Sanctuary

elves.

The older chiefs were shocked. “Your crime would be as great as theirs!” one said.

“Where is it written we may not enter the valley?” said a young warmaster. “It is tradition, yes, but why? What makes this place so sacred?”

Wapah cleared his throat. Many rolled their eyes; the Weyadan’s cousin was known as a talker.

“When Those on High made the world, each in turn pressed a hand on the new ground, leaving an impression. Each god said, ‘This is my place. Let no one desecrate it.’ Over time, the elements and various upheavals obscured most of these places. But the Valley of the Blue Sands remains, just as when the gods made it. It is their place, not ours, and not the laddad’s.”

Silence reigned for a time, broken only by the clink of brass cups and the splash of beer being poured. Bindas drained the last drops from his cup set it down. He was asking pardon of the group, preparing to suggest they all sleep, when a strange, metallic blast rang out over the camp. The men hurried outside, joining the rest of the camp, likewise turning out to see what was happening.

The sound came again, and they found its source. On the crest of a ridge sixty yards away, framed by the starry sky, a rider on a rearing horse was blowing a horn. Bows were strung, but Bindas put a stop to anyone loosing an arrow. An enemy would hardly announce his coming with a brass horn.

The rider galloped down the stony hillside, zigzagging around juniper bushes and large rocks, to the center of the camp. This put him outside Adala’s tent. The Weyadan came out in time to receive the swirl of dust kicked up as the black horse skidded to a halt. Its rider was clothed in billowing robes, not light-colored like a traditional geb, but scarlet, turned nearly black by the starlight. His head was covered by the robe’s hood. He was lean, with a pale foreign face. He seemed small, but perhaps that was only because his horse was so large, eighteen hands at least.

“Who commands here?” he asked. The voice was male, and young. “Do you understand me? Who is your leader?” “I am.” Adala stepped forward. “Who are you?”

“I bring you a message from Shobbat, Prince of Khur!” He paused, obviously expecting a response. When Adala gave none, he added, more loudly, “The prince calls upon the desert people of Khur to save their country!”

“That’s what we’re doing.”

Adala lifted her hem and approached. She stopped quite close to the imposing horse and looked up at its crimson-clad rider. “I am Adala, Weyadan of the Weya-Lu, chosen leader of these people. This horse is not Khurish. Neither are you. Who are you?”

“A messenger, nothing more. I was born beyond the mountains. Now I serve in Khur. I have a proclamation from Prince Shobbat. Will you receive it?”

“Why does the Prince of Khur employ foreigners to do his bidding?” Adala asked.

The messenger had removed a small scroll from his belt. “My horse is powerful and swift. I came to Khuri- Khan to serve.”

Adala shrugged one shoulder, and murmured an old proverb: “A rat in a palace is still a rat.”

The rider flung the scroll at her feet. “There is Prince Shobbat’s summons. Read it, and know the truth. Or do I need to read it for you?”

The slur went unchallenged. Adala picked up the scroll and handed it to Bindas, standing near her. The war chief broke the seal and read the message aloud.

“‘Be it known, I, Shobbat, rightful prince of Khur, do set my hand to this message.

“‘Beloved sons of Khur: the plague of foreigners we have long endured now threatens our ancient land. For five years, the laddad have dwelt among us, living their foreign lives and spreading their foreign ideas. In Khuri-Khan their steel buys hearts and their heresy clouds minds. My father, the Khan of All the Khurs, Sahim, has succumbed to the lure of laddad money.’”

The nomads already thought this was true. Hearing it from Sahim’s heir was a revelation. There were murmurs and wide eyes all around.

‘The temples of Khuri-Khan have become unclean. Sahim-Khan allows the laddad to go where they will and flaunt the laws and customs of Khur. As a loyal son of Khur’ “-Bindas snorted at the irony of this phrase-” ‘I cannot abide this treason any longer.’”

“Enough,” Adala said. “What does he want?”

Bindas read silently for a moment, then related the kernel at the end of the flowery message. “I therefore beseech all peoples of the desert, who hold in their hearts the true soul of Khur, to ride to Khuri-Khan and destroy the laddad pestilence there.”

Wind made the flames of the oil lamps waver. The great horse, obviously disliking the large number of humans that enclosed it, snorted and stamped its hooves. No one spoke.

“Well, what is your answer?” the messenger finally asked.

Adala stared up at the horse, ignoring its rider’s question.

Bravely, the Weya-Lu woman held up her hand. Even with her arm extended, the horse’s head, at the end of its proudly arched neck, was beyond her reach. The horse might have snapped off her fingers with one quick champ of its teeth. Instead, its nervous movements halted, and it lowered its head so the Weyadan could pat its cheek. Lowering it further, the horse nuzzled her hand.

The rider was surprised by his mount’s docility. He jerked the reins, pulling his horse’s head up again. “Are you going to answer?” he demanded.

Adala spoke, but not to him. She turned, black robes swirling around her feet and announced, “The foreign messenger and his great horse are signs. We will go to Khuri-Khan. We will raise the tribes. All the children of the desert will take up this cause. It falls to us to purify Khur.”

Looking north, toward the blackness that was Torghan’s Teeth and the mouth of the valley, she added, “Let the laddad perish in their vanity. Those on High will attend to the blasphemers.”

Half a thousand Weya-Lu warriors raised their hands over their heads and shouted in unison. “Adala maita! Adala maita!”

The noise was so great the courier’s horse reared in alarm. Only the rider’s skill and quick thinking kept him in the saddle. His task was complete, and he had no desire to linger. He put spurs to his black horse and galloped away.

Filled with new spirit, the nomads heaped all the carefully hoarded fuel on their campfires. The flames blazed up, sending gouts of sparks into the air. The tribesmen’s chant soared upward as well.

As he rode away, the Nerakan courier could see the glow of the nomad fires for a long time. He could hear their roar in chants even longer.

Hengriff, waiting on horseback in a draw a mile away heard them, too. Sparks had fallen on the tinder. All that remained was to see how big a bonfire would result.

Chapter 10

The gates of Khuri-Khan were closed and bolted. There was no warning, no flurry of horns or rushing of guards. The iron portcullises, which once defied the minions of Malystryx simply dropped into place. The battlements, normally patrolled by the Khan’s soldiers, emptied.

This was not a development Gilthas had expected. For a day and a half, since word arrived of the supposed massacre of the nomad camp, mobs of Khurs, armed with sticks, hand tools, and stones, had issued from the city to attack Khurinost several times. The largest of these groups comprised a thou san people, but each time, they were turned back without difficulty by Planchet, Hamaramis, and the elven host. Tents on the camp’s periphery were torn down and burned, but the angry Khurs never penetrated far into Khurinost. Then the city gates had closed.

The Speaker and most of his advisors stood in the clear area in front of his royal tent. The spot was the highest point in Khurinost, though not by much. The late afternoon sun was behind them. Its orange light sparkled off the glazed tiles and yellow domes of Khuri-Khan, washing the scene in a deceptively pleasant and benign