ultimate goal easier. She would leave word along the trail for her brethren that one of the warrior elves had left the party. That being the case, the chance to complete Mathi’s mission-the abduction of General Balif-might come sooner than later.
They waited until Lofotan was out of sight. The general turned his horse around and said, “Now onward.” Hardly was it said when Artyrith pulled up short, staring hard down the western end of the dusty track.
“Trouble,” he said.
“Move,” said Balif. “Now.”
They got off the road. Artyrith found a small hollow concealed by tall grass. He and Balif dismounted and began tugging their mounts’ halters, forcing the horses down on their bellies in the grass. Mathi started on the pack animals once her horse was down. Soon only Treskan and his pony remained.
“Get out of sight, scribbler!” the cook exclaimed. “Can’t you hear them coming?”
Not having the senses of an elf, Treskan couldn’t. He swung down and stood back as Artyrith got his pony to kneel in the hollow. Balif was watching the horizon. Mathi could see and hear nothing but the wind.
“How many, do you reckon?” asked the cook.
“More than forty but less than a hundred.”
Artyrith cursed a bit and crouched in the grass between his pony and Mathi’s. He drew his sword and laid it pommel first between his feet. From his pony’s saddle, he yanked out his bow stave, which he proceeded to brace while sitting, a feat Mathi would have said was impossible. Only Balif remained standing. The wind tugged at his yellow hair and whipped his cloak behind him like a flag.
When Mathi finally heard hoofbeats, Balif dropped silently into the weeds. They huddled there, still as could be. Even the horses sensed danger and stayed quiet.
The riders came into view. Mathi didn’t count them, but there probably were about fifty of them, humans clad in uncouth furs and leather despite the summer heat. Their hair was worn long, in every color known in the human race. The only way to tell the males from the females was by the heavy beards the men wore. Most of them carried long spears and an assortment of armament strapped to their bodies or their horses. Too numerous to be scouts, they had to be a raiding party, detached from a much larger band a day or so behind them.
They were noisy. Mathi was chagrined that she hadn’t heard them sooner. They talked loudly as they waved their weapons around, and their horses jingled and pranced. It was soon clear the humans weren’t just being clumsy or foolish. They were escorting an unruly band of prisoners.
Near the rear of the party, a cloud of dust obscured a few of the figures on foot and lying in the dirt. The riders shouted abuse at them and prodded them with their spears, but the procession had come to halt and would not get going again. A useful gust wiped the dust away, and the hidden elves saw whom the nomads had captured.
They were little men like Rufe. The three of them had dark hair pulled back in ponytails; prominent noses; and tattered, dusty clothes. They looked enough like Rufe to be his siblings.
“On your feet. Up! Up!” a black-bearded man was shouting. He waved his spear sideways, indicating the east. “Get up and move, or we’ll slaughter you where you lie!”
The little man said something Mathi couldn’t hear. Whatever it was it made Black Beard furious. He lowered his spear and jabbed it into the nearest one. The little man flung gouts of dust from his hands, rolled over, and lay still. Mathi heard chains clatter. She looked to Balif. The elf was watching intently, as silent and unmoving as stone.
“One dead! Do the rest of you want this too?” The man shook the bloody spear point under their noses.
One of the little people stood up. He or she-it was impossible to tell at that distance-bowed mockingly, uttered an unheard retort, and hit Black Beard in the face with a stone he had concealed in his small hand. With a roar of fury, the man spurred his horse and impaled the little man, lifting him clear off his feet. The victim clung to the spear shaft, and the raging nomad had to drop his weapon. Amazingly, the spitted little man stood up, thumbed his nose at his murderer, then toppled lifeless into the grass beside the road.
Mathi was horrified. She knew the nomads were savage, but she’d never witnessed such barbarity. Outnumbered by forty armed humans, nevertheless she looked to Balif for an answer. The elf’s face was white and set like marble.
There was a yell behind Mathi. Alarmed, she spun around and saw the wrapped bundle tied to one of the packhorses burst open. Out burst Rufus Reindeer Racket Wrinklecap, evidently stowed away ever since leaving Free Winds. He had long knives in either hand. Waving them and shouting incoherently, he charged the human host.
Mathi heard Artyrith utter a single pithy expletive. The cook straightened his back, drew his nocked arrow, and let fly. Black Beard got the shaft through his neck and toppled lifeless from his horse.
The nomads milled around for an instant, confused by the sudden turn of events. Wildly screeching, Rufe ran at the last captive little man, not the humans. Some of them spotted Artyrith in the grass and pointed at him with swords and spears. The cook coolly placed a second arrow in the chest of a burly warrior on the opposite side of the group. Nearer nomads didn’t notice and thumped spurless heels against their horses’ flanks to get them going. Half a dozen rode at Artyrith. When they were broadside to Balif, the general popped up out of the grass and shot the last human in the charging pack. Artyrith got the second rearmost, and Balif the next until a single nomad armed with an inadequate sword was charging Artyrith alone. The cook got on his horse and snatched at the reins to make it stand. He dodged the man’s clumsy thrust-the human’s straight blade was not designed for mounted fighting-and put an oak shaft in his ribs so deep that the fletching was buried by the nomad’s fur vest.
Balif stayed on his feet, picking off the thoroughly confused nomads. Ten of them were down, and the humans had no idea how many more deadly archers there might be in the grass. They broke. Wheeling their horses around, they rode hard back the way they came, leaving their dead and wounded behind.
Mathi got up, shaking. Artyrith stood guard from the edge of the road while Balif and the scribe went to Rufe. He was standing over the last captive, knives outthrust in both hands. His eyes were shut tight.
The shackled little man tugged Rufe’s jerkin. Dolanath’s bane cracked on eye.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hello,” said Balif calmly. To Mathi he said, “Do you know this person?”
Mathi admitted they had met before. “I didn’t know he was with us,” she said lamely.
Artyrith came trotting up. “You could have gotten us all killed!”
“Coulda but didn’t. Why cry for bread you didn’t bake?” said Rufe. He tucked away his wicked-looking knives and picked up one of the prisoner’s manacles.
“Riveted,” he said. “Can’t pick a lock where there ain’t one.”
“Never you mind.”
The captive grasped his own hand over the knuckles and bore down, grunting. Mathi watched him squeeze his bound hand until it was small enough to slip through the bronze ring. So that’s how little men were able to escape bonds so easily! She wondered if she was the first outsider to see it done.
“Thanks, brother,” said the little man. He stood up. Slightly taller than his savior, his hair was lighter too, more golden, though caked with dirt. His nose, though prominent, was less of a weather vane than Rufe’s. By little-man standards, he must have been considered rather handsome.
“What goes on here?” asked Balif.
“I’m the Longwalker,” said the little man. He held out his hand in human fashion. Balif knew the custom and shook the little man’s grubby hand.
“What’s a Longwalker?” asked Treskan.
“He’s a high and mighty fellow,” said Rufe. “The leader of his people.”
“You mean a chief?” Balif said.
Rufe nodded then shook his head. “Yes. No. The Longwalker leads the way for his people on the march. He makes the trail the others can follow. But he’s not a king.”
Balif and Artyrith cocked their heads in unison. “More horsemen coming this way. We’d better be gone.” Balif agreed. He offered his hand to the Longwalker, who grabbed hold and climbed on in front of the elf. Mathi did the same for Rufe, and together they faded into the grass. Artyrith and the scribe went ahead while Balif brought up the rear. As his horse walked single-file behind the pack ponies, Balif faced backward and leaned down over his horse’s rump. He brushed up the stalks of grass behind them, sometimes weaving the tips together with deft
