. The courier galloped in and out of uncharacteristic sprinkles of rain. By the time they entered Khurinost, horse and rider were trailing wisps of steam.

  The Speaker and his closest advisors were assembled in the circular audience hail in his repaired tent. One by one various couriers relayed their news. Word of Kerianseray’s revolt set the councilors humming. When this was paired with notice of the arrival often thousand nomads, the conversation grew heated indeed. Gilthas had sent orders for Kerian to halt her advance on the nomads and return to Khurinost, but he had no confidence she would heed his command.

  The sodden courier delivered his news, that nomad leaders wished to meet with the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, and that they carried the nomad symbol for a friendly parley.

  With that, the room fell still. Gilthas said, “I will meet them.”

  “Great Speaker, no!” Planchet burst out. “It’s not wise or safe. Let me go in your stead.” Healed of his fever and wound, the Speaker still was weak and found it difficult to walk or stand for extended periods. Seeing the leader of the elves in such a state might embolden the nomads.

  Reluctantly, Gilthas was forced to agree with his old friend’s assessment.

  * * * * *

  There was no time to organize an awe-inspiring procession of elven strength. From his days in masquerade, Hytanthas Ambrodel had learned enough about the nomads to tell the Speaker they would not respect Planchet if he showed up alone or in too ragged a fashion. So a fine white horse was secured for the Speaker’s valet. With a retinue that included a hundred mounted warriors and Captain Ambrodel, Planchet rode out of Khurinost. First, he must head off the Lioness. The parley would be pointless if she launched an attack.

  He found her leading eighteen thousand warriors, over half the elven army, along the ridge northwest of Khuri-Khan. Her headlong charge had slowed to a walk as her well-honed tactical sense took over. She’d sent out numerous scouts, and was awaiting their return when Planchet’s delegation overtook her.

  “Lady, in the name of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, I command you to return to Khurinost with all your riders!” Planchet said.

  “I answer to a higher power than the Speaker now,” she replied, reining up. “The elven people.”

  “The nomads have asked for a parley. Are you so bent on war you won’t let me talk to them?”

  She shrugged. “Talk all you want, it won’t change a thing. The Khurs want our blood.”

  Time was short. Amid echoing thunder, Planchet put his white horse next to Kerian’s bay.

  “Stay your hand, lady,” he urged. “For one hour, I beg of you.”

  Like the ardent young officers at her back, he held his breath. He could watch the thoughts progress across her face, like the play of sun and shadows on the desert sands. Despite the shared years that lay between them, he had no certainty she would give him the time he needed.

  At last, she nodded. “For an old friend, one hour. Less, if the nomads move against Khurinost.”

  Planchet nodded and dug in his spurs. His entourage bolted down the dune after him. Relief at the Lioness’s agreement quickly faded, swallowed by new worry. The valet felt like an impostor. For all his gifts, he did not have the regal bearing or poise that came naturally to his liege. His physique was long, but slightly stooped, his hair bleached dead white by the Khurish sun. He was no one’s idea of a king-or khan, for that matter.

  The chiefs of the nomads heard the horn blasts and saw dust trails rising into the leaden sky.

  Adala was bent forward on Little Thorn’s back, hands busily working. Wapah saw she had a small rattan basket. The binding on the rim had become frayed, and she was replacing it with a fresh strand of grass.

  “The khan of the laddad,” Wapah whispered. She nodded.

  “I will be done before he arrives.”

  As the elves drew closer, the nomad chiefs and warmasters sat up straighter on their sturdy ponies. The elves were mounted on long-legged horses, making them seem taller. Seated as she was on her faithful donkey, Adala was the lowest person in the entire group. She was also, as always, the only woman present, She gave no sign of noticing any of this. Instead, she finished her repair of the basket, working the ends of the new rim into place, then hung the container from the short horn on her saddle.

  The elf on the white horse leading the others stopped. Looking up and down the line of nomad chiefs, he announced, “I am Planchet, councilor to the Speaker of the Sun and S
tars, monarch of all the elves.”

  Mild surprise rippled through the human assembly. He had spoken in Khur.

  Adala seemed unimpressed. She replied in the Common tongue, “I am Adala Fahim, Saran di Kyre, Weyadan of the Weya-Lu, and keeper of the maita. I would speak to your khan.”

  Now the elves were caught off guard. Planchet regarded the black-draped, motherly woman with surprise. Clearly, he had expected to be dealing with one of the fierce-looking men. “Our Speaker is engaged. I represent him,” he said.

  “And I speak for the Weya-Lu, the Mikku, the Tondoon, and the Mayakhur.”

  “You are the leader of all those tribes?”

  “In this cause, by the will of Those on High, I am.”

  “I am honored to meet you. How shall I address you?”

  “She is Weyadan or Maita,” Wapah offered. Some of the chiefs glowered at him for speaking out of turn.

  Planchet recognized the second word as meaning something like “destiny” or “luck.” He chose the other, less emotional, title. “I am honored to meet you, Weyadan. There are many swords here today. How can we keep them in their scabbards?”

  “Many transgressions have been committed against our people by the laddad. I tell you only two: You are foreigners, and you are invaders.”

  “We have the permission of Sahim-Khan to dwell in his country,” Planchet countered.

  “Sahim-Khan will answer to Those on High for his venality.”

  “So shall we all, Weyadan.”

  Adala’s dark eyes hardened. “You send spies to measure our land. You have entered a valley sacred to Those on High. This is sacrilege.”

  “Our Speaker meant no blasphemy,” Planchet replied evenly. “We need a place to live where the climate is not so harsh. He heard the Valley of the Blue Sands was such a place. We had never heard it was sacred. We thought only that there we would be out of your desert and away from your cities. Desecration was not our intention.”

  A snort of disbelief came from one of the younger warmasters. The chiefs around him, although plainly just as skeptical, glowered at him for his breech of manners.