arrived. At first they were simply making holes to hide in, but as the number of holes multiplied, someone suggested linking them with tunnels. They knew they had neither the time nor materials to fortify the hill in the usual way, so they reverted to kender tactics-doing what no one else thought of.
“Whose idea was it to make tunnels?” Mathi asked. “Rufus.”
A hand plucked at Mathi’s sleeve. “How are you, boss?” Mathi’s knees failed her at that point. She sat down before she fell down.
“Fantastic!” she said trembling. She gathered the astonished kender into her arms and embraced him like a brother.
“Uh, boss? You’re crushing me.”
Mathi thrust the little man out at arms’ length. “What do I owe you for my deliverance?” she said happily.
“Nothing. This one was on me.”
The short celebration was over when word came up the hill that strong parties of humans were in the woods, many on horseback. In short order the kender came piling back, popped back in their holes, and pulled their lids shut behind them. As miraculous as their sudden appearance had been, their disappearance was equally astonishing.
The Longwalker remained above ground with a contingent of thirty-odd followers. They formed up in a bunch behind Lofotan and Mathi. The centaurs spread out in front, bows ready.
A line of mounted men filtered slowly out of the trees. Sunlight sparkled on their upraised spear points.
“Steady,” Lofotan said. “Remember, most warriors die while running away, not when they stand fast.”
“Depends on how fast you can run,” replied the Longwalker.
A small group detached from the line of horsemen and trotted up the hill. Mathi counted six riders. It looked like a parley, and he said as much to Lofotan.
“Hold those arrows,” the elf told the centaurs.
Drawing closer, Mathi recognized the massive nomad leader Bulnac. His horse was enormous too, with great shaggy hooves and a back as broad as a banquet table. Arrayed behind him were his lieutenants, decked out in typical savage finery with feathers, beads, shells, and the odd bit of metal here and there.
Bulnac came straight at the center of the line of stakes, and stopped there, waiting.
“I guess we’d best meet him,” Lofotan said.
“Who goes with you?” Mathi asked.
“All of you. This concerns everyone.”
The motley knot of centaurs, kender, elf and disguised elves went to meet the nomad chief. Bulnac did not dismount when they approached. He sat high atop his monstrous horse, looking down his flat nose at the strange delegation facing him with a fence of sharpened stakes arrayed between him and then.
“Who commands here?”
“I do,” said Lofotan. “The Longwalker leads his own people, and Zakki is chief of our friends, the centaurs.”
“Ah, I heard there were horse-men on this hilltop. Did you not learn your lesson before? This time there will be no survivors.”
“You haven’t won yet,” Lofotan replied dryly. “What do want? Or did you come all this way to boast us to death?”
The chief’s wide white smiled vanished. “You have too long been a thorn in my flesh, elder one. You and those cockroaches,” he sneered at the assembled kender. “I came to tell you not to expect any quarter if there is any further resistance to my taking over this land.” He looked past the defenders, noticing the commanding view from the bluff. “This will make a fine place to build my stronghold.” He smiled again very unpleasantly. “After you are gone.”
“There’s an old saying among my people,” the Longwalker said. “‘Birds on the wing lay very few eggs.’”
Bulnac curled a lip. “My steed shall tread on your faces,” he vowed, “unless you abandon the hill now. March away and I will not molest you. That is Bulnac’s mercy, and it is the most you can expect from me.”
The centaurs’ bows creaked as they nervously tugged at them. Bulnac heard the sound and laughed. “You have your choice: sure slaughter at the hands of my warriors, or return to the land that bore you.”
He reined around. His minions drew well back, making room for their large leader.
“You have until the shadow changes right to left.” He pointed to the shadow lines cast by the stakes. From Bulnac’s perspective the morning sun cast their shadows to his right. By the time the sun passed overhead and started down in the west, the stakes’ shadows would switch to the other side. That would take about three to four hours.
“Away!”
Bulnac galloped down the hill with his men close behind. The defenders of Balif’s redoubt watched them go, each one pondering the choice they had to make.
CHAPTER 18
Rufe led everyone to the opposite side of the hill, not far from the edge of the bluff overlooking the river. He went unerringly to a spot by a scraggly cedar tree, dug his fingers in the dirt, and opened a hidden trapdoor.
Lofotan and Mathi squatted by the hole. It smelled damp.
“This runs down to the river bank?” asked the elf.
“Dug it myself,” Rufe vowed.
“Can we fit in there?”
Mathi squinted at the narrow hole. It looked possible, but it was not an experience she really desired.
“Doesn’t matter,” Lofotan said, standing. “Zakki and his kind can’t possibly get through such a small tunnel. We can’t abandon them.”
They had been discussing what to do about Bulnac’s ultimatum. The mass of nomad horsemen remained at the tree line, waiting for the order to attack. No one believed the ruthless chieftain would really allow them to go. They had caused him too much trouble and deeply injured his pride. No one doubted that once they were out of their defenses, Bulnac’s men would slaughter them.
“We could jump,” Mathi mused, eyeing the river forty yards below. “If the water is deep enough-”
“This much,” Rufe replied, holding a hand a few inches over his head. Not nearly enough to break a fall from so high a place as the cliff.
“Then we shall die together, fighting as honorable warriors!” Zakki declared. Lofotan seemed resigned to just that fate. Treskan fondled his talisman and said little about fighting or fleeing.
“Whatever happens, let your people disperse,” the elf told the Longwalker. “No sense getting them all killed. Live to fight another day, you understand?”
“That is what we do, noble captain,” the kender said. He was remarkably calm about the danger hanging over them. It was probably because he had a foolproof exit already worked out, Mathi privately decided.
They returned to the summit of the hill as the sun reached its zenith. Two hours remained. Mathi broke out the last of Artyrith’s nectar, giving each defender his own bottle. Lofotan questioned the wisdom of that, but the centaurs broke off the bottles’ necks and guzzled the amber nectar happily. Treskan drank more decorously, but he plainly didn’t care if the nomads found him drunk or sober. Still disliking drink, only Mathi abstained.
The bottles were almost drained when there was a commotion down at the trees. Everyone went to the stakes and shaded their eyes to see what caused the disturbance. Four riders struggled out of the woods through the lines of horsemen already on watch. There was something on the ground between, something dark that rolled and lunged against the riders’ ropes. It didn’t take the defenders long to realize what it was.
The nomads had captured Balif.
They made their way up the hill, stopping frequently to maintain control of their furious captive. Ten yards from the stakes one of the nomads called out, “Elf! Elf, are you listening?”
