Sanctuary

Dust-caked from their long, heartbreaking journey the column of mounted elves slowed to a halt when the lead riders spotted the delegation arrayed to greet them. The Speaker, flanked by the Lioness on his right and Lord Morillon Ambrodel on his left, stood at the head of a mixed band of Qualinesti and Silvanesti. Behind them were the eight buglers who contributed the fanfare. Everyone squinted against the terrific glare, despite the sunshade Planchet had erected over the group.

The army had adopted desert wear over armor; the rays of the sun could cook flesh inside metal in a few hours. Foremost of the warriors was an unusually tail elf wearing a Khurish sun hat. Reining up, he pulled off his gauntlets and hailed the Speaker.

“Greetings to you, Lord Taranath.” Gilthas extended a hand.

After clasping hands with his liege, the warrior looked beyond the Speaker to the Lioness. “General, I present the Army of the Elven Nations! You are once more in command,” he said.

“Well done, Taran,” she said warmly. “How was the journey up the coast?”

“Damned hot. And not only from the sun.”

“Casualties?”

“Twenty-nine killed. Forty-four wounded.”

“So many?” Gilthas asked. “To what cause?”

“The usual ones, sire: heat, thirst, dysentery, poisonous bites, and madness, all of which the desert provides in abundance. And one other travail.” Taranath looked grave. “From the Cape of Kenderseen we were dogged for two days by nomads, who sniped at us from the dunes. They were armed with crossbows.”

Desert tribesmen usually carried short recurved bows, lacking the materials and skill to make crossbows. Taranath’s news caused the Speaker’s entourage to shift and mutter among themselves.

“Where would nomads get crossbows?” asked Lord Morillon.

“You know where,” the Lioness hissed. “Neraka!”

“There’s no proof—”

“Give me three days and I’ll bring you the proof-nomads and their bows!” she snapped, interrupting the noble.

None doubted that any nomads the Lioness brought would be dead upon arrival. Although several councilors, including Morillon, were made uncomfortable by her martial fervor, others obviously were not.

Still, the blazing sands were no place to debate policy. Gilthas ended the discussion by saying, “General Taranath, your Speaker and your people welcome you home. Lady Kerianseray will see you later with new orders. Maintain your normal patrols. The rest of your warriors may stand down. Food and drink await all.”

Taranath saluted and signaled the column forward. With flankers and scouts on either side, the column extended a mile. It took some time for all the tired, discouraged warriors to file past him, but Gilthas remained where he was, welcoming every rider home. His gesture touched the warriors deeply. Though sweat began to stain his sky-blue robe, and the heavy circlet on his brow bore down hard on his matted hair, Gilthas never faltered, even when some around him swayed on their feet, dizzy from the heat. Each approaching warrior sat a little straighter and held his head a little higher when he saw the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, standing with great dignity to greet them.

His advisors chafed at the delay. Even the Lioness, proud though she was of her army, felt he was wasting precious time with this display. But not until the last blistered scout had entered the tent city did Gilthas depart. He turned and walked into the dust cloud raised by the passing riders. Kerian spoke again of the need to capture nomads, to obtain proof that their attacks were sponsored by Neraka. This rekindled the argument among Gilthas’s entourage.

“The situation is most delicate,” Morillon insisted. “We have the Khan’s permission to be here, but if we go about abusing his subjects, we could lose our last safe haven!”

“You’re the one who’s delicate!” The Lioness coughed against the spreading plume of grit. “Look what happened yesterday-my captain and I set upon in broad daylight! You call this place safe?”

“A few firebrands. Regrettable, certainly, but—”

Kerian whirled on him. “Regrettable! Zealots lust for our blood and you call it regrettable!”

“Calm yourselves” the Speaker said. He did not raise his voice, but it was a command nonetheless. “The best path lies somewhere between the two extremes. We must take care to keep Sahim-Khan friendly, or at least neutral, toward us, but we cannot allow our people to be sniped at and murdered piecemeal.” He halted at the edge of the hodgepodge of tents, adding, “We need alternatives, to this place and to the Khan’s sufferance.”