Alliances

them an unobstructed view of the black outlines of Lesser Fang, Chisel, and Great Fang. Great Fang, highest of the pinnacles, blocked any view of Ripper and Pincer beyond.

“Perhaps they ran out of fodder for the flames,” said a Silvanesti councilor. Oil was more precious than steel at that moment, and little wood could be had for fires. Dried dung was the usual fuel in the desert.

“We cannot assume that,” Planchet said. The warriors around him murmured in solemn agreement.

“You’ve heard nothing?” Gilthas asked.

“Nothing at all, sire.”

The human blood in his ancestry meant Gilthas’s senses were not quite as acute as those of a full-blooded elf. If Planchet and the others did not hear anything from Lesser Fang, then there was nothing to be heard. Despite that, Gilthas leaned forward over the rickety wooden railing atop the cairn platform and peered into the blackness toward Lesser Fang. He strained to see until tears came to his eyes, but neither sight nor sounds reached him.

“We must know!” he said, driving a fist into his palm. Not for the first time, he wished for the presence of a mage or seer. Since the elves’ exile, these had been in short supply, targeted by both the minotaurs and the Knights of Neraka to blind the elves’ resistance and spread fear and despair.

Two young warriors volunteered to go to Lesser Fang, to find out what had happened. The peak was only a quarter of a mile away, but the two would have to descend Broken Tooth, cross open desert, then climb the steep side of the neighboring peak, all in darkness while evading vigilant nomads.

Gilthas saw no other option. He warned the ardent young elves not to waste their lives. “If the enemy has taken the mountain, come back at once. Don’t attempt a rescue. Come back and report what you find to me.”

They saluted and hurried away. The ever-present wind atop the peak freshened, swirling around the cairn. Gilthas coughed. The spasm didn’t stop, but grew stronger. Faithful Planchet laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You are ill, sire.”

Gilthas shook his head, drawing a shaky breath. “It’s only the chill night air. It dries my throat.”

The valet didn’t believe that for a moment, but it did give him a reason to urge the Speaker to leave the exposed sentinel post. The two of them descended, but Gilthas would not return to camp.

“I will remain here, in the lee of the cairn,” he said.

His tone told Planchet that the valet’s mothering would be tolerated so far but no further. Planchet gave in with good grace.

“An excellent idea. We will call you if there are any developments.” He climbed back up the stone pile.

Gilthas pulled his affre close about his throat. The coughing was becoming more and more difficult to stop once it began. Sometimes he coughed up flecks of blood.

He knew what ailed him. Consumption wasted the body and rotted the lungs. Legend held a consumptive grew more beautiful as death drew near. The glimpses he’d caught of his reflection told him he was not beautiful. He was a good fifteen pounds lighter than when he had dwelt in Khurinost. His eyes were heavily shadowed, yet red rimmed, and despite the sunburn on nose and cheeks, his pallor had grown markedly. No, certainly not beautiful, so he must still be full of life. But his cough was becoming more frequent, and his eyes were more sensitive to the brilliant light of the Khurish sun than they had been. Deep in his chest, there was a hollowness, a sort of dead emptiness, as if a block of wood rested there.

Sweat suddenly broke out, and he loosened the neck of his robe. He knew the unnatural heat would pass quickly, leaving him even more chilled than before, but while it lasted, his body burned as though roasted over a fire.

Leaning against the cool stones of the cairn, alone for the first time in days, Gilthas allowed his thoughts to drift to other times and places. He imagined Kerian’s reaction to his illness. You’re not sick, she would declare, her strong features softening as she looked at him. You just need rest, good food, and lots of hot baths.

His wife was a great believer in the nearly miraculous powers of hot water and soap, probably because she’d been an adult before having easy access to either. Limitless hot water, a well constructed tub, and rose petal soap represented the height of civilization to the Lioness, among the very few things worth leaving her beloved forest for.

A bead of sweat ran down Gilthas’s forehead. He wiped it away. His skin was hot to his own touch. Wind swirled around the makeshift tower at his back, setting the hem of his geb flapping and raising gooseflesh on his arms. He shivered, although the sweat still trickled down his face. This was a particularly intense episode of the fever.

A rustling noise drew his attention away from his bodily ills. Leaves tumbled over the stony ground at his feet. He blinked, wondering if he could be hallucinating. Nothing grew on Broken Tooth, not even weeds. He picked up a leaf. It was an ash leaf, green and supple. Where could they be coming from?

Another sound interrupted his musings. His councilors on the lookout post above were exclaiming in surprise. Stepping away from the cairn, Gilthas looked up. A cloud of bats was whirling overhead. Some of the elves were swiping at the darting creatures, trying to shoo them away.

Gilthas told them to stop. Bats and leaves appearing from nowhere in the lifeless desert? These had to be omens. Whether good or bad, he didn’t know, but they should take care not to antagonize whatever forces were at work. Perhaps the elves were near enough to Inath-Wakenti that the power there was affecting their surroundings.

Gilthas choked suddenly. The wind had hurled a leaf directly into his open mouth. Instinctively he spat it out then abruptly bent, picked up another, and placed it on his tongue. His eyes widened. He hadn’t imagined it; the ash leaf tasted very good, like asparagus, his favorite vegetable.

The councilors descended to find their king crouched on the ground, stuffing green leaves into his mouth. Before Planchet. could protest, Gilthas thrust a handful of leaves at him.

“Try them! They’re good!”

With the air of an elf humoring an insane request, Planchet bit the tip of one leaf. He could hardly credit the sensations in his mouth. The taste was bright and crisp, like a fresh radish. Planchet loved radishes, especially those grown in the meadows surrounding Bianost, from whence he hailed.

“Gather them up!” Gilthas commanded. “We have fresh food!”

Even the haughty Silvanesti councilors went to work with a will, gathering the leaves still falling from the sky.

Word of the unexpected bounty flashed across the mesa. Elves sleeping fitfully on cold stone awoke. Confusion changed to laughing astonishment as each of them tasted the leaves. The more alert rigged blankets and tarps to catch a greater harvest.

For an hour, the wind blew ash leaves over the crowded mountaintop. The elves gathered all they could until the wind died out and no more leaves fell.

Gilthas surveyed the scene with quiet delight. “What do you make of this, Planchet?”

“A miracle from the gods, sire.” Planchet ate another leaf. He and the Speaker had compared their experiences, but no matter how many leaves they tried, each tasted like asparagus to the Speaker and like radishes to his valet.

Into the celebratory scene came the two scouts returning from Lesser Fang. They arrived, gasping for breath from having run all the way back.

Their ashen faces told Planchet their report would be better given to the Speaker in private. Before he could suggest that, the scouts blurted out their news.

“They’re gone, Great Speaker! All of them!” said one.

The other added, “There is no one on Lesser Fang!”

Gilthas took a step back, visibly shaken. Thousands dead? It wasn’t possible. Not since the elves’ arrival in Khur had the nomads achieved such a victory.

“Did you find evidence of a fight?” Planchet said sharply.

Some, they said. The rocky path up the north face of the pinnacle held the bodies of eight slain nomads. At the top, threescore elves had fallen defending the plateau. Gilthas questioned that figure, wondering where the rest had gone. One scout suggested that the bulk of elves, fearful of being overrun, had evacuated to Chisel. That did not seem likely. The beacon on Chisel was burning as before. If something grave had happened, the Speaker was certain Taranath would have signaled him, perhaps by lighting a second bonfire. No such sign had come from Chisel.

Still, that possibility had to be investigated. Fresh scouts were dispatched to make the dangerous trek to