While Wapah was marveling over this, and admiring the shining craftsmanship of the helmet, the scouts Shaccan had dispatched over the ridge came galloping back. They were pursued by Weya-Lu riders. Adala, leading Little Thorn, went to intercede. Mikku and Weya-Lu drew apart as the Weyadan stood between them.
“Judgment has been rendered upon Shaccan,” she declared. “The Mikku have chosen to join us.”
The warriors who already had pledged themselves to Adala’s cause related the momentous events to their brethren. The scouts could hardly credit the tale, but the steaming crater and their dead warmaster brooked no argument.
The Weya-Lu raised a cheer, and the Mikku joined in. Adala acknowledged their support with a nod, then asked Wapah for his arm. He aided her in climbing back onto Little Thorn. Her face and hands were pink with flash burn, while her eyebrows and eyelashes were completely gone. Concerned, he asked if she was well.
The clouds had broken, allowing shafts of morning sunlight to slice through. The southern plain was dappled with these columns of golden light. Steam rose from the drying sand. Adala stared out at the view and said only, “Your hat is in sad shape, cousin. Take it off and I’ll sew the tears quickly, before the sun returns.”
And she did. A healer salved and bandaged her injured hand, then Adala worked steadily on the torn hat as she and Wapah rode down the ridge. The Weya-Lu streamed after them. The Mikku watched in awe until they fell in at the rear of the formation. Word of Shaccan’s demise spread, and more and more of the Mikku joined the procession. The ranks of Adala’s band had swelled from five hundred to more than five thousand.
Chapter 12
When the sun rose on Khuri-Khan, the city gates opened as the Khan had promised. However, the soldiers on the western portal, having lifted the iron portcullises and swung the great wooden doors inward, gaped in consternation at what they faced on the other side.
The road, dusty and sand-scoured, sloped away from Malys’s Anvil to the outer ring of elf tents. Many of these had been torn down during the recent rioting, but beyond them was the vast elven encampment. Elves stirred like hornets around a disturbed nest. Gathered on the road facing Khuri-Khan were ten thousand elf lancers and archers in well-used armor.
The Khurish soldiers had fought a bloody skirmish with wild fanatics the evening before, and now they stared across forty yards of desert at ranks of elven cavalry, poised to strike.
For a long time neither side moved. The sun lifted itself above the Khurman Sea. Lofty bales of clouds, blown in from the sea, maneuvered silently overhead, covering the ground with strange, ever-moving shadows. Word of the massed elven cavalry reached the Khuri yl Nor, and Sahim-Khan dispatched General Hakkam to find out the
Hakkam, who as a boy had been shield-bearer to Sahim’s father, was a burly, impatient man. His armor was too tight, and it chafed him unmercifully at the neck and waist. He was constantly being given impossible or contradictory tasks by Sahim-Khan, then receiving his master’s ire when things did not turn out as he desired. Because of this, Hakkam was in a perpetually bad mood.
Facing the city wall with the morning sun in their eyes, the elves were hardly in better temper. Taranath commanded the ten thousand riders, sorted into squadrons of fifty, as in the old Silvanesti army. Under their battered helmets and sun-bleached mantles they were lean, spare, and ready to ride at any enemy they were commanded to destroy.
Word flashed back to the Speaker that the gates had opened. Throwing on an old robe of white silk (with most of the gold embroidery torn out, for it was too valuable to leave as mere decoration), Gilthas hurried to the eastern edge of Khurinost with Planchet at his heels.
“No word from Lord Morillon or Captain Ambrodel?” Gilthas asked.
Planchet shook his head. “No, sire. They may not have been able to reach us while the gates were closed.”
The unexplained disappearance of one of the Speaker’s councilors had only increased the tensions in the elven camp. Gilthas knew it would take very little for a confrontation to explode. The sight of numerous Khurish guards on the city gate was just the spark this volatile situation did not need.
They reached the closely packed ranks of riders, and Planchet bawled, “Make way for the Speaker! Make way!”
The riders chivvied their mounts to one side or the other to allow the Speaker to walk between them. Hair in disarray, sweat beading under his hollow eyes, the Speaker of the Sun and Stars made straight for the front line. When the last line of riders broke ranks for him, he found himself standing on the rubble-stone road before the city wall. Khurish pot helmets were thick on the battlements. As Gilthas looked on, their numbers increased.
“Has anyone come out, or spoken to you?” he asked the nearest rider.
“No one, Great Speaker.”
Worried by his councilor’s absence, Gilthas was nevertheless pleased to see the gate open. Perhaps Morillon had succeeded. Perhaps he would be coming out at any moment, unless the Khan had opened the portal for his own, possibly nefarious, reasons.
“What do you make of this?”
Planchet studied the city wall left and right before answering. “They look as surprised to see us as we are to see them.”
Gilthas agreed. If Sahim-Khan meant to attack, his troops would have rushed out immediately, not gathered on the walls and gawked for half an hour.
“Find me a herald,” he said. “Let’s see if we can’t find out what’s happening, without bloodshed.”
Planchet offered to go himself, and Gilthas agreed. Planchet’s face was known to the Khurs and he carried the weight of the Speaker’s favor. He was wearing a native geb, perfect attire for the task. No sense appearing as a warrior when a diplomat was needed.
A scrap of cloth tied to a lance made a serviceable white banner. Once Planchet was mounted, Gilthas took hold of his horse’s halter.
“Find out their intentions, and stress that ours are peaceful,” he said. “Make certain our people still have access to the city’s wells.” Already the grip of thirst was on the tent city. “Don’t mention Morillon-not just yet.”
Planchet nodded and started up the sloping road at a slow trot. Wind hissed over the northern dunes. As he reached the place where the road leveled out, he halted his horse. The clouds parted and a beam of sunlight fell on him. Gilthas was cheered. It was a good omen.
The mounted elf waited, exposed and alone, until the Khurs sent out riders of their own. After five long minutes, a quintet of armored soldiers came out the gate. A scarlet and gold pennant flew from one rider’s stirrup- post.
The Khurs approached slowly, as though wary of treachery. At one point Planchet waved a biting fly away from his face, and the Khurs froze. He realized they were very frightened.
In the center of the quintet, flanked by imposing cavalry men rode a squat human with a thick neck and a beet-red face. As the Khurs drew nearer, Planchet recognized him.
“Hail, General Hakkam!” he called. “Peace be with you!”
“And with you, Planchet of Qualinost,” rumbled the choleric general. “What in Kargath’s name goes on here?”
“I was about to ask you the same question. The city gates have been closed to us since yesterday afternoon. Our only supply of water is what we carry from Khuri-Khan’s wells.
We were beginning to get thirsty.”
“Is that why you called out your army?”
