was startled to see that his eye was yellow-green, with a vertical slit pupil like a cat’s.
“Why should I rejoice?” he rasped.
“You have just founded a new nation.”
“No.” He shuddered. “I shed blood. This one will found a nation.”
So saying, he let go of the Longwalker’s shoulder and collapsed. Treskan rushed over. Balif lay on his side, twitching uncontrollably. The centaurs and most of the kender were coming.
Mathi grasped the Longwalker by his vest. “Keep them away,” she whispered. “Don’t let them see him like this!”
Serius Bagfull nodded and went to intercept the jubilant defenders. He spread his arms wide and declaimed about the new day, how it was the dawn of a new nation for their people. Listening with half an ear, Treskan pronounced the Longwalker a true politician. The kender leader knew what to say and when to say it.
Mathi spread a cloak over Balif. The general was trembling as though with fever; the corners of his eyes and his lips were stained with a strange black liquid. She feared for Balif’s life. Was he dying? If so, there was nothing Mathi could do about it.
Horns blared in the woods far down the slope. Fearing a return of the nomads, the kender panicked and fled to far end of the bluff. Zakki and his comrades, reduced to just five, fought to escape the flood of little people bearing them away from the line of stakes.
Mathi rose, looking for Lofotan. The valiant old warrior had made himself scarce when Balif appeared. Alerted by the horns, he had joined the centaurs with bow in hand. His last sheaf of arrows lay at his feet.
The clash of arms reached up from the trees. No one understood. Were the nomads fighting each other? It was possible. Humans were by nature very fractious, and nomads in particular were always ready to fight each other if no other enemy was available.
The horns sounded again, louder and closer. Lofotan stiffened. He lowered his bow.
“Those are brass horns,” he said, puzzled. Nomads used rams’ horns
The truth dawned. Treskan spoke for all when he cried, “Silvanesti!”
They could make out nothing from the hilltop. A great thrashing and crashing filled the woods, punctuated by shouts and the clang of metal. Zakki wanted to run down the hill and see what was going on, but Lofotan restrained him. If there were elves below, they might not know that the centaurs were allies.
Mathi had no such worries. She vaulted through the line of stakes and sprinted down the bloody hill. Lofotan called to her, but she waved the elf’s words away and kept going. The hillside was a maelstrom of kender pits, slain horses and men, lost arms and spent arrows. Near the bottom, by the spot where they had cut so many saplings, she paused.
Riders in bright bronze armor rode through the trees trading blows with nomad warriors. There were a lot of them, at least as many as the humans, and they steadily drove Bulnac’s men back. Mathi heard a peculiar roar overhead. A shadow passed over her. She looked up and saw griffons in the sky, wheeling and diving. There was no doubt who the newcomers were. Only Silvanesti rode griffons.
The thick green woods screened the nomads from aerial assault, but the sight and smell of griffons terrified their horses. They pitched their riders and bolted, half-mad to escape their ancestral enemies. With that, the third and last battle of the day was over.
The horse-riding elves pursued the fleeing foe, but the griffon riders circled back to the summit and landed. Mathi mopped sweat from her face and went up the hill to meet them.
They were splendid figures, the griffon riders. Chosen for their dexterity, grace, and slimness, they were the most elegant warriors Mathi had ever seen. Unlike cavalry or foot soldiers, they wore armor only on their lower limbs, a helmet, and close-fitting cream-colored silk garments with gold or scarlet sashes. Their weapons were very long, slender lances made of some translucent material-glass, or rock crystal elongated by some secret technique of the elves.
The griffon riders remained mounted. As Mathi approached, the fierce creatures spread their wings and clawed the ground with their taloned forefeet. They knew instinctively that she was not what she appeared to be. Mathi halted well out of reach of the keen, cold-eyed griffons.
“Greetings!” she said. “Your arrival is most timely!”
The griffon riders did not answer. Their mounts screeched and bobbed their heads in a very distracted manner. The nearest rider, who had the tallest crest on his helmet, addressed Mathi. His voice was muffled by the nasal bar and wide cheek pieces of his headgear.
“Who are you, that our griffons regard you as an enemy?”
The smile melted on Mathi’s face.
“My name is-”
“Mathani Arborelinex. Yes, I know. But who are you?”
The Silvanesti knew her name? That was perplexing. Mathi explained that she had been in the wilderness many days, hobnobbing with centaurs, humans, and kender. No doubt they all rubbed off on her a bit.
The griffon rider unbuckled his chin strap and removed his helmet. A mass of blond hair emerged, and with a face she knew well.
“Mistravan Artyrith! How can it be you?”
Mathi congratulated the former cook. “You made it back to Silvanost?”
Artyrith perched his helmet on the pommel of his sky saddle. “I did. My report to the Speaker convinced him to send an expeditionary force. Even now we are driving the savages from the woodland below.”
More revelations followed. Artyrith had caught the Speaker’s favor with his dramatic return to Silvanost. News of the nomad incursion, along with the failure of Govenor Dolanath to protect the eastern province, resulted in Dolanath’s dismissal. Who was now governor of the east? Mistravan Artyrith, once more Lord Artyrith. Mathi didn’t know if she should laugh or weep.
The defenders of the hilltop came streaming down to meet the griffon riders. The Silvanesti remained aloof, not getting down or mingling with the centaurs or kender.
“Where is the general?” Artyrith asked. Kender braved the ferocious griffon and closed around him, patting the skittish beast and the rider’s legs with equal enthusiasm.
“The general is, well-”
“The general is dead.”
Lofotan was last down the hill. He was covered with cuts, bruises, and grime, but he walked proudly, gripping his well-used bow.
“What? Are you certain?” said Artyrith.
“He fought the chief of the nomads in single combat and won, but subsequently died of his wounds.”
No one present-not the Longwalker or his kender, Zakki, the remaining centaurs, Treskan, or Mathi contradicted Lofotan’s bold lie.
“I have orders from the Speaker himself to bring General Balif back to Silvanost,” Artyrith said, annoyed. “May I see the body?”
Lofotan nodded. He bid Lord Artyrith dismount and follow him. Lord Artyrith handed off his long lance to a flanking rider and got down. Admiring kender crowded around, but Artyrith’s severe expression convinced them to keep clear. Holding the edges of his cape, the new governor of the east parted through the crowd imperiously. Mathi fell in behind him. She was worried. What was Lofotan thinking? It was one thing to lie to the Speaker’s emissary, but what body could he possibly show Artyrith?
Elegant in his flying silks, Artyrith was still overshadowed by the taller, taciturn Lofotan. They faced each other for what seemed like a very long time until Artyrith cleared his throat and said, “Lead on, captain.”
Lofotan held out his arm. “This way, my lord.”
Oh the irony of the last two words! Treskan and Mathi exchanged knowing glances. Did Artyrith relish them, or was he wise enough to sense the threat in Lofotan’s tone?
The elf led them over the battlefield, through the line of stakes to where Balif had fallen. Mathi’s cloak was where he left it. A lumpy shape lay covered, until a stray breeze lifted a corner. Mathi saw nothing but a pile of dirt underneath. Where was the general?
Lofotan went on. He led Artyrith to the very summit of the bluff overlooking the river. With one foot on the
