Sanctuary

Someone in the column—a Kagonesti, by his accent—started to sing. Other riders took up the tune, a chorus of hoarse male voices. It was an old Wilder song, about being chased through the forest by unnamed enemies:

Where I go I leave no trail, no trail,
But hang upon the sparrow’s tail.
And fly as lightly as the wind, the wind,
For I was born of Wilder kin.

The words rang strange in this lifeless landscape, and after four verses the song died out. The air was too dry for singing anyway.

Flankers patrolled diligently ahead and behind the column, as well as a hundred yards on either side. An hour before noon, the scouts circled back to the main body for replacement. One rider did not appear. The Lioness halted the column and sent a pair of elves to find the missing rider. The pair did not return either.

She ordered the entire force to search for the missing. Spread out in a long double line, the elves descended the side of a north-facing dune. The tracks of the pair the Lioness had sent were still visible at the foot of the dune. Halfway up the next one, elves on the left side of the formation raised an alarm. Someone was moving atop the dune!

Swords sprouted from the line. Climbing through the heavy sand was hard work, and they labored uphill with horses gasping from the heat and effort. Within twenty yards of the crest, a dozen darkly wrapped figures popped up, bows in hand.

The Lioness shouted a warning as arrows daubed with red paint hissed toward her startled troops. One struck low on her breastplate and glanced off. She barked a command, and her own archers loosed into the line of snipers. One fell. The rest responded with more arrows, this time aimed low, at the elves’ horses.

“Get those snakes!” the Lioness cried. On the right, two score riders swept forward, swords held high. The concealed bowmen couldn’t rise up high enough to aim at them without exposing themselves to the elf archers. With elven arrows arcing over their heads, the Lioness and the bulk of the elves spurred hard up the hill. Just as they cleared the top, those on the right reached the flat ridge at the dune’s crest and charged the enemy. There were only eleven: nine bow-armed nomads and two others minding their horses at the base of the dune. Faced on two sides by the foe, the nomads quit, racing for their ponies. Several were ridden down and sabered before the Lioness called for prisoners. The killing ceased, but not a single nomad escaped.

Four prisoners were herded to the Lioness. Three others, wounded and unable to walk, were carried forward and dumped at her feet.

“Who are you men? What tribe? What clan?” she asked. She had expected nomad interference, but not so soon, not such a pointless ambush. With a shiver she recalled a similar attack at the priestess’s temple.

The nomads were silent. One of them knelt by a wounded comrade and began to chant a muted prayer.

Again, more calmly, the Lioness posed her questions promising to spare all if they would answer. Not one of the captured humans said a word.

“Why do you fight us?” the Lioness demanded. Her exhausted horse picked up her anger and snorted, prancing in a tight circle. “We’re not your enemies. We’re nomads now, too, driven from our homes and forced to wander this desert. Tell me, are you bandits, or have you been paid to fight us?”

Nothing. Two of the humans sat on the sand and hugged their knees, eyes still fixed on the ground. The third continued to pray under his breath. The fourth, trembling from exhaustion and a wound on his upper thigh, remained on his feet, staring defiantly at her.

The Lioness glared back, frustrated by their silence. She had no time for this.

She allowed herself only a moment of indecision before snapping, “Captain!”

A Kagonesti veteran saluted his commander. “Search them:’ she said. “Anything unusual, bring to me. Take their swords and break their bows and arrows. Leave them food and water for two days. Their horses go with us.”

The standing nomad opened his mouth to protest. Without horses, they were doomed. They would never reach a water source before their own supply gave out.

“You have something to say?” she asked sternly, yet her eyes were hopeful. The bearded man firmed his lips and said nothing. Hope vanished.

“Very well. Carry out my orders, Captain.”

All the nomads, living and dead, were searched. The only thing of interest the searchers found was the small leather bag that each man wore on a string around his neck. One pouch was brought to Kerian. It was very light, containing a fetish, no doubt. She loosened the neck and upended the bag. A black and orange creature fell out, landing on the neck of her horse.

“Spider!” yelled the elf warrior who’d brought the bag. He swatted at it with his gauntlet. With astonishing power for so small a creature, it sprang from the horse and landed, legs spread, on the soldier’s cheek.