Sanctuary ee-1

by Paul B. Thompson

  Adala never took her eyes from Planchet. “What’s done is done, and you must answer for it.”

  “We must dwell some place, Weyadan. It is the right of every living being to have a home.”

  “You had homes and lost them. The gods have turned their backs on you, laddad.”

  From his place behind Planchet, Hytanthas listened to the exchange with growing annoyance. He had expected the nomads’ leader to be a simple, uncouth fanatic. This woman was neither. There was strength in her, strength even the young Qualinesti recognized, but while Planchet was mindful of the diplomatic niceties, she persisted in hurling insults and epithets.

  Planchet tried to reason around Adala, saying dark forces had conspired to deprive the elves of their homelands and they sought only to take their fate in their own hands and find a new sanctuary. If some customs of the desert folk had been transgressed, he regretted it, but the survival of the elven race required bold measures.

  “What of the customs of war?” Adala asked, her entire demeanor suddenly eloquent of barely suppressed fury. “The custom that one does not murder wives and mothers, children and the aged, those who cannot fight!”

  The tenor of the meeting changed instantly. Hatred emanated from the nomads, like the heat of the desert. Planchet was taken aback. After the Lioness’s ill-conceived but undeniably dramatic gesture with the dead sand beast, he’d put the rumored massacre out of his mind. Like the city-dwelling Khurs, the elves now believed that if the deaths had happened, they were the work of a wild beast.

  Unfortunately, the nomads knew nothing about that or about the possible involvement of the rogue Faeterus. They still blamed the Lioness’s troops for the deaths of their families.

  Hoping her answer would help him formulate a response, Planchet asked Adala to explain her accusations.

  “Hundreds of Weya-Lu were murdered near the entrance to the Valley of the Blue Sands. No warriors were present, only children, women, old people; yet every one was cruelly slain. Not simply put to the sword, but ripped to pieces, then set afire!”

  “Why do you think we are responsible?” he asked.

  “We found tracks of laddad horses, of a laddad army, nearby. The Khan’s soldiers were in the city, and no foreign soldiers have come over the mountains since the red beast perished. The only killers in the area were the laddad army and its female warmaster!”

  Hytanthas could remain silent no longer. Before Planchet could speak, the younger elf burst out, “General Kerianseray didn’t slaughter anyone! It was a sand beast controlled by the will of an evil sorcerer! It nearly killed me, too!”

  His outburst provoked the nomads. The younger warmasters actually drew swords. Planchet, alarmed, raised a placating hand. At his back, he heard the concerted creak of a hundred elven bows being drawn, all because of this simple gesture. If his arm fell, the nomads would die.

  “Stay your hands!” Planchet said sharply, realizing his error.

  Adala spoke with equal harshness to her nomads. Swords were grudgingly sheathed. Bowstrings relaxed. Adala’s gaze skewered Hytanthas.

  “The Speaker’s woman led the laddad in the desert,” she said. “That I know. Who is this sorcerer you speak of?”

  At Planchet’s nod, Hytanthas told her what they had learned of Faeterus, that he was in the Khan’s pay, was perhaps an elf, but certainly a criminal, and had caused the massacre with one of his nefarious creatures.

  The nomad delegation muttered among themselves. Adala appeared to weigh something in her mind, found an answer, then folded her hands across her donkey’s neck.

  “Very well. Planchet of the laddad, tell your Speaker this:

  Those on High teach us mercy is the gift of the strong, so I grant you mercy. You may go in peace.”

  The elven warriors were astonished, Planchet less so. “Go where, Weyadan?” he asked.

  “Anywhere beyond the borders of Khur.”

  “And if we refuse?”

  Eye to eye, Adala stared at her opponent. In her black matron’s robes, the Weya-Lu woman did not look much like the loyal bodyguard of the elven Speaker, but inside, their hearts were made of the same stern stuff. Both knew it.

  “Then there will be war. Terrible war, with no conclusion but annihilation.”

  Adala’s words sent a chill through everyone present. An instant later, a cold breeze swept over the dunes, carrying heavy droplets of rain and more than a little sand.

