Sanctuary

This was true enough. Kerian decided to detour from their mission long enough to inspect the nomad camp. If the tribe seemed a peaceful one, the elves would pass on. But if the nomads were recognizable enemies, the Lioness would strike.

Weariness dragged at every warrior, but no one complained as the Lioness led them away. It would be dark soon-only the highest peaks of the mountains ahead were still touched by sunlight—and this aided their cause. Humans were hampered by darkness, whereas elves could see almost as well at night as in full daylight.

The Qualinesti scout led them over a series of alluvial hills, formed of soil and gravel washed down from the mountains over the eons. The sky darkened from sapphire to indigo, and the first stars appeared. A distinctly chilly wind teased the riders every time they climbed out of a hollow and topped a hill. The breeze brought the smell of smoke. Cookfires.

Holding up her hand, the Lioness halted the column in a shallow ravine. Wordlessly she indicated Favaronas and Avalyn should follow her. The rest of the company would remain here.

The three followed the dry streambed through the ravine, halting where it emptied onto open ground. There, spread out in a ring pattern typical of Khurish nomads, lay several hundred conical tents. The Lioness halted her horse behind a screen of cedars. Silently she and her two companions studied the scene.

In the center of the ring of tents, figures moved about, silhouetted against a dozen campfires. There were no men to be seen, only nomad women in their sand-colored gebs, making supper, and children darting among the tents or helping with the cooking.

Avalyn shifted in his saddle. “This must be the base camp of the band that attacked us! All the warrior-age men are missing!” he whispered loudly.

“Even so, we don’t make war on unarmed women and children.”

“General, they would slaughter our loved ones, if they had the chance!”

“You don’t know that!” Favaronas said.

“It was done in Qualinesti!”

She silenced them both. “This is not Qualinesti. And we are not Dark Knights.”

They returned to the waiting army. The Lioness gave the order to ride, and the elves faded into the night.

Theirs weren’t the only eyes watching in the darkness. On the south side of the nomad camp, two yellow eyes stared at the ring of tents. The sand beast, recovered from the spell put on it by the opal of Elir-Sana, lay concealed by loose dirt and rocks. Its tongue flicked out, tasting the night air. Smoke smell was strong, as was human, but beneath that, the beast detected traces of elf.

The movement inside the ring of tents slowed and stopped. The humans settled into their shelters. The beast’s tongue flicked out again. The human smell was enticing, though the elf tang was definitely present. The impetus in its blood burned like a fever: Find elves; kill them. The drive could not be denied. If humans were intermingled with its intended prey, they would die, too.

The beast rose from its hiding place, shaking off dirt and rocks. In four bounds it reached the outer line of tents. It bore straight into the first tent, rending the goatskin walls to tatters with a single swipe of its horns. Within slept three humans. The first two died without waking. The third had time to shriek once before she perished.

The tents did not impede the sand beast’s progress. It raced through the camp. Tattered canvas and leather caught in its horns trailed through the banked cookfires, catching fire. One tent was set alight, then another, and another. Against the heightened glare, humans raced about, yelling. Methodically, the creature slew them all, in case they might be elves in disguise.

Barely twenty minutes after the beast’s entrance into the camp, silence reigned. The only sound was the crackle and pop of the fires burning unchecked in three different places. Nothing remained alive, and the smell of blood was strong.

Too strong. The beast left the silent camp and circled upwind. A tantalizing whiff of elf came to it, borne on the cool night wind from the mountains. With uncharacteristic deliberation, the sand beast set out again and resumed trailing the pack of elves.

Near dawn the first riders of Adala’s band reached a hilltop overlooking their camp. Horrified by what they saw, they sent for the Weyadan and her warmasters.

The nomad war party had passed the night in the saddle, trying to swing wide around the elves’ path and outflank them. Unfortunately, they didn’t know the foothills as well as they did their usual terrain, and too many of them became lost in the gullies and ravines. They’d finally assembled as the sky began to lighten, and Adala was taking them back to camp when word came of the terrible disaster.

White-faced, the Weyadan rode through the savaged camp. No one was alive. All those left behind-wives, children, old folk-had been ruthlessly slain. The tents and supplies that weren’t burned had been shredded and trampled.