Alliances

He had less success with Chathendor. The old chamberlain would not be sent away with the wounded.

“I do not leave my lady,” he said flatly, and Porthios was forced to acquiesce. It was that or have the old elf lifted bodily.

The unconscious Samar was borne away, and Kerian prepared to go as well, knowing she could be of no use here. Before she departed, she cast one last worried glance at Alhana and said quietly to Porthios, “You’re a healer? It will take one of uncommon skill to save her.”

“I healed myself when I was nothing but blood and shattered bones. I will heal her too.”

Porthios’s voice rang with conviction. Kerian nodded, but in her heart, she was certain Alhana Starbreeze would not survive the coming night.

Chapter 13

Gilthas stood on the extreme edge of the plateau, inches from a thousand-foot drop. Warm air rose from the desert, stirring his hair. The wind of the previous day had raised a mighty cloud of dust into the sky. The sun, shining through the haze, was a dully glowing scarlet orb, like an iron left in a forge fire.

A branding iron, he thought, gazing at the morose sky.

Spread on the plateau behind him were hundreds of his kith, captured by the nomads then released. They had been returned without the water, food, weapons, and tools that had been with them on Lesser Fang. Already supplies were reaching critical levels, and this added burden made the situation all the more difficult. There wasn’t even the compensation of a renewal of their fighting strength. The nomads had maimed every male elf.

Just when Gilthas thought he had plumbed the lowest depths of injustice and suffering, the bottom of the abyss was lowered again. So many elves purposefully maimed, Not even the Knights of Neraka had stooped to such tactics. It was a blow worthy of a dragonlord, only none had ever thought of it.

Was the choice of the left hand intentional? Did the nomads know that most elves, unlike the majority of humans, were left-handed? Or had they considered themselves merciful, branding the lesser-used hand?

Gilthas nearly choked on the thought. In the end, it didn’t matter. The honor of the deed made such fine distinctions irrelevant.

The nomads who escorted the freed elves to the foot of Broken Tooth kept assuring the elves that they were not responsible for the branding.

“You bear the mark of the Weya-Lu,” they said. “We of the Mikku and the other tribes did not do this.”

So all was not harmonious among the various tribes. That might be useful later.

Hamaramis arrived at Gilthas’s vertiginous perch. The old general was followed by a group of young warriors. All were dusty and burned by sun and wind, and all burned just as fiercely with a desire for revenge. The expressions on their faces prompted Gilthas to cut Hamaramis off before he even started speaking.

“I will not hear plans for revenge, General. If you have other military matters to discuss, I will listen.”

Hamaramis’s face worked for a moment, then he burst out, “Sire, something must be done! Every elf on this summit knows what happened, and every one expects us to strike a blow for justice and for honor!”

He sounded like Kerian. Gilthas felt a great weariness drag at his limbs. With as much patience as he could muster, he said, “All that would accomplish is more death. Find another option.”

Hamaramis’s lieutenants openly seethed with resentment but did not speak.

“Our situation grows ever more dire, Great Speaker. If we don’t fight our way off this peak, we’ll never leave here alive.”

That was only too true. They were fundamentally weaker than when they’d first scaled Broken Tooth and could not remain much longer in idle safety. The nomads were displaying unusual staying power, keeping out of reach yet remaining close enough to menace any force that dared descend to the desert. The capture of Lesser Fang had infused the Khurs with new confidence and weakened the resolve of many elves.

It would be all too easy for Gilthas to lead his warriors off the peak, crying, “Let us die fighting!” And that is exactly what would happen: the soldiers would die in battle and the civilians left behind would perish of heat and thirst. Thus would end the most ancient race in all the world. The flame of Kith-Kanan, of Silvanos, would go out.

As he stared at the hazed vastness of the Khurish desert, Gilthas’s hands clenched into fists. His face stiffened with anger, and his sun-bleached brows lowered in a ferocious frown. He would not allow it to happen! His people would not die here, not while there was breath in his body.

He turned away from the precipice. “There is always another way, General,” he said harshly. “To die starving or die fighting are not the only answers. Find me another!”

His injunction met only blank stares. His chin lifted. Despite the threadbare garb and matted, unwashed hair, Gilthas Pathfinder suddenly was every inch the Speaker.