  Members of both delegations were shifting on their mounts, eyeing each other, muttering to their comrades. Planchet did not move. He kept his attention on the Weyadan. She had not moved either, and something told him she was not done yet. He was right.

  “In exchange for this mercy,” she said, “you must give us the slayers of our families, both of them. We will do them justice.”

  At that Hytanthas jostled forward. Planchet snagged his reins, stopping him well short of the nomads, but Bilath, Bindas, and Hagath of the Mikku interposed themselves between their leader and the furious young elf.

  “Our commander is not a murderer!” Hytanthas shouted. “As for the mage, we want him too. You cannot charge his crimes to us! Savages! You’re the ones who murdered Lord Morillon, aren’t you? What mercy did you show him? He was left to rot in the desert with his throat slashed!”

  “Be silent!” Planchet cried in as great a voice as anyone had ever heard him use. “Go back to camp! Now!”

  Snatching his reins free, Hytanthas galloped back through the lines of the escort. He did not return to the city as ordered, but galloped directly over the intervening sand hills to where the Lioness was poised with her army. Only his wound had kept him from joining her in the first place; not even that would stop him now.

  Adala looked to the dark sky. Would her maita come forth again? Would the fire from on high strike down the laddad? Or would the sun break free of its shroud and shine on her, highlighting her righteous cause?

  Neither happened. Instead, a squall of tepid rain lashed the motionless parties. Adala drew her veil close around her face and pointed an accusing finger at Planchet.

  “It is on your head!” she intoned. “The choice of life or death, war or peace, is yours. Give over the Speaker’s woman and the laddad sorcerer. You have until the next sunrise. Ever after, we are enemies!”

  He made no reply, only sat stiffly in the saddle as the rain poured down. Adala turned Little Thorn’s head and trotted away. Her warmasters and chiefs filed behind her, watching the elves warily for signs of treachery.

  Rain fell harder. Finally, Planchet tilted his head back, to let the rain wash down his sorrowful face.

  “Save us all from true believers,” he muttered.

  * * * * *

  Sahim-Khan strode briskly through the corridors of his citadel while horns blasted outside. Every living soul in the Khuri yl Nor was in motion, running hither and yon, carrying arms or foodstuffs or valuables deeper into the fortress. Sahim parted the chaos as he went. Even in their terror of a nomad attack, servants moved nimbly out of his way. In the citadel courtyard, he found General Hakkam and Prince Shobbat.

  “Why are the nomads here?” Sahim demanded.

  Hakkam said, “We don’t know, Mighty Khan. The city gates have been shut, and the garrison mustered on the walls.”

  Shobbat put a soft fist to his lips and coughed discreetly. His father roughly bade him speak up.

  “Mighty Khan, the nomads obviously have come to make war on the laddad. Perhaps the Torghanists stirred them up.” Shobbat paused, assuming a thoughtful air. “The laddad Speaker sent an armed company to the Khalkist Mountains on a mysterious errand. They violated Weya-Lu territory, and it’s said they massacred two thousand women and children in their beds.”

  The Khan snorted. “A lie. Only two hundred were killed, and it appears a sand beast committed that crime.” He turned to his general. “Hakkam, how many riders can you field?”

  “Five thousand on short notice, Mighty Khan. More, given time.”

  �
�Gather your troops. You are to drive the nomads back into the desert. How dare they bear arms before my city! When I’m done with them, they’ll think the sand beast a gentle pet!”

  Hakkam bowed and was about to go when Shobbat laid a hand on his father’s arm, saying, “Wait, Mighty Khan!” Hakkam paused, and Sahim looked at his son as if he’d lost his mind. Shobbat released him, adding quickly, “Sire, don’t be too hasty! Perhaps this dire situation can yield a great harvest for Khur! Let the fight go forward. Whoever wins, Khur will be a better place for the loser’s absence.”

  Sahim made a fist and knocked his son to the ground with a single blow.

  “Idiot! Dolt! Fool! What are you thinking? I have given the laddad my protection! How strong will our neighbors think me if I allow the elves to be destroyed beneath the very walls of my capital, by those I am supposed to rule?”

