“My lord,” she said. “Who are you speaking to?”
“An old friend of yours.”
In one bound, a dark shape hurtled out of the shadows and landed in a crouch between Balif and Mathi. It was Taius, the former elf and present beast Mathi had met during her brief captivity in Bulnac’s camp.
“She heard us. Let me kill her. I can do it quietly. No one will hear,” Taius vowed.
Mathi tensed to fight or flee. She searched for a sign of understanding in Balif’s savage eyes. She saw none but the accursed general replied, “No. Harm her not. She will be my mouthpiece to the world.”
“She is one of the brethren!” Taius had chosen sides, and he was not on Mathi’s.
“Brethren? You mean half-breed. She is half-human.”
Taius stood with his back bent, so his head was lower than Mathi’s. “Smell again, mighty one. Her skin smells of fur and night. She is a creature of the forest, like I was.”
Again the relentless beast eyes of Balif raked over her. “Is this true?”
She saw no reason to deny it any longer. “Yes, my lord. I am child of the Creator you betrayed.”
“Betrayed?”
Her heart was beating hard against her breastbone. “Yes, betrayed. You gave our maker over to the persecutors, those who slew and imprisoned us, his children!’
“I obeyed the orders of my sovereign.”
Mathi sneered, “That is the excuse of slave masters the world over.”
His chains jangled ominously. Though she was glad her secret was out-relieving so much tension in her-she truly feared what might happen if an aroused Balif escaped his bonds.
“The judgment of the Speaker was not just,” Balif said. “But I could not alter it.” His tone of voice had changed, softened. “I have known for a long time that you were not an elf. I thought you were one of those unhappy mixed breeds, like the scribe.” And yet, knowing Mathi was not who she claimed to be, Balif had chosen her to go on his mission. Why?
The bewitched general smiled, showing long canines. “Spies and assassins are better defended against when they are in view,” he said as though he had read her mind.
“A spy is a spy,” Taius snarled. “Let me kill her.” His voice had risen so high that Lofotan stirred on his pallet.
Balif gave him a withering glance. The beast-elf subsided.
“Where have you been?” asked Balif coolly. “You have been gone many hours.”
Mathi related her adventure with Rufe and Treskan in the nomad camp. She omitted all reference to the talisman, explaining her trip as a reconnaissance of the enemy camp.
“Reporting to your masters, more likely,” Taius said.
“Go away,” Balif told him. “We are done.”
Taius sprang away in one breathtaking bound. “Let me serve you,” he called back. “You were my commander. I am still your soldier.”
“Go away. I am not lost to the world yet, and I cannot fulfill my duty with you by my side.”
Rejected, Taius melted into the shadows. His voice drifted back.
“I serve you, my lord, until I die. I shall keep the beasts of the brethren off your trail!”
In a flicker of a moment, the half-beast was gone. A few moments later, Mathi heard a far-off snap of a tree branch high overhead, Taius’s gesture of farewell.
Mathi sidled away toward her bed. As arrow-straight as ever, Balif watched her with unnatural intensity. Why did he say no to Taius?
“Ask the question.”
“My lord?”
“Ask the question in your mind.”
“What did Taius want of you?”
Balif sank down on his side with a grace more feral than elflike. “He offered to free me from my fetters if I would allow him to serve me again.”
Taius was being hunted by magicians and trackers from Silvanost, as were all the few creatures of his kind who had escaped arrest. Joining Balif was one way to escape them perhaps.
“You let me stay and sent him packing?”
“I am not a beast. Not yet.” He coughed a little, shuddering. “You may go or stay as you choose. You are free. Your ancestry does not change that. The coils of this curse are close around me, but I am not lost yet. I will carry out the mission the Speaker gave me, defend the wanderfolk, and then … there are a few throws I still have to make.”
Mention of throws made Mathi think of Rufe and his skill at the nomad gambling game. Strange, but it seemed that Balif, the famed warrior of Silvanost, saw life in the same terms.
CHAPTER 15
Mathi dreamed of galloping horses, shouting, and the clash of blades. She tried to banish these unhappy thoughts, but they kept intruding on her rest. Then she got a sharp blow in the ribs. Instinctively she rolled into a ball and growled about being disturbed.
“Get up girl, or you’ll be sleeping forever!”
Even half asleep she knew Lofotan’s battlefield voice. She sat up, bleary-eyed, and saw people and animals darting to and fro among the trees. Smoke hung in the air. The sounds of her dream had been real.
Lofotan, sword in hand, was trying to seat a helmet on his head. He tossed a weapon-a spear-toward Mathi and shouted again for her to stand up or perish. Mathi wasn’t sure if he meant attackers would slay her, or Lofotan himself. Not desiring either, she scrambled to her feet.
“Defend yourself!”
Lofotan dashed away. Mathi shouted after him, “What’s going on?”
“The humans found us. I must get to the general!”
All around her the kender camp was disintegrating. Little people rushed in all directions, clutching blankets or other belongings. None seemed to have any weapons. Lofotan dodged between them, trying to reach Balif, who was still shackled to the tree root.
A shrill cry rent the air. Mathi turned and saw a trio of riders slashing through the widely spaced trees. They speared any kender within reach, then tiring of their sport, contented themselves with shouting and cursing the wanderfolk as they scattered. One of the men spotted Mathi.
“Ho!” he cried. “Here’s bigger game!”
He spurred at her. His spear was not a true lance. It lacked a handguard, Mathi noted with strange detachment. If he hits me with it, he won’t keep his grip …
Her detachment evaporated quickly. Lance or no, death was riding at her. She bolted, still clutching the spear Lofotan had tossed at her. Mathi knew she couldn’t outrun the nomad’s horse. Zigging and zagging, she ran around a stout tree and threw herself against the trunk. Laughing, her pursuer cantered past. Spying his prey behind him, the nomad wrenched his horse’s head around. At that moment a smooth round stone the size of a ripe plum hit the man on the cheek. It must have had considerable velocity, for the rider threw up his hands and fell sideways off his horse, landing heavily at Mathi’s feet.
She gaped at the fallen man. Someone shouted, “Finish him off!”
A kender twenty feet away held a stick and thong sling in his hand. A hoopak, she had heard them call it. He pointed at the fallen nomad.
“Stick him! What’s wrong with you?”
Mathi couldn’t do it, not standing over a helpless enemy like that. She kicked the man’s spear away and rolled him over. The sling ball had shattered his face. He was alive, but probably blinded by blood and bone fragments.
