Sanctuary

Her appeal met with a mixed reaction. The warriors of long service, whether Silvanesti or Qualinesti, found the idea of flouting the Speaker’s authority deeply troubling. Others, younger fighters who’d known no other leader than the Lioness, were not so hesitant. Two stood, then six, then ten, vowing to follow the Lioness wherever she led. In moments, nearly half the warriors present had declared for her.

It was to the rest that she addressed herself. “I know you wish to keep faith with the Speaker. That is your choice. But know this: He is consumed by a dream to transplant the elven nation to a hidden valley in the Khalkist Mountains, the place from which I have just returned. I tell you now, that valley is no place for us. It is rife with strange magic, which cost our band a dozen warriors. And there is no game; no deer, no rabbits, not even insects or birds live in the valley.”

She paused to watch the elf work on her hand, then added, “There’s only one true home for us, the home in which we were born! I swear I will dedicate my life to freeing those homes from the foreign oppressors who hold them now. The Speaker”—she swallowed hard—“has given the homeland up. He thinks we can live happily in a tiny foreign valley, kept safe only by the good graces of the Khan of Khur and our neighbors beyond the mountains, the Knights of Neraka!”

Her stirring, heartfelt speech moved many of the holdouts to declare for her, but a number of warriors still remained silent. They stood and made to leave the warriors’ communal tent. A few younger elves moved to stop them, but Kerian waved them off.

“Let them go,” she said. “They’re honorable warriors. They must follow their own hearts.”

“They’ll go to the Speaker!” one of her supporters pro

“They should. He needs to know where we stand.”

The officers dispersed to rouse their sleeping troops. Even should some of the troops switch sides, Kerian reckoned she would have seven to eight thousand elves pledged to her. That would give Gilthas pause. It was one thing to consider arresting a few malcontents, quite another to restrain eight thousand seasoned warriors.

By the time Kerian’s loyalists assembled on the north side of Khurinost dawn was breaking. A column of riders appeared from the south, heading straight for them. This was the night patrol led by Taranath. He’d mistaken Kerian’s band for his morning relief.

As economically as she could, Kerian explained she had broken with Gilthas. She didn’t try to minimize her own failings, but laid out the whole tale.

Taranath listened in silence and when she was done said, “This is the wrong course, Commander. You’re splitting the army, and a divided host is a weakened host.”

The most ardent among her supporters began to shout challenges at Taranath, demanding to know whether he believed it was their destiny to regain their lost lands.

Before he could answer, a third column of riders emerged from Khurinost and rode steadily toward them. At their head was old Hamaramis, in full martial splendor. With him were the officers who had first declined to stand with Kerian.

When Hamaramis drew near he called, “Lady, give over your sword to me at once! Those are the Speaker’s orders!”

His use of her title rather than her rank caused her to flinch slightly. Some of the older elves tended to prefer her title as a matter of course, but the difference had taken on a new significance now that Gilthas had dismissed her.

Recovering, she smiled a dark and dangerous smile. “If the Speaker wants my sword, he’ll have to ask for it in person.”

“Please don’t provoke a fight, lady,” Taranath pleaded quietly.

“Then don’t fight me, Taran. Join me.”

The sky above was still cloudy, but a narrow band of clear air lay on the eastern horizon. The disk of the rising sun shone through that clear band, flooding the desert with roseate light. The brilliance only made the clouds appear even darker by contrast.

“What will it be?” she asked. “Our swords together, hilt to hilt, or opposed, point to point?”

An elfin Taranath’s company interrupted, drawing their attention to the city. The battlements of Khuri-Khan bristled with signal flags. Even as the elves turned to look, the deep blat of rams’ horns rang out from the city, sounding a general alarm.

“The Khurs think we’re going to attack!” growled Hamaramis.

“And so we should,” Kerian retorted. “Take the city. Make it the base from which our campaign begins!”

The old general, twice her age, stared at her from under his dented, gilded helmet. “You’ve gone mad, lady,” he said soberly. “Utterly mad.”

The conclave was interrupted again. A trio of elven scouts came galloping across the western desert, bent low over their racing steeds. Before they reached the mass of cavalry, one rider slid from his horse. His back bristled with arrows. The other two kept coming.

They rode straight into the center of the three forces gathered on the slight rise west of Khuri-Khan. Somewhat confused by the presence of three senior commanders, they saluted the Lioness.