  When Shobbat was felled, activity in the courtyard and in the gatehouse ceased. Everyone halted to stare at the prince, sitting on the ground, his lips bleeding, his scarlet-clad father standing Over him like an avenging demon. The powerful voice of Sahim-Khan filled the courtyard.

  “And Consider this, Wastrel! If the nomads lose, more will Come to avenge them. If the laddad lose, there will be no one left to pay for our repairs and your pleasures!”

  Goaded beyond reason, the Khan drove the toe of his slippered foot into Shobbat’s ribs. “Don’t presume to offer guidance to me again! Get out of my sight!”

  Doubled over in real pain, Shobbat got to his feet and slunk away. No one, not Sahim or Hakkam or those in the Courtyard, saw the strange look of triumph that passed quickly over his face.

  “Go, General! Take your soldiers and drive the nomads back into the wastes!”

  “At once, Mighty Khan!”

  Sahirn was still shaking with fury when he stalked into his private rooms. His son’s foolish Words had given him an outlet for his fears but hadn’t erased them from his mind. His Worry over the sudden appearance of the desert tribes so disturbed him that he didn’t notice the figure standing by the wall in the seam of two great hanging tapestries. Only when it spoke did he whirl drawing the short sword Concealed in his flowing robes. When he saw who accosted him, he uttered several choice curses.

  “Such language!” said his visitor. “And from a king!”

  “I’m in no mood for your tricks, Keth,” Sahim said testily. He tossed his sword onto a tiled tabletop and ran fingers through his beard.

  Keth-Amesh was a distant cousin, a member of the same tribe as Sahim, and his private woman-of-all-work. While he dropped heavily into a chair, Keth poured herself a cup of his best wine. She lowered the dust veil from her face to drink. Long ago she’d lost an eye, and wore a tan leather patch over the empty socket. Her skin was tawny brown, like that of many nomads, but she had fair hair, wisps of which escaped from her headdress. She was a so-called ‘Yellow Khur,’ from the coastal lands of the extreme eastern part of Sahim’s realm.

  “I found the mage, but not the priest,” she reported. She drained her cup then refilled it.

  Sahim had set her to find Faeterus and Minok when his legion of soldiers, informers, and spies failed in that task.

  “Where is he?”

  “Below,” she answered, tapping a foot on the stone floor. She meant the system of caverns, natural and man-made, under the city. They had been enlarged by Sahim’s grandfather for use as cisterns, but the water proved brackish and undrinkable. The empty, noisome caverns were a perfect retreat for the hunted Faeterus.

  “If you know where he is, go get him.”

  Keth shook her head. “There’s not enough money in the world to get me down there.” When he said he would order her to go, she did something no one else in Khuri-Khan would dare do: She laughed at him. “I’m not one of your soldiers. You can’t order me anywhere.”

  Sahim changed tack. “What of Minok?”

  “No trace at all. He must be dead.”

  “You haven’t earned your pay,” Sahim told her sourly. “I hired you to find both and bring them to me!”

  She tossed a heavy purse on the rug at his feet. “Your money. Farewell, cousin. Call me again if you need anything-if you’re still khan, that is.”

  Replacing her veil, she went back to the secret door behind the tapestry. Sahim called for her to wait, and she paused, one sinewy hand on the fringed tapestry.

  “How can I get to the mage? I can’t leave him down there, hatching plots unhindered,” he said.

  “You know assassins. Send some.”

  Sahim’s laugh was bitter. “Cutthroats will never take Faeterus’s measure. I need someone better.”

  Keth lowered her dust veil again. “There is a man, or rather, not a man. A laddad bounty hunter called Robien. I worked with him once.”

  “Well, bring him to me, right away!”

  “You’ll find him hard to work with.”

  “Why? Is he a drunkard?”

  “Worse.” She grinned. “He’s honest and true. Not like you at all.”

  Tired of her insolence, he snapped, “Just get him! I’ll overlook his honesty if he can bring Faeterus before me.”

  She bowed and went out the hidden door.

  Sahim listened to the horns still blowing outside. The whole palace was quivering with marching soldiers and scurrying servants.

  Damn all the foreigners! he fumed. They’re as bad as those desert savages.

