Alliances

“The Speaker! The Speaker!” The cry went up from dozens of throats. Warriors and civilians alike ran after Gilthas. Rather than try to hamper his progress, they formed a double wall between him and the advancing nomads, with warriors on the outer face and civilians on the inner. As he moved, the walls moved with him. Elf warriors and Mikku riders collided, and a skirmish began. Tondoon warmasters mustered their men to join the attack on the pocket of elves walking from one square to another.

Gilthas reached the next defensive circle. Its near side opened to allow him to pass. Sheltered within, a tiny blond Silvanesti child regarded him with frank curiosity. “Where are you going, Speaker Pathfinder?” she asked.

He smiled. “I’m going home, little one. Will you come with me?”

The girl left the cover of a pile of baggage and came to him. Without hesitation, she took his hand.

He kept walking. Soon hundreds of elves had joined him, walking alongside and behind their Speaker. Nomads sallied in, hacking at the fringes of the moving crowd, but were driven off when the elves swarmed around them, attacking from all sides. Not even the best swordsman could defend against thirty or forty foes armed with farm tools and a great deal of determination. The elves were fighting not only for their own lives, but for the life of their Speaker. Fear for his safety outweighed fear for their own.

Gilthas gave his tiny companion over to her father and walked faster. Every strike of his heels against the stony ground shook his whole body. Every rapid breath burned in his chest like fire. But he smiled and waved jauntily at his astonished people. His route encompassed circle after circle, until the entire front half of the nation was in motion. Word was passed back to the rear. Not yet under attack, the remainder of the elves picked up their bundles and came on.

At the last circle, Gilthas found Wapah standing with sword bared in the midst of hostile and worried elves. The circle opened and Gilthas entered. He hailed the nomad. Wapah doffed his sun hat.

“Greetings to you, khan of the laddad. You bring your nation on your heels.”

“They only want a leader to show them the way, and I need a scout to show me. Will you enter the Valley of the Blue Sands?”

Wapah’s chin lifted. “If the Speaker so orders.”

He returned his weapon to its brass scabbard. Side by side, Speaker and nomad headed for the juniper grove. Mikku and Tondoon riders followed, not engaging but staying always within sight. Gilthas wondered what they were doing.

“Some stratagem of the Weyadan’s,” Wapah told him. “Beware, Khan-Speaker. My cousin is a shrewd woman.”

Beyond the gnarled junipers, the distant, blue-gray slopes of the Khalkist Mountains rose. These were the first real mountains the elves had seen since coming to Khur. The elves walked faster.

Wapah had ridden into the pass years earlier, although of course he’d not entered the valley proper. He explained the pass was like a funnel, narrow at the near end and wide at the valley end.

Gilthas pushed low-hanging juniper branches out of his way and stepped through to open air. Wapah emerged a few steps away. When human and elf beheld what awaited them, both stopped dead.

“Merciful E’li,” Gilthas whispered.

The bulk of the nomad army was arrayed in a vast semicircle a hundred yards away. Thirty thousand warriors faced the thunderstruck Speaker. All seven tribes of Khur were represented, although the coastal Fin-Maskar tribe had sent only a token presence and even fewer of Sahim-Khan’s Khur tribe had joined Adala’s venture. The men sat motionless and silent, morning sun glinting off the swords resting on their shoulders. Their horses, trapped in the colors of their rider’s clan or tribe, were bright as a rainbow. Positioned in the center of the line was one member of the vast army mounted on a small gray donkey.

“The Weyadan.”

Wapah’s identification was unnecessary. Gilthas recognized the black-robed figure of Adala Fahim, Hamaramis and his small band of soldiers came crashing through the trees. The general uttered an oath when he saw they’d fallen into a trap. He urged the Speaker to come away. Gilthas ignored him, The nomads’ horses snorted, pawed the ground, and switched their tails, but the men did not move. “What are they waiting for?” he asked Wapah.

“What?” Hamaramis demanded.

“The single moment in time when a thing is destined to happen. The Weyadan is mistress of the ifran.”

“I’ll ask for a parley,” Gilthas said, but Wapah shook his head, “There will be no more talking.”

A cry rose from the Khurish host. It began low then grew and grew until it seemed the nomads might beat the elves back by the very power of their joined voices. The roar cut off abruptly, and in the sudden silence, over the ringing in his ears, Gilthas heard Wapah murmur, “Ifran.”

Swords were lifted high. The line of horsemen lurched forward.