their presence might be enough to hold the lesser creatures trembling in their nests for a day or more-even lesser creatures like elves or humans, Ashtaway reflected wryly.
The warrior was grateful that his village, though spacious and open on the ground, was screened from the sky by its verdant canopy of vallenwoods. The elves were careful to leave no sign of their presence along the shore, where the Bluelake sparkled at the foot of the steep bluff. Even alert dragons, flying slowly, would be unable to spot the Kagonesti community from the air.
Now, as he jogged beneath the fine weight of venison and diligently probed his surroundings with eyes, ears, and nose, another part of his mind reflected on the battle between the knights and the red dragons. It remained much on his mind, and not just because of the valor displayed by the doomed Knights of Solamnia. There was also the indication, by the presence of both the human and dragon combatants, that the scourge of war might be drawing nearer to the Kagonesti wilds than ever before.
He recalled Lectral's words about Sanction. That smoldering city, nestled in the valley between three rumbling volcanoes, had seemed to him a hellish place on the lone occasion when he had observed it. At that time Ashtaway had discovered a winding, narrow valley leading up to the saddle between two of the smoking mountains. The finding of paths had long been a skill of his people, and Ash had initially been pleased in his discovery, for the mountainous trail was apparently known to no other. His disappointment had been keen when he learned that it led to such a useless place.
The miles passed beneath his leather soles, half a dozen, then ten, and soon he knew that the village was near. His heart lightened, anticipating the joy that his burden would bring to his villagemates. His uncle Iydaway, Pathfinder of the tribe, had grown too old for the hunt himself-but Iyda would no doubt compose a song for the occasion, probably to play on the Ram's Horn around the feast fire tonight. Old Iydaway had been a great hunter and warrior in his prime, and now the venerable Pathfinder took great pride in the accomplishments of his elder nephew, even going so far as to give Ash his keen steel axe blade upon the young warrior's initiation to manhood.
Now, the Kagonesti hunter thought with a thrill of pleasure, his uncle would be very pleased-
Abruptly Ashtaway froze, his reveries interrupted by an acidic, reptilian smell. Bakali! The lizardlike humanoids served the Dark Queen with ruthless loyalty in her war, and twice before Ashtaway had fought-and slain-individual bakali who had wandered too far from their tribes. In each of those occasions he had been repelled by the characteristic stench now wafting through the woods before him.
Yet the scent reaching his nose was far more powerful than he had felt even when in the clasp of a bakali's slime- coated limbs. There must be a large number of the lizard- men-a war party-that even now could be encircling the Kagonesti village.
Ashtaway lowered the deer to the ground and shrugged his bow off his shoulder in one smooth, soundless gesture. Nocking an arrow, he resumed his advance as soundlessly as before. Still he moved with fluid grace, but the sinew of his muscle rippled through his skin, as taut as his bowstring. Even as he took each step with precise care, his eyes flashed constantly to the left and right. His nostrils twitched, desperately sampling the air for further information about the menace.
He moved along the gradually descending floor of a narrow valley, with two hilltops rolling irregularly to the left and right. Less than two miles ahead the valley emptied into a lush vallenwood grove along the shore of a pristine lake-the site of Ashtaway's village for the last century. Since the lingering stench was carried only by the air-there was no spoor of the bakali on the trail or underbrush-the Kagonesti suspected that the lizardmen had crept into the valley at some point ahead of him.
The tribe always kept a warrior on lookout in these hills, but they had never been menaced by attack here before, so the sentry duty tended to be casual. Still, if the elven warrior-whoever he might be on this day-happened to be alert, there was a good chance that the village could be warned.
Ashtaway tensed, instinctively drawing back the bow as another alarming scent came to him. His nostrils sampled the air, found the fresh smell of blood-elven blood.
In another dozen steps the wild elf made a gruesome discovery. Though the corpse's scalp had been torn away and the body horribly mutilated-by talon and fang, it looked like-he recognized his tribemate Warrican. The youngster had earned his first tattoos just the previous winter and took his duties as a warrior very seriously. Yet he had not been prepared for the stealth, the savagery, of the bakali.
