Paul Thompson - Alliances

“Hold off the enemy,” Gilthas said simply. “If we move all night, we should have everyone back together on the far side before sunrise.”

It was a daunting task, perhaps an impossible one, to keep the far superior nomad force on this side of the wadi until morning. Taranath saluted smartly and rode off to carry out his sovereign’s commands.

“There is too much courage here,” Wapah said to no one in particular.

“I agree,” said Gilthas. “Too much courage and too little compassion.”

He coughed a few times, but no blood appeared. The ministrations of Truthanar were keeping his illness in abeyance.

He remained on the south bank until the last of his people descended the narrow trails into the wadi’s broad bed. With him were six councilors (three each of Qualinesti and Silvanesti), a bodyguard of nine, the human Wapah, and Hamaramis. The old general would not think of arguing with his Speaker, but Gilthas knew he was furious at having been left out of the impending fight. Gilthas sympathized. His own thoughts continually strayed to Planchet and the elves left behind on Broken Tooth.

The sun lowered itself onto the western desert, painting the tan landscape in orange and red hues. The sky deepened to indigo. Stars appeared. The air cooled quickly, and Gilthas shivered. He pulled a cape on over his long-sleeved affre.

“How far do you plan to go with us?” Gilthas asked Wapah, standing on his right.

“As far as the khan of the laddad requires.”

“Then I require you a while longer.”

The last of the elves had entered the wadi. It was time for the Speaker to follow. His bodyguards dismounted and led their animals because the track into the wadi was narrow and steep. Gilthas led the way, pushing through thorn bushes. A branch snapped back unexpectedly and scored a bloody line below his right eye. Hamaramis wanted to inspect the gash, but Gilthas brusquely ordered the party to proceed. More than one of those accompanying him thought he appeared to be weeping tears of blood.

Half a mile away, the rearguard waited for the enemy to close. Months of fighting the nomads had convinced Taranath of one truth: however brave and bold the Khurs were, when pressed, their response was to close up together. By hitting them hard, Taranath knew he could force them to draw in all their riders, thus keeping them away from the civilians crossing the wadi.

Word came down the line that nomads were in sight on the left. Taranath ordered the crescent line of riders to re-form into a column of sixes. Haggard but disciplined, the elves arranged themselves quickly. Then, by word of mouth only, Taranath sounded the charge.

The lead riders of a Mikku patrol were picking their way through the scrub cedar and thorn trees when the elf cavalry burst upon them, as unexpected as a storm in the desert. The warriors in front didn’t even have time to draw swords before they were annihilated. The trailing elements rode back to summon help.

Taranath continued to harry them, his mounted archers picking off scattered warriors. First fifty, then a hundred, then several hundred Mikku warriors faced about and cantered back to the main body of nomads, three miles behind.

Taranath left a small band to press the retreating humans, swung the bulk of his warriors in a wide loop to their right, and fell on the flank of the unsuspecting Mikku. He hit them just as the first riders reached the main body of the nomad army, shouting warnings of an attack. The result was a complete rout. Attacked on two sides, uncertain how many laddad they faced, the Mikku fell back in confusion. Taranath left another token force to carry on the flank attack and once more led the majority of his warriors in a loop, curving around to the left. When they emerged from a line of lordly black cedars, the whole of the nomad army lay before them, moving slowly, swords sheathed.

The Silvanesti among Taranath’s troopers stood in their stirrups and gave the ancient victory cry— “Sivvanesu!” —the archaic pronunciation of “Silvanesti.”

Assuming a wedge formation, the elves hit the unwary nomads and smashed through, cutting off the entire Mikku contingent. Taranath’s warriors rode through the confused mass of humans, swords flashing and arrows singing.

The Tondoon and Hachakee tribes, taken by surprise, began to back away from the furious assault. They weren’t afraid. They only wanted to put space between them and their enemy so they could draw swords and meet the foe on equal terms, but Adala, arriving on Little Thorn, assumed the worst.

“For shame, men of Khur! The enemy puts himself in your hands, and you retreat! Where is your honor? Give them the sword!”

The warriors nearest her protested. She scorned their explanation. “A fight is never settled by fleeing the enemy. I’ll show you how it’s done!”

She tapped Little Thorn’s flank with her stick. Guiding the donkey around the taller ponies, she rode straight at the laddad. Warmasters and tribesmen alike shouted for her to turn back, but she wouldn’t heed them. She was a charge of one, furious, unarmed, lacking even a speedy means of retreat.

Young Othdan, chief of the Tondoon, roared, “I will not sit with an idle blade in my hands while the Maita perishes! Tondoon, follow me!”

Not to be outdone, the chiefs and warmasters of the Hachakee turned their magnificent gray horses around and spurred hard. Holding the reins in their teeth, they filled each hand with a sword.

Taranath could not understand what was happening. One moment, the nomads were ready to break; a breath later, they were thundering back, a bloodthirsty tide set to engulf the smaller elf force. It was no proper charge or calculated thrust, merely a mass of men, horses, and whirling blades crashing toward the astonished elves. On the right, the Mikku saw the change of fortune and rallied, causing Taranath to face attacks on the left and right. He stood in the stirrups and scanned the chaos, looking for a way out. His gaze fell on an incongruous figure—a small donkey, moving as fast as his stumpy legs would allow, bearing a rider clad in black robes. He didn’t recognize the rider, but the mass of nomads thundering after the donkey told him it was an important person.

“Formigan!” he shouted. “Put a shaft in that donkey’s rider!”

The renowned archer nocked a black oak shaft (his last missile) and drew the bowstring to his chin. All about him was utter chaos, with elves and nomads hurtling back and forth between him and his target, yet he waited calmly for his moment then loosed.

The arrow struck true. A great groan rose up from the nomads at the sight of the still-quivering black shaft protruding from their leader’s chest. The impact drove the breath from Adala’s body and rocked her backward, but she felt no pain, and no blood flowed. Elation sang through her veins.

With all eyes upon her, she lifted her donkey switch high and cried, “See how my maita protects me, even from the weapons of the evil laddad! Men of Khur, children of Torghan, will you fail now?”

“No!”

The thunderous roar seemed to shake the very ground beneath Taranath’s horse. The general was stunned by the failure of Formigan’s shot. Could the donkey rider be wearing armor beneath those black robes?

There was no more time to ponder the mystery. The nomads redoubled their efforts. Caught in a vise of human fury, Taranath looked for a way out. Left and right were hopelessly clogged with savages. Retreat was impossible since the elf nation lay in that direction. Ahead was the only option.

The elves surged forward. They cut their way through the relatively thin line of nomads in front of them and burst into the open desert. Taranath told his cornetist to blow not “Retreat,” but “Pursuit.” Heartened to know they weren’t fleeing, the elves emerged from the human swarm and galloped away, riding due west. After some confusion while the choking clouds of dust thinned, the Khurs followed.