Paul Thompson - Sanctuary

Eight men abreast, the Khurish royal cavalry rumbled out the city’s north gate. Their armor was a mix of native and Nerakan style, with pointed helmets, angular breastplates, and Spiky knobs at every bend of knee, elbow, and ankle. Their favored weapon was a very heavy saber, its blade shaped like a crescent moon. Their mantles had started out royal blue, but long exposure to the harsh sun had faded them to the color of the spring sky over Khuri-Khan. The Khurs were among the best soldiers hired by the Dark Knights, but since the arrival of the elves Sahim-Khan had allowed the longstanding contract with Neraka to lapse. He had ample compensation from taxes, fees, and other official extort ions to replace the money paid by the Order.

General Hakkam rode at the head of the column, flanked by standard bearers and heralds. Once the tail of the column cleared the city gate, he halted his men and sent out flankers on both sides and well ahead to scout the situation. The cavalry moved forward at a walk, alert for ambushes. In his long career, Hakkam had fought nomads before. They were fearless, hardy, and addicted to surprise attacks. He had no intention of losing men to (or being humiliated by) a rabble of tribesmen, especially with the laddad as witness.

The scouts soon returned with strange news. A sizable force of mounted laddad were on the north ridge, watching the nomads. The tribesmen were massed in the Lake of Dreams. This dry depression, six miles from Khuri-Khan, had earned its name because travelers commonly saw mirages of water in the broad hollow between dunes. Like the laddad, the nomads were motionless, waiting.

Hakkam uttered an oath. His lieutenants thought he was cursing the nomads or the laddad, but in fact he was abusing the name of Sahim-Khan. What had the master of Khur sent him into?

“Forward” he said, facing his horse west. At a leisurely walk, five thousand Khurish horsemen followed their general into the unknown. Shafts <...> the clouds, casting beams down on the glittering clanking procession. Unlike Adala, Hakkam didn’t take the light as a sign of godly favor. It was shining in his men’s eyes.

Alone of all the nomads gathered on the dune ridge overlooking Khuri-Khan Adala slept. After returning from the tense meeting with the laddad lord, she finished some mending, then lay down in her small tent and went to sleep. Rain and thunder did not disturb her, nor did the presence of eighteen thousand armed laddad.

After midday, the sky grew dark and swollen, as if the heavy clouds would burst of their own weight, soaking the land below. Sentinels galloped back to the nomad camp with peculiar news. A single laddad rider was approaching Bilath had sent a band of bow-armed Weya-Lu to the high sandhill on the north side of the Lake of Dreams. From there they could pick off anyone daring to enter the camp. They might have dealt thus with the rider had not the sharp-eyed warmaster of the Tondoon, Haradi, recognized her. Haradi had been with Adala at the parley and had heard talk of the female laddad warmaster Kerianseray, also called the Lioness. This rider had burnished gold hair, which fell unbound past her shoulders It must be the Lioness.

Etosh dispatched Wapah to waken the Weyadan.

Wapah knelt outside the closed door flap of Adala’s tent and called softly. She bade him enter. He put his head inside, keeping his eyes respectfully on the ground.

“Weyadan, the female laddad warmaster comes. Alone!”

She lay with her back to him. Without moving, she said, “Summon the chiefs and warmasters. They will sit in judgment of the criminal.”

“It is maita,” he said sagely, and then withdrew.

Adala sat up slowly. Her head still ached, as it had ached for the past three days. The sky was responsible. The clouds hung over the desert like a gravid beast. She’d never known air this ponderous. It weighed on her so heavily she felt her skull would crack from the pressure. The usual cure for headache, chewing a leaf of the makadar bush, had provided no relief at all.

She poured tepid water in a copper pan and washed her hands, face, neck, and feet. During her ablutions, she blessed the names of her ancestors and called upon Those on High to judge her deeds this day. If she was found wanting in virtue or truth, she begged the gods to strike her down.

A bundle lay just inside the entrance to her tent. It proved to be a beautiful new robe of red linen, handsomely embroidered in white. The style and skill of the needlework marked it as having come from the women of the Mayakhur tribe. The collar and matching headdress were silk, hand-dyed, and fit for the khan’s consort, but as much as Adala respected the sentiment behind the gift, she couldn’t wear the beautiful robe. This was not a feast day, nor a day of celebration. Justice was to be done, harsh justice. It was not a time for festive clothes.

She put the new clothes aside and retied the sash of the much-mended black robe she wore every day, and slept in as well. Taking up an ivory comb—a gift from her late husband, Kasamir, and one of her few fine possessions—Adala mastered her unruly hair. Lately, she had noticed that some of the hairs the comb pulled out were not black, but gray.

Once her hair was smoothly braided, she emerged from her tent. Every chief and warmaster awaited her. They stood in a double line, facing inward, with Adala at the apex. Small patches of daylight speckled the ground, shining through rents in the ceiling of clouds.

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.