And now there was none to warn the village of danger.
Running again, Ashtaway risked minimal noise as he raced along the winding trail. Still he probed the surroundings, wondering if the bakali might have left a sentry to watch their rear. At least Ash could hear no sounds of disturbance-and if the attack had begun, he would certainly have heard it from here.
The stink of the lizardmen grew stronger, and finally the Kagonesti warrior turned from the valley floor, gliding smoothly between the trees of the forested hillside, climbing toward the rounded crest. He darted from tree to tree, staying low, seeking those frequent vantages where curves in the hilltop gave him a look at the valley below.
The lake came into sight, immaculate, blue, sparkling like millions of gemstones in the sunlight. The lofty val- lenwoods screened his view of the near shore, but then the featureless expanse of water swept away to a distant, tree-lined fringe.
Ash saw movement around the bases of the nearest trees. At the foot of the slope before him, scaly humanoid shapes slipped through the shadows under the leafy canopy. The lizardmen crept forward, intent on the lodges that stood, still unseen, within the grove. Greenish brown, the monsters blended well with the underbrush. They crept on all fours into an expanding arc around the Kagonesti settlement. The bakali bore crude weapons of stone and bronze, but each of the brutes was much larger than an elf, and was naturally armed with powerful, fang- studded jaws and nimble forepaws tipped with sharp, hooked talons.
Pressing forward, over the rim of the hill, Ashtaway suddenly came upon three bakali crouched in a dip on the descending slope. One of the lizardmen was bedecked in feathers and bore a stout staff topped with a crystal totem in the image of a grotesque beast. The wild elf guessed immediately that this was the chief. The two other lizardmen were garbed as typical warriors, belts of skin supporting loops for their weapons, decorated by one or two dangling osprey feathers. The two spearmen looked to each side while their leader examined the developing ambush below.
In the instant of discovery Ashtaway knelt and drew his bow to full tautness, aiming at the base of the bakali chieftain's neck. One of the bodyguards turned his snakelike face upward, spotted the elf, and hissed a warning- but not before the Kagonesti had released his missile.
The shaft flew straight, the steel arrowhead plunging through the gristly mane of the hulking lizardman, razor- edges cutting the creature's throat before it even knew that it had been shot. As his first target fell, Ashtaway drew another arrow. He shot one bodyguard through the heart, dispatching the second immediately afterward.
Only then did Ashtaway throw back his head and utter the alarm-the sharp, keening cry of the hunting eagle, repeated three times. Several voices rose from the village in answering cries: the warning had been received.
The bakali ambushers below whirled toward the hilltop, their attention drawn by the sudden sounds. Ashtaway stood there in full view, and when he had the attention of the lizardmen, he raised his arms over his head, shook his bow and arrows, and whooped jeeringly.
Many of the brutish reptiles charged the lone warrior, while others vanished into the vallenwood trunks, grunting and barking aggressively. Ashtaway heard screams from the village, but the sounds of clashing metal weapons were also audible and he knew that the Kagonesti had not been taken completely by surprise.
But now he was faced with immediate problems of his own. Ashtaway had a dozen arrows left, and twice that many lizardmen rushed toward him, leaping and springing over the ground with shocking speed. Catlike, racing on all fours, a few of the bakali scampered ahead of their fellows up the steep hillside.
Slowing his breathing to the rhythmic pace of perfect concentration, Ashtaway drew back another arrow and let fly, dropping the leading lizardman with a clean shot to the neck. He shot again and again, each missile claiming another one of the attackers-and by always killing the one closest to him, he gained the time to shoot until his feathered shafts were all expended.
Throwing down his bow-he would return to get it later if he was still alive-Ashtaway pulled the long- hafted axe from his belt and raised the gleaming, steel- headed weapon over his head. Though the shaft had been made by Ash himself, Iydaway had told him that the axe head was a venerable artifact. The Pathfinder claimed that the
