Mathi backed away. More nomads circled through the trees, whooping and shouting. Some kender had taken to the trees and were pelting the riders with whatever they had-sticks, stones, found objects precious and paltry. Mathi heard the characteristic whistle of a hoopak winding up and a solid
Slowly, the tempo of the battle changed. The initial charge by the nomads had taken the kender by surprise. They scattered, and the humans chased them, killing many at first, then reverting to harrying the little people out of sheer contempt. Many kender fled, but others stood their ground. The appearance of the elves confused the humans further. Soon it was the nomads who were milling around, unsure what to do or where to go.
A high-pitched shrieking, like a whistle being blown in a frenzy, echoed through the woods. More shrill whistles split the air, all around the raiders. They closed into a compact group. Many changed their spears for swords.
Advancing at a walk through the trees came Balif and Lofotan on horseback, leading a large, ragged band of kender. The Longwalker was at their head, blowing a clay pipe. Unseen among the grand trunks more whistles answered. The enemy was surrounded.
Seeing an enemy they knew-the elves on horseback-the raiders broke ranks and charged. From three sides they were scourged by hoopak stones, kender-sized arrows, and thrown missiles. Protected by thick furs and occasional bits of armor, the nomads tried to shrug off the bombardment, but their mounts were unwilling to face such torment. The charge lost momentum and played out ten yards from where Balif sat, hands folded on his saddle pommel.
“Wanderfolk, now’s the time! Show them what you are made of!” he cried.
Swarms of kender, rounded up by the advancing elves and their chief, filled the gaps between the trees. Brandishing sticks, tools, and even an occasional bladed weapon, they shouted defiance at their attackers. Backed against a tree, Mathi heard frightful taunts from the kender. Every branch of the nomads’ family tree was smeared as dirty lice; lying, cheating vermin; eaters of filth and cowards of the basest sort. Mathi had never heard such ferocious taunting, all shouted at top volume. A thousand furious wanderfolk shouting ingenious invective at the same time was a fearsome spectacle. Compared to the torrent of abuse they hurled, their hoopaks were toys.
The nomad raiders, for their part, were white with outrage or red-faced with fury. Smacking their reluctant animals with the flats of their swords, they moved toward the kender-and the little people did not give way. For the first time since coming to the eastern land, kender stood up to their foes. In the center of the line Balif watched the humans calmly. When the gap shrank to six yards he drew his noble sword and raised it high in a warrior’s salute. Seeing this, Mathi had a sudden premonition.
He means to die! she thought. He’s going to let the humans kill him to inspire the kender and escape his curse!
Moved by feelings beyond her control, Mathi stepped away from the safety of the tree. She reversed her grip on her spear and started toward Balif, breaking into a run.
She reached the rear of the mob of defiant kender and pushed her way through. It was not easy. The little people were excited. They pushed back.
“General! My lord, wait!” she called desperately.
At no more than a walking pace the two lines collided. The kender on foot gave way to the big horses bearing down on them-gave a little, then stopped. Like ants the kender swarmed over the nomads’ horses and climbed up the men’s legs, grabbing, hitting, sometimes biting.
Balif and Lofotan fought with more decorum. They traded sword cuts with warriors in the front ranks. The press behind and on both sides kept the other humans from doubling on the elves. Down went Balif’s first foe, lost among the stamping hooves. Down went Lofotan’s, minus his sword arm.
To the credit of their courage, Bulnac’s raiders held on despite the bizarre nature of the fight. Given an equal or greater number of humans or elves to combat, they would have fought on in their usual brutal way, but beset by kender they didn’t know what to do. The little folk weren’t supposed to fight back! Such a thing had never happened before. Now stalwart warriors were toppling from steeds thickly coated with yelling kender. This was not warrior’s work. At best they could break off the fight and ride away.
By the time the sun’s rays were slanting through the few gaps in the canopy overhead, the battle was over. Mathi never got within ten feet of Balif. The general survived unscathed.
She stopped dead, depleted and stunned. Why did she care what happened to the Betrayer anyway? She ought to want to shove Balif into the nomads’ fury, not rush headlong to his aid. Mathi realized then what had happened. She knew Balif. He was no longer the anonymous, high-born Silvanesti she was taught to hate. He was flesh and blood, heart and soul, and she admired him. She could not have been more appalled at her sudden new understanding.
Many kender chased the nomads, hurling insults at them as long as they were in earshot. Stung by the taunts, a few peeled off to chastise their tiny tormentors. They killed many unwary kender, who had been carried away with the unexpected victory, but other riders were brought down by the enraged wanderfolk.
Nomad war chiefs blew ram’s horns to recall their unruly warriors. The last mortified riders disappeared into the dust and drifting bands of smoke.
The kender reacted oddly to their small victory. Mathi expected they might cheer, or else wilt with delayed terror, but they did neither. Mostly they vanished. A thousand kender scattered through the trees, abruptly making themselves scarce. All that remained behind were the dead and wounded-and the elves.
Mathi hailed Balif. “My lord, we won!”
“We survived, at any rate,” Lofotan said.
“Survival, my dear captain, is the first prerequisite of victory.”
Balif was amazingly at ease. The carnage and violence of the morning did not compare to the great battles he had led, but bloodshed is bloodshed, and Balif was unfazed by it all. Mathi trembled in every part of her body. Though the morning was mild, she was drenched in sweat. Only when the battle was over did she realize how terribly thirsty she was.
Treskan appeared from the copse where they had been camped. He was battered and bloodied from a dozen small cuts on his face and hands. Mathi was sympathetic, but Lofotan maintained that the scribe had inflicted the wounds himself with his unskillful use of his sword. Nevertheless Mathi sat him down and began to dab his cuts with a rag wetted with cold spring water.
“What happened?” she asked. “When did the nomads attack?”
“Just after dawn. They rode in quietly, swords sheathed and got amongst the wanderfolk before raising a battle cry.” Balif accepted a clay cup from his loyal retainer. He took a spare sip. “They were not some random scouting party. They knew we were here.” Did he remember seeing Mathi return last night? If he did, he did not mention it.
The lump in Mathi’s throat grew harder to swallow. It was easy to imagine the truth. Irate at losing his personal treasure, Vollman had tracked Mathi and Treskan. He probably brought some friends along to help waylay the portly gambler and his silent friend. They made no attempt to hide their tracks. The nomads must have been surprised when their quarry left camp. Anyone could have tracked them back to the kender’s camp.
She found herself studying Balif. His features were subtly different from just a few days ago. His hair was darker, and there were shadows everywhere his clothing ended.
“They will be back,” Balif said. “Sooner than later. A commander like this Bulnac won’t take being repulsed by wanderfolk very well.”
“Do you know this Bulnac?”
“Never put my eyes upon him.” Balif drained the cup. “But I know him. He leads by strength. He can’t accept even a single defeat, or his hold over his followers is broken. He will return, probably with his entire force.”
“What do we do?” asked Lofotan.
“The woods are untenable. I had hoped they would provide some cover, but they are too open. We need a better defensive position.”
They had brought from Silvanost a number of maps drawn by the best cartographers in Silvanos’s realm. They weren’t much help. The land east of the Tanjan river was poorly explored. Many gaps blotted the charts.
“This river here; is it named?” Balif indicated the short watercourse east of the forest. Two branches of the
