Alliances

horses to ascend abreast. The last group would wait halfway between the other two and reinforce whichever seemed destined for success.

“We attack at noon,” Yalmuk said. Only an hour away, the hottest time of day would be good for desert nomads and bad for soft-skinned foreigners.

Off they rode, singing the Weya-Lu war song:

Sword to sword, we ride to battle,

Sword to sword, we face the foe.

Sword to sword, we fight and die,

Sword to sword, our glory grows.

Atop Broken Tooth, Planchet heard them. He’d been expecting an attack, even after he saw the bulk of the nomad army ride away on the trail of the escaping elves. With the wind blowing their dust in his face, it was hard to see how many nomads were coming. Judging by the full-throated chorus, it must be several hundred.

He stood atop the rock signal tower. Below him were ranged his two hundred defenders. They wore helmets and breastplates whose design hadn’t changed much since the days of Kith-Kanan. Each elf had sword, spear, and bow, although there were precious few arrows. Planchet had insisted the Speaker take most of their dwindling supply with him.

The spears ported on each fighter’s right shoulder were an odd, tragic note, reminding Planchet again of the atrocity committed against the elves. Few had the use of their left hands, and some bore injuries on other limbs as well. Yet none had hesitated to volunteer for the final battle. He saw Qualinesti, Silvanesti, and half a dozen Kagonesti, their facial tattoos rendered nearly invisible by the dark tans given them by the Khurish sun.

He took a deep breath. “Warriors, I salute you!” he proclaimed. “The enemy is coming. To your places, as we planned.”

The ordered ranks broke apart. Sixty elves trotted across the rough plateau toward the north trail. Planchet expected a two-pronged attack, with the heaviest blow coming from the north. He’d allotted his sixty strongest warriors to defend that trail.

He led the balance of his force to the southeast trail. It was heartbreaking to see how many could barely walk, much less fight. But they had played their role to perfection, keeping the nomads here, allowing the Speaker and their people to escape. They had one final gift to offer, to sell their lives as dearly as possible.

All night long they had dragged stones to the top of the trail, erecting a zigzagging, waist-high wall across the path. Tent poles, suitably sharpened, studded the ground ahead of the barrier. If the nomads tried to ride the elves down, they’d receive an unpleasant surprise:

Like the slow inevitability of death, the column of desert dust came nearer and nearer. Two plumes separated from the main cloud and streamed around the foot of the peak, heading inexorably for the north trail.

Planchet nodded. Just as he’d expected.

The rumble of hooves came from the southeast trail. The sound grew steadily louder then suddenly ceased. The telltale column of dust that marked the nomads’ advance dissipated, the air scrubbed clean by the constant wind. Planchet’s soldiers took up their swords and spears without a word being spoken.

“At one hundred yards, archers will draw and loose,” Planchet said. His calm voice carried with surprising clarity over the barren mountain top.

A yell came from the winding trail, rising from the throats of a hundred Weya-Lu tribesmen. It started low and rose to a piercing wail.

“Ready to receive cavalry!”

Spears were lowered to hip height and locked in position. The wind changed direction, swirling around Broken Tooth and bringing a cloud of stinging sand with it. The nomads were moving again, charging up the steep trail toward an enemy they couldn’t see but knew was there.

As he awaited them, a memory flashed unexpectedly into Planchet’s mind: Qualinost on a summer’s night. The view from his room in the Speaker’s palace was green and immensely peaceful. Spread out below his window, the city was lit by thousands of amber lamps and by the clouds of winking fireflies drawn to the lights.

The nomads arrived, riding hard around the final bend. The path was wide enough to allow five abreast, and that’s how the Khurs came, galloping knee to knee, screeching like creatures from the Abyss.

“Present!” Planchet commanded. The few archers raised their arrowheads skyward. “Loose!”

Many arrows fell short. The elves’ injured hands kept them from drawing and holding properly. Planchet shouted for them to loose at will, and additional arrows raked across the head of the enemy column. Saddles were emptied, and the fallen nomads were trampled by hard-riding comrades with little room to maneuver. In these conditions, if a rider couldn’t keep his seat, even a minor wound could prove fatal.

Planchet drew his sword and stepped into line with his warriors. Arrows flicked over their heads, so low they felt the wind of the missiles’ passage. Before the elves was an awesome panorama: plunging horses in colorful desert trappings, sides flecked with foam, teeth bared. Their riders were no less fearsome, with their swords held high, teeth pale against dark beards, and their deep-voiced shouts mingling with the squeals of horses and the thunder of churning hooves.

The horsemen hit the line of elves, and it gave way at once, but the leading ranks of horsemen went down like chaff before a scythe. Following riders sent their lean ponies leaping over the fallen to land behind the elves. At once the left and right halves of the elves’ line drew apart, forming tight squares against the marauding horsemen.

Yalmuk was elated. In a single charge, he’d broken the laddad, something his people had never done before. He called for a renewed charge against the small knots of enemy warriors. At the same time, he ordered the reserve of one hundred called up immediately to exploit the advantage.

The elves’ left square threw back the nomads twice. Most of the archers had ended up with that square, and they did dreadful damage against targets almost close enough to touch. The spear- and sword-armed elves were in dire straits. Buffeted by furious horses, slashed by nomad swords, they couldn’t defend themselves fast enough, and their strength dwindled quickly.

The right square, in which Planchet fought, began to back away, always a dangerous thing to do when under attack. Speaking with unruffled calm, Planchet guided them backward across the plateau onto rising ground. Their interlocked shields, bristling with spears, warded off three intense charges. By that time, Planchet found himself up against the stone signal tower. He formed his fighters in a tight circle around the pile of rubble stone. Each time an elf fell, the circle drew together, shrinking tighter and tighter.

On the north side of Broken Tooth, the sixty strongest of the crippled elves ambushed nomads trying to gain the summit by stealth. They rolled boulders down the trail (so narrow there, the nomads had to advance single file) and jabbed at the mounted men from atop tall outeroppings. The Weya-Lu were forced to retreat, dismount, and come back up the trail on foot. The fight became a hand-to-hand brawl as nomads clambered over boulders and ledges to get at their foe. The nomads’ superior numbers and better health took a toll: the elves started falling back. They saw Planchet’s band encircling the lookout tower, so they made for that last defensible position.

Yalmuk could not prevent the northern company of laddad from reinforcing those besieged at the stone tower. His lieutenants cheered that development, saying it bottled up all the enemy in one place. Yalmuk scowled and spat blood in the dust. He wanted the battle finished. Where was his reserve? They should have arrived by now!

They finally appeared, riding at a leisurely pace up the southeast trail. Yalmuk drove his heels into his mount’s sides and flew at them, cursing their ancestors and their descendants, berating them for taking their time. He formed them into a dense column four abreast. While his tired warriors kept the laddad busy, Yalmuk prepared to smash the invaders once and for all with his fresh reserve.

Standing on the lowest step of the tower, Planchet did his best to direct his faltering command. He shifted his strongest warriors to trouble spots, shielded his weak and wounded fighters, and parried every attempt by the nomads to break his circle.

A shadow fell over the battle scene. Planchet spared a moment to look skyward. A quartet of heavy clouds