man kept her from standing. “I’ll see you hanged for this!” she raged.
“As you wish, but if I’m to be gutted by a mob of furious elves, I would at least like the satisfaction of having succeeded in killing their leader.”
The griffons passed high overhead, and the two humans hid beneath the overhanging boulders. Jeralund put his lips next to Breetan’s ear. “He maybe gone, but where he goes, we can follow.”
Her teeth were bared in a hiss of fury. “How can we follow flying beasts?”
“Think,” he urged the impetuous knight. “We can find out where he intends to land.” He pointed to the elves in camp, all staring rather forlornly after their departing comrades. “All we have to do is get one of them and ask.”
As usual, the sergeant’s tactics were sensible. “You get one. I’ll ask the questions.”
When the griffons had circled away, Jeralund released her and raised up to peer down at the elves’ camp. Immediately, he felt the cold edge of Breetan’s dagger on his throat, just below his knotted kerchief.
“If you ever lay hands on me again, I will kill you.”
His voice was maddeningly calm. “My life is yours, Lady, for the duration of this mission.”
He slipped out of their hiding place and crept down the shadowed side of the promontory to waylay an elf from the camp. Leaning against a sun-warmed boulder, Breetan trembled with anger and more than a little hunter’s fever.
Chapter 22
The elves walked all night, across the wadi and up the opposite bank. There they waited while the various groups trickled in. Dawn was just brightening the eastern sky by the time the last of the stragglers arrived and the nation was once more a single great column. They had made it across the obstacle. No nomads had attacked. They began to congratulate themselves.
Their relief was premature. When the first blood-red sliver of the rising sun cleared the eastern mountains, the nomads fell upon them.
The Mikku, familiar with the wadi, had ridden hard and crossed it at a low point farther down. They caught the elves with their backs to the dry riverbed. Of Taranath and the rear- guard cavalry, there was no sign, only more and more Khurs. Like ants converging on a dying serpent, riders emerged from a screen of low trees and charged. Only forty yards separated them from the elves, so they hadn’t room to gain much momentum. They were counting on swords, rather than the impact of their galloping horses, to drive the
Gilthas, at the head of his people, had just cleared a stand of juniper and seen the pass into Inath-Wakenti ahead when the sounds of battle reached him. Joy evaporated in an instant. Despite all his people’s sacrifices, the nomads had caught up with them.
He slipped out of their hiding place and crept down the shadowed side of the promontory to waylay an elf from the camp. Leaning against a sun-warmed boulder, Breetan trembled with anger and more than little hunter’s fever.
The elves walked all night, across the wadi and up the opposite bank. There they waited while the various groups trickled in. Dawn was just brightening the eastern sky by the time the last of the stragglers arrived and the nation was once more a single great column. They had made it across the obstacle. No nomads had attacked. They began to congratulate themselves.
Their relief was premature. When the first blood-red sliver of the rising sun cleared the eastern mountains, the nomads fell upon them.
The Mikku, familiar with the wadi, had ridden hard and crossed it at a low point farther down. They caught the elves with their backs to the dry riverbed. Of Taranath and the rear- guard cavalry, there was no sign, only more and more Khurs. Like ants converging on a dying serpent, riders emerged from a screen of low trees and charged. Only forty yards separated them from the elves, so they hadn’t room to gain much momentum. They were counting on swords, rather than the impact of their galloping horses, to drive the
Gilthas, at the head of his people, had just cleared a stand of juniper and seen the pass into Inath-Wakenti ahead when the sounds of battle reached him. Joy evaporated in an instant. Despite all his people’s sacrifices, the nomads had caught up with them.
He dodged among his frightened people, shouting for any with weapons to get to the front. An elderly female was knocked to the rocky ground in front of him. Gilthas picked her up and passed her to an elf running in the opposite direction.
Hamaramis had no more than two hundred warriors on hand, and all were on foot because of the shortage of horses. Without hesitation, the old general led his warriors out of the disorganized mob, hoping to draw the nomads’ attention, but the humans rode around his well-armed company to attack the civilians. With cooking pots, sticks, and pitifully few spears, the elves fought desperately to fend off the nomad horsemen. The weak and old were gathered in the center of defensive squares and circles. While the women labored to build barricades from baggage, stones, windfall tree limbs, and anything else to hand, the males drove Tondoon and Mikku riders back with rakes and shovels. Keen-eyed elves of both sexes emptied more than a few saddles with well- aimed stones.
Gilthas moved from square to square, comforting the frightened and urging the fighters to greater efforts.
“Taranath and the warriors will return soon,” he assured them. “Take heart! I have seen the entrance to the hidden valley. It is just ahead. We’re almost there!”
The elves knew the nomads would not follow them into Inath-Wakenti. The nomads considered the valley the last home of the gods before they departed the mortal plane. As such, it was taboo. If the elves could reach the valley, they would be safe. If.
Hamaramis marched his soldiers back to the Speaker. The warriors moved with shields locked, presenting a fearsome hedgehog of spears. Several tribes feigned thrusts, but none dared close. The humans had learned just how hard elven blades could be.
“Great Speaker!” Hamaramis had taken a hard rap and the nasal of his helmet had cut his nose. Blood trickled down like a crimson mustache. “The enemy is not yet here in full strength! I estimate five or six hundred.”
That meant many thousands of nomads were still to arrive.
“We must get the people moving!” Gilthas declared. “Immediately! Inath-Wakenti is just beyond those trees!”
He raised his voice, exhorting the people to follow him. “Our journey is almost over! The valley, our safety, is beyond that grove of trees! Follow me there!”
The elves could see only the fierce tribesmen milling beyond the reach of makeshift defenses. None moved. Gilthas redoubled his efforts, pulling at arms, clapping backs or shoulders. A few dozen elves struggled to their feet, but the majority stayed where they were, too tired and too fearful to comprehend the desperate truth the Speaker was telling them.
Gilthas coughed. Dust clogged his sickly lungs, and the illness the healer’s potions had eased came roaring back. Hamaramis saw him double over and ran to him. Blood stained Gilthas’s chin. The old general cried out, but Gilthas waved him away. When he could speak, Gilthas asked, “Where is Wapah?”
Puzzled, Hamaramis said, “With the head of the column, I think. Why, sire?”
“I must find him.”
Gathering his strength, Gilthas walked to the outside ring of elves, still anxiously watching the nomads. The riders would circle, attack small bands of elves who dared move, and circle again. Unfortunate elves marooned when the lines broke apart were ridden down and mercilessly put to the sword. The horrible spectacle so captured the elves’ attention, they didn’t react at first when Gilthas approached. He began tugging them apart to make his
