To the main body of nomads, advancing steadily from the south, the sight of fire was a shock. The leading elements of Adala’s tribe faltered, uncertain what was happening. Adala, mounted on her donkey, saw the flickering flames and shrugged.
“So much the better. A fire will make it easier to see the
Gwarali, who had begged for the honor of leading the attack, agreed with her. The burning trees clearly showed him elves on horseback waving fiery brands. It seemed a futile gesture. The trees were too few to make a blaze large enough to ward off the nomad warband. All the desperate elves were doing was illuminating their own destruction.
He drew his sword and uttered the new war cry-“Adala maita!”
Hundreds echoed him, as he led the men forward. Wisely, they did not gallop toward the foe, but rode at a fast trot. They saw the elves who’d started the fire retreating from the burning copse, and naturally went for the enemy they could see.
As the nomads skirted the blaze, the crackle of burning wood and snap of boiling sap masked other sounds. The Weya-Lu never heard the hail of arrows that emptied a score of their saddles.
“Where are they coming from?” Gwarali shouted. The firestarters were still in view, galloping away to the north.
No one could answer him. Another wave of arrows fell. These weren’t random volleys, lofted in the general direction of the Khurs. Every missile found a target; the arrows were well aimed. Even nomads farther from the fire and not illuminated by its light were being hit.
The answer hit Gwarali like a bolt of lightning:
He shouted a warning. It was echoed back through the ranks, and the Weya-Lu faltered. Gwarali roared, “They can die in the dark, too! Up swords!”
More arrows came, scything across the starlit landscape, each wave bringing down men and horses. Gwarali pulled his horse up short, causing the pony to rear on its hind legs. He bellowed, “Will you leave your murdered families unavenged? Did your fathers and brothers die in battle for nothing? Are you men?”
Backs straightened, blood surged anew. The Weya-Lu lifted swords high and prepared to charge.
“Believe in your maita, Sons of the sand! Follow me! For your gods! For-”
A perfectly aimed arrow cut off Gwarali’s rallying cry. The point took him in the left eye, burying itself deep. The nomad chief was dead even as he toppled backward off his horse.
The Lioness watched with satisfaction as the Weya-Lu attack melted away. The fire had worked even better than she’d hoped. By lighting it on their right flank, the elves drew the nomads to that point. The flames weren’t enough to light the battlefield for the humans-in fact, their proximity to it served to ruin what little night sight they had-but the elves, with their keener vision, could clearly see the nomad riders.
There was no time to celebrate. The fire was dying out. Stung by the elves’ arrows, the nomads would probably return with everything they had. It was time to go. She and the archers rejoined the northern half of her army. They had empty saddles of their own. This was not a horseman’s battle, blundering through gullies with archers about.
According to Gilthas’s map, the pass narrowed about a mile in. Kerian decided they would advance and make a stand there.
The noise of the enemy approaching from behind them grew louder. In close order, the elves rode straight down the center of the pass. Favaronas kept close to the Lioness. With luck and her tactical skill, he hoped they might yet escape the nomads’ pursuit.
Adala took the loss of Gwarali in stride. Bilath, brother of Adala’s dead husband, was leading the flanking riders now. Gwarali’s nephew Bindas took his uncle’s place at the head of the southern warband. Bolstered by the Weyadan’s calm conviction, Weya-Lu warriors once more pushed forward, eager to close with the
On a rocky pinnacle three miles away, the sand beast raised its head and tasted the wind. Its prey was close by, and in great numbers. The itch in its iron claws soon would be salved by elf blood. It gathered itself to spring. There were humans in its path, but they posed no obstacle. One blinding rush and all the elves would die, then the burning in its heart would be extingui.hed. One rush, and it would all be over-
Anew odor, propelled by the east wind, teased its nostrils.
The sand beast froze. The scent was familiar, an ancient memory, one that caused the scales on its back to ripple in fear.
A strange warbling cry pierced the night High overhead, a black object occluded the stars.
Kerian heard it over the thud and jingle of her troops in motion. Hardly believing her ears, she looked skyward.
“Eagle Eye!”
Favaronas, slightly ahead of her, tried to look back while maintaining his seat. “What?”
“My griffon! That’s his cry! I know it as well as my own voice!”
She had no idea how Eagle Eye could be here, when she’d left him in Khurinost, but the griffon’s call was unmistakable. Standing in her stirrups, she whistled shrilly. To her delight, Eagle Eye answered, sounding closer now.
When the warbling screech came a second time, the sand beast bolted. Strong as it was, the urge to hunt elves could not overcome the primal fear inspired by the sound of a natural enemy. Descending the hill in one great bound, the sand beast lowered its head, struck the Opposite hillside, and immediately began burrowing. It tore through slabs of slate as easily as a child digs in sand. Before the shadow of the griffon crossed the hill where the sand beast had been, it was completely buried, lying still as the rock around it.
The Lioness stopped, and her warriors followed suit. They could now see the griffon’s black shape moving in the sky. Kerian cupped her hands around her mouth and whistled again.
The griffon descended rapidly, flaring his wings and hovering over the elves. None of them could enjoy the sight; all were too busy trying to control their plunging horses. Kerian solved this dilemma for herself by vaulting from the saddle. Rising to her feet, she held up a hand to the griffon and called his name. Eagle Eye, utterly ignoring the chaos around him, landed next to her and lowered his hooked beak, tucking it under her arm like a pet songbird.
“You old monster,” she said fondly. “I’m glad to see you, too. Your timing is excellent!”
A shout interrupted the reunion. Favaronas, engaged in a losing battle with his terrified horse, yelled, “The nomads are getting close!”
Two hundred yards away, the main body of nomads was in plain view. Their advance from the south had been halted temporarily as they, too, had to cope with frightened mounts. From the east, a second force of nomads was likewise delayed. Kerian estimated some four hundred Khurs remained.
“Form up! Form up!” she called, even as she leapt onto the griffon’s back. She was airborne in the next heartbeat, Eagle Eye’s muscular hindquarters sending them into the air with a breath-snatching rush. Kerian turned his head toward the larger (and closer) southern nomad band, shouting at her elves, “Into the valley-at a gallop! There’s no time to waste!”
Her warriors sorted themselves into riding formation. Reins snapped and spurs dug in. They surged northward. On their right, the second party of Khurs was angling to cut them off. With the Lioness forced to concentrate first on the southern nomads, the eastern band was beginning to regain control of their horses.
Eagle Eye flew so low over the nomad horsemen that Kerian could have kicked their hats with her boot. Instead, she crouched low over her mount’s neck. It wouldn’t do to pick up an arrow from a sharp-eyed nomad archer. The griffon’s screeching cries sent the horses into a frenzy. Their riders seemed scarcely more composed. Tribesmen in Eagle Eye’s path flung themselves off their mounts.
Eagle Eye banked, flapped hard for altitude, and soared back over the hectic scene. Kerian aimed to rejoin her fleeing command. Her bird’s-eye perspective showed a dire situation.
The flanking nomads, riding hard from the east, had succeeded in getting in front of her elves. She growled in frustration; the trap she feared had caught them. Nomads were ahead and, however disordered, also behind them. Their only hope of survival was the Inath-Wakenti, where they would have room to maneuver-and hide.
She reached her diminished band and hovered high above them. “Draw swords, all!” she cried. Three hundred-odd blades rose in unison. “Forward! Don’t falter! If the humans get in your way, cut them down, but don’t
