river joined and flowed south into a small bay.
“It is not,” Mathi said, scrutinizing the gazeteer on the back of the chart.
“Call it the Wanderfolk River.” In Elvish it was
The triangle of land between the branches of the newly-named was shown to be wooded on the chart.
“There is our refuge,” Balif said. “We shall make for it at once.”
He turned his horse around. Lofotan, frowning, spoke up.
“My lord, what about the wanderfolk? They seem to have abandoned us.”
Balif had a brash, winning countenance when he smiled. “Rest assured that the Longwalker and his people will find their way there. Who knows? They may get there ahead of us.”
As they spoke, small groups of kender came into view, carrying off the dead and tending the wounded. Strange how their actions never looked organized, yet they accomplished what they needed to do in short order.
There were humans among the dead and wounded too. Balif rode up to one warrior beset on all sides by several kender. He had a black eye, and his right arm hung uselessly at his side, covered in blood. His horse had thrown him, and the kender had him cornered.
“Elder lord!” the man grunted, swinging his leather scabbard at a kender who was fondling his boots. “Pray give me quarter, noble sir! I am besieged.”
Balif came closer, which made the kender fade into the trees. Gasping for breath, the wounded man propped his back against a tree and sighed.
“I yield to you, elder lord,” the man said desperately. “Only save me from those little vultures!”
“You were keen enough to hunt and harry them before,” Balif replied coldly.
“Orders, lord. Our chief told us to drive the small ones from the land so that we could claim it as our own.”
“Your chief is called Bulnac?”
The wounded man blinked through the sweat and grime streaking his face. “You know our great chief?”
“His name has reached my ears.”
Balif ordered the nomad searched. If Lofotan found any elven artifacts on him, he would die on the spot. Bulnac’s raiders had an ugly reputation as plunderers.
Lofotan groped through the man’s tunic and vest. He found little but a few trinkets of chain.
“How is his wound?”
Lofotan had seen many a sword cut in his day. He knew more about them than most healers. Probing the man’s arm he announced no main vessels were cut. The man might die of blood poisoning if not treated, but he wouldn’t bleed to death.
To Treskan, Balif said, “Find a horse.”
It took some doing, but he found a nomad horse walking aimlessly a hundred yards away. Catching the animal by its bridle, he led it back to the general.
“On the horse,” Balif said. “Go to your chief and give him my words: he is to take his warband out of this province, back across to the west bank of the Thon-Tanjan. This land belongs to the Speaker of the Stars, Silvanos Golden-Eye, and to his heirs. We will not tolerate his warband on our soil.”
Suffering but defiant, the wounded warrior took the reins from Treskan.
“Who are you that you order my chief around like a slave?”
“I am Balif Thraxenath, Chosen Chief of House Protector, First Warrior of the Great Speaker and general of all his host. I am the son of Arnas Thraxenath, of the Greenrunners clan. I am known as Balif, loyal servant of the Great Speaker of the Stars.”
His was a name that was well known to the nomads. The wounded man stood by the horse Mathi had rounded up for him, awestruck.
“You are
“None other. Go, and bear my words to your chief.”
Unaided, the warrior struggled onto his mount. “If I die, my children shall know I crossed swords with Balif, first among warriors! I thank you for my life, noble lord!”
Weaving a bit, he rode away. Lofotan got back on his animal and said, “Was it wise to tell the humans who you are?”
“What good is it having a reputation if you can’t use it to intimidate your enemies?” said Balif.
“Suppose Bulnac isn’t intimidated? Suppose he comes roaring back here in full strength, just to say he defeated and slew the great Balif?” To this the general had no answer but a wry smile.
Mathi, Treskan, and Lofotan loaded the packhorses. By the time they were done the forest had been picked clean. The only traces of the morning’s furious fight were scarred patches on tree trunks, and a few spots of churned up earth. What became of the dead from both sides Mathi could not guess.
Balif and his party rode off through the woods. Three times before noon they had to hide while nomad patrols galloped past. On the last occasion it looked as if they would be found. A party of nomads entered the forest and searched carefully, probing every gully and leaf pile with their spears. From the small spots and low angles they searched, it appeared that they were after kender rather than elves. Balif kept behind a screen of closely growing myrtles, sword in hand. Armed nomads rode within six yards but passed on, summoned by horn blasts further away.
After that they witnessed an extraordinary scene. A party of forty or more kender chased five humans on horseback out of the woods. In addition to hoopaks the wanderfolk had an assortment of weapons gleaned from the morning’s battle. How they reached this spot ahead of the mounted elves was a mystery, but they screamed, whistled, shouted, and pelted the nomads out of the woods and onto the plain. Once on open ground the nomads tried to regroup and charge the little people, but their horses could not bear the barrage of stones and noise. Confused and no doubt embarrassed, the humans departed.
Mathi felt no pity for the nomads. Their brutal treatment of the kender was deplorable, but now that the little folk were aroused-and had discovered they enjoyed tormenting their tormentors-the nomads were in for unimaginable frustration. The nomads deserved their comeuppance.
At twilight they left the forest to cross open country to the newly named Thon-Haddaras. Their map was unclear of the exact distance to the river. Much of the survey had been done from the sky, by griffon riders, who were notoriously inaccurate at judging distances on the ground from a height. Balif was willing to travel all night if necessary to reach the Thon-Haddaras as soon as possible.
“All night?” asked Lofotan. “Does my lord mean that?”
Riding slowly through the high grass, Balif said, “It will not be a problem.”
Lofotan pulled a coil of chain from his saddlebag. The clinking sound made Balif rein up. He turned his horse sharply right, blocking Lofotan’s path.
“Do you doubt my word?” he said. Neither the captain, the girl, nor the scribe answered. Fists tight on his reins, the general snapped, “I will not be chained like a beast again! I am in control of myself. Is that clear?”
Cold as ice, Lofotan replied, “Perfectly, my lord.”
With a final glare Balif resumed riding. Lofotan held his place until his commander was half a hundred yards ahead. With a soft thump of his heels he started his mount forward. Mathi kept beside him with the pack train trailing behind.
“We shall not sleep tonight,” the old warrior said quietly.
“Do you think he will transform?”
“He already has. The question is, how much?”
Personally, Mathi thought it was perfectly reasonable of Balif to resent being shackled when the threat of nomad attack was so high.
Night came on clear and bright with stars. The crescent red moon rose like a bloody smile in the sky, lighting the dry, waving grass with a strange pinkish light. They heard something they hadn’t heard on their travels so far: the howl of a wolf. Savannah wolves had long been driven out of Silvanesti proper. They were common in the mountains, but so far the elves had not encountered any on their journey. Crossing the plain they now heard half a dozen different calls, indication of a sizable pack.