  * * * * *

  While the Khan was surrounded by boiling excitement, the Speaker sat alone in his silent tent. Planchet and Hamaramis were out tending to his business. The servants had been given leave to be with their families.

  Gilthas had never felt so alone. In all the years of separation from Kerianseray, while she lived and fought in the greenwood and he played the Puppet King in Qualinost, he always had felt close to her. They shared a connection that went beyond love, beyond proximity. During the terrible march into exile, they were apart for weeks at a time, each knowing the other might be killed at any moment, but still they had been connected. Now she was gone, in every sense of the word. Gone from his house, gone from his city, gone from his life.

  He knew he had done his duty by removing her. She had no vision, no understanding of the delicate, dangerous path they must tread if their race was to survive. Her way would lead to total destruction. Yet duty was small comfort to him.

  It was a good thing to be alone. No one should see the Speaker of the Sun and Stars weep.

  * * * * *

  Hytanthas brought the Lioness the news from the parley. The nomads were demanding her and the sorcerer Faeterus as their price for peace. The assembled warriors greeted this broadside with shouts of derision.

  “Sounds like a good bargain,” Kerian remarked.

  “Commander!” Hytanthas cried.

  She stared out over the rolling dunes and at the dust raised by the nomad host on the move. A great deal of dust, from a great many horses. “It would be a fair bargain,” she said, “if they meant it.”

  Unfortunately, she was certain they did not mean it. Nomads wouldn’t have come all this way just to avenge the camp massacre. That was nothing more than a convenient excuse, a wedge to pry apart the elves and Sahim-Khan. The nomads had no intention of giving up everything for the heads of two elves. They were on a mission to destroy every elf in Khur.

  Still, it sparked an idea. She was confident her warriors could defeat the nomad host, but the war thus started wouldn’t end with this single battle. More and more tribesmen would join the fight, until the elves found themselves swamped by fanatics. Her dreams of retaking the elven homelands would founder beneath a horde of unshod hooves.

  She studied the officers clustered around her horse. The longest serving among them was a Qualinesti named Ramacanalas. “Take command, Ramac,” she said. “I’m going to the nomads.”

  Shouts erupted, and Hytanthas seized her horse’s bridle to keep her from riding away. She broke his grip and silenced them all with a hard-eyed glare.


  “I’m going. Remain here. If the nomads move toward Khurinost, hit them as hard as you can with everything we’ve got.”

  “They’ll kill you!” Hytanthas exclaimed.

  The Lioness favored him with an ironic smile. “Not today.”

  Chapter 16

  Eight men abreast, the Khurish royal cavalry rumbled out the city’s north gate. Their armor was a mix of native and Nerakan style, with pointed helmets, angular breast- plates, and Spiky knobs at every bend of knee, elbow, and ankle. Their favored weapon was a very heavy saber, its blade shaped like a crescent moon. Their mantles had started out royal blue, but long exposure to the harsh sun had faded them to the color of the spring sky over Khuri-Khan. The Khurs were among the best soldiers hired by the Dark Knights, but since the arrival of the elves Sahim-Khan had allowed the longstanding contract with Neraka to lapse. He had ample compensation from taxes, fees, and other official extort ions to replace the money paid by the Order.

  General Hakkam rode at the head of the column, flanked by standard bearers and heralds. Once the tail of the column cleared the city gate, he halted his men and sent out flankers on both sides and well ahead to scout the situation. The cavalry moved forward at a walk, alert for ambushes. In his long career, Hakkam had fought nomads before. They were fearless, hardy, and addicted to surprise attacks. He had no intention of losing men to (or being humiliated by) a rabble of tribesmen, especially with the laddad as witness.

  The scouts soon returned with strange news. A sizable force of mounted laddad were on the north ridge, watching the nomads. The tribesmen were massed in the Lake of Dreams. This dry depression, six miles from Khuri-Khan, had earned its name because travelers commonly saw mirages of water in the broad hollow between dunes. Like the laddad, the nomads were motionless, waiting.

  Hakkam uttered an oath. His lieutenants thought he was cursing the nomads or the laddad, but in fact he was abusing the name of Sahim-Khan What had the master of Khur sent him into?