Alliances

Amused, Planchet nevertheless answered seriously, pointing to the distant spires of the Lion’s Teeth. “Scouts tell us those peaks are easily defensible. I think we should make for them without delay.”

“Do you propose our people climb mountains?” asked Hamaramis.

“I do. We’re too vulnerable in the open desert. Another attack like today’s, and none of us will live to see Inath-Wakenti.”

The old general scowled. “We’ll be locking ourselves in a dungeon cell. The Khurs will never let us out again.”

All the officers had dismounted. Gilthas parted their ranks with a wave and walked a few yards beyond, where thousands of elves stood, knelt, or squatted on the sand, waiting to hear what he would ask of them next. Weary and frightened they were, but each and every face wore the same trusting expression. They believed Gilthas would lead them out of the fiery crucible of the desert just as he had led them from their shattered homelands when minotaurs, bandits, and goblins invaded. They had proclaimed him Gilthas Pathfinder. Such trust was an enormous source of strength for the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. It was also an enormous burden.

Gilthas inhaled deeply the dry, overheated air. His sandaled toe nudged a broken amphora. The golden olive oil inside was gone, lost to the insatiable sand.

“How far to the nearest of those peaks?”

“Broken Tooth is nine miles away, Great Speaker,” replied Planchet.

“And how far is the last peak from Inath-Wakenti?”

No one knew. As Gilthas returned to his officers, there was a flurry of activity as maps were produced and consulted. Planchet reported, “From the westernmost peak, Pincer, the mouth of Inath-Wakenti appears to be twenty-five to thirty miles away.”

“That’s a broad range.” In the desert, five miles could easily mean the difference between survival and destruction.

Planchet assured him they would refine the calculations. Gilthas studied the map Planchet held for him then announced his decision.

“We will go to the first pinnacle. We will occupy each spire in turn, using it as a fortress against the desert tribes.”

The sun was sinking in the west. Gilthas returned to his horse, and Planchet went with him. Watching them ride away, one of Hamaramis’s younger officers made a disparaging remark about the Speaker’s wits. The old general whirled and struck the offender with his gauntleted hand. The elf hit the ground, blood trickling from his lip.

“How dare you!” Hamaramis rasped. Heat and the shouting of commands had taken a toll on his voice, but fury was clear in every hoarse word. “The heir of Silvanos is not to be insulted!”

The young officer, a Silvanesti protégé of the late Lord Morillon, arose with much wounded pride. “I ask forgiveness,” he said stiffly. “But you yourself said going there would be like jumping into prison.”

“So it may be. And if the Speaker commands it, jump we will!”

The chastened captains dispersed to their waiting troops. General Taranath remained with Hamaramis. “You fear this development?” Taranath asked, his gaze following the insolent Silvanesti.

Hamaramis shrugged, wincing at the pain in his shoulders. “It’s difficult to know the future. I am no seer,” he rasped.

“I said that once to Hytanthas Ambrodel. His reply was, ‘The future always arrives, whether we want it or not.’”

“I miss young Hytanthas. One of many fine officers we’ve lost.”

Taranath did not correct the old general. Hytanthas had been sent by the Speaker to find his missing wife. No word had come from him in months, but as far as anyone knew, Hytanthas was not dead.

A ragged blare of trumpets brought the mass of exhausted elves to their feet. They prepared to resume their trek.

Hamaramis and Taranath solemnly clasped hands. This close to destruction, each parting felt like the final one.

* * * * *

They succeeded in achieving the heights. As Planchet’s scouts had reported, the Lion’s Teeth were scalable, especially for those as motivated and agile as the elves. For days they had been clinging to the windy fortresses. Days of scalding sun, chill nights, and an ever-shrinking water supply. Two-thirds of the elves, including the Speaker and Planchet, camped on Broken Tooth. A much smaller band was dug in on the much steeper neighboring peak, Lesser Fang. Beyond them, the remaining elves had taken refuge on Chisel. By means of signal mirrors, those on Chisel notified the Speaker they had found a small spring bubbling in a cleft on the pinnacle’s side. It was difficult to reach in the best of conditions and nearly impossible under the constant sniping of nomad archers, but Taranath, in command of the elves on Chisel, rigged a chain of leather buckets to haul water from the spring under cover of darkness. Those on Chisel would not go thirsty but had no way of sharing their life-giving find.