Sanctuary

Turning to the Weya-Lu on her right, Adala greeted Bilath and Etosh. Wapah stood a few steps behind them, as he was neither chief nor warmaster. Then came Yannash of the Tondoon and his warmaster Haradi, then Hagath of the Mikku, and so on down one line and up the other, ending with the Mayakhur leaders on Adala’s left. She took an extra moment with Wassim, thanking the chief of the Mayakhur for the embroidered robe given her by his women and explaining why she could not wear it today. Then she addressed herself to the entire gathering.

“The day is coming,” she said. “For our land, for justice. We must be strong.” She spread her arms. “This land was granted us by Those on High, but only so long as we remain pure enough to hold it. Let the foreigners, the killers of our children, be purged from Khur.”

She spoke calmly, but her last declaration brought a cheer from the assembly. They raised their swords high and shouted, “Maita! Maita! Maita!”

Beyond them, the warriors of Khur heard their chiefs and warmasters proclaiming their loyalty to Adala’s fate, and they echoed it even more loudly. Again and again they roared, voices soaring to the turbulent heavens and rolling out in all directions. People for miles around could hear them.

Raising his voice to be heard over the shouts, Bilath said, “Weyadan, what of the sorcerer and Sahim-Khan? We came to impose justice on them, too.”

“Sahim will meet his fate, but not today. As for the supposed sorcerer, I do not know him. If he is guilty, the gods will bring him to us.” Adala frowned. She could have forgiven Sahim-Khan his past transgressions if he had sent his soldiers to fight alongside her people, but he had not. He continued to cower behind his stone walls. In time, Adala had no doubt her maita would deal with him, too.

Wapah brought Little Thorn forward and helped her climb onto the donkey.

“Let this day be long remembered,” she said. “It is the day justice was reborn in Khur!”

With these words and the acclaim of ten thousand voices, Adala rode to the lip of the Lake of Dreams, trailed by her loyal chiefs and warmasters in their varying martial finery. The Mikku were the best armed, but the Tondoon were the most numerous. They wore no metal at all, reserving what iron and brass they had for their swords and daggers. Tondoon weaponry was highly prized.

At the top of the depression, she halted Little Thorn. The donkey lowered his head to munch on a clump of saltbush.

Through the haze and warping heat rising from the sand, she saw a single rider approaching on a tall bay horse. Archers on the hilltop followed her every move with arrows nocked. With utter nonchalance, the laddad woman came onward.

Someone behind Adala remarked on the elf’s bravery. Adala shook her head. “It is not courage, but arrogance. She does not believe we can harm her.”

Haradi moved forward. “Maita, let me slay her! I will do it for you, for all the tribes of Khur!”

Men, no matter their tribe, were united by a childish love of glory. “Be still,” she said, as to an impatient youngster.

The Weyadan was wrong about one thing; it wasn’t arrogance that fueled Kerian’s bravery, but calm acceptance. The archers on the hill didn’t concern her because she knew the nomads wanted revenge, not simply to kill her. She knew she wouldn’t die today, knew it might be days before she died. Maybe longer. On the other hand, there was a possibility, however slim, that she would get out of this alive. If she did, then nothing would stop her goal to restore the fortunes of the elven nation.

After announcing her intention to turn herself over to the nomads, she took the time to write several letters to her comrades and friends. The last, and shortest, was to her husband.

Save our people. Take them home, she wrote. That was all. Words didn’t seem to matter anymore, but maybe by this gesture she could restore Gilthas’s will to do the right thing for their race.

Twenty yards from the line of bedecked barbarian chieftains, Kerian halted her horse. She wished Eagle Eye was here. Nothing made a grander or more frightening impression than a rampant Silvanesti war griffon.

“I hear you wanted to see me,” she called.

Bilath shouted, “Come closer! It is not seemly to bellow at such a distance!”

Kerian made no move to comply, so some of the warmasters started toward her. She drew her sword in one fluid motion, feeble daylight flashing off the elf-forged blade. The nomads stopped.

“Did you come to fight or surrender?” Adala called.

“Fight! The Lioness never surrenders!”

So saying, she dug in her spurs and shot ahead, leaning low over the horse’s neck. Arrows hissed into the sand behind her as she charged. In moments she was among the nomad chiefs, thrusting and slashing. This ended the threat from the archers who couldn’t loose at her without hitting their own leaders.