Paul Thompson - Alliances

One shake of his head and he concentrated on the Lioness, climbing a rock prior to addressing the riders. Far better to put his attention there than to think of Alhana or dwell on the upcoming ride. Porthios had not been astride a griffon since his own was blasted from beneath him by dragonflame. There was no time for fear or hesitation, however. He must go to Khur. Griffonback was the best way to get there. Nothing else must matter.

After outlining the route she and Alhana had chosen, Kerian said, “We’ve had no time to practice, so keep everything simple. Stay together. If anyone gets separated, make your way to the valley.”

“What formation do we use?” asked Hytanthas.

“Like a flight of geese. Alhana and I are on point. Samar and Orexas will fly behind us on the left. Hytanthas, you’re on my right.” She went on, specifying each rider’s place.

From her hiding place, Breetan could see her hooded target but didn’t have a clear shot, Elves kept passing in front of the Scarecrow, and he kept moving through the crowd. When he finally stood still, while an elf woman fixed his tunic, the female was squarely in Breetan’s line of fire.

“I could shoot her then get him with a second bolt when she falls,” she whispered.

“No!” Jeralund hissed. “The first strike will alert them, and you’ll never get another chance! Be patient, Lady.”

Be patient, she repeated silently to herself. Be patient. Breetan sighted the front ring on a spot directly between the elf woman’s shoulder blades. As soon as she moved, the target’s chest would be exposed.

Unfortunately, the Scarecrow moved first, and he placed himself behind yet another elf, a warrior with a weathered face.

Breetan murmured an obscenity.

Kerian finished outlining their flying formation and asked if anyone had questions. One of the riders wanted to know what they should do if separated from the group and forced to land somewhere other than Inath-Wakenti.

“Tell no one who you are, where you’ve come from, or where you’re going.”

There were no other questions. The riders looked at her expectantly. It was the time a commander would say something to bolster their courage and prepare them for the great adventure ahead. The sun was just peering over the eastern peaks. Its light washed Kerian’s helmet in gold. She drew a deep breath.

“Keep your seats. Let the griffons do the flying. We go to bring our wayward cousins home from Khur.”

“Sivvanesu!” shouted the guards.

Hytanthas, not to be outdone, cried, “For the Speaker of the Sun and Stars!” The Bianost elves cheered.

Accustomed to her much larger Royal griffon, Kerian had no trouble vaulting onto Chisa’s back. She wrapped the reins around one gloved hand and checked the straps of her makeshift riding harness. All were tight. She told Alhana to climb on.

The former queen ducked under the griffon’s partially unfurled wing and put her foot in the rear saddle brace. She sprang gracefully onto the griffon’s back, landing lightly.

“You’ve done this before,” Kerian joked.

“Since before you were born,” Alhana shot back.

She tied herself to the saddle, and Kerian offered advice on how to ride pillion. Alhana chuckled suddenly.

“I suppose you know all this already too,” Kerian muttered.

“I do, actually, but that’s not why I was laughing. It’s Chisa. She’s very”—Alhana hunted for the right word—“proud of herself just now. Smug.”

“Why?”

“Because she has two riders. Only she and Ironhead can claim that distinction!”

It was time to go. Kerian cried, “Ay-hai-hai!” Chisa spread her wings and ran forward three hopping steps. On the third bounce, she took to the sky. Despite her formidable dignity, Alhana let out a whoop of joy as the ground fell away. Hytanthas’s griffon, Kanan, sprang down the slope and took off. Samar turned Ironhead’s mighty head and snapped the reins. Unlike the short, bounding run taken by the first two, the big male griffon reared up on his hind legs, crouched, spread his wings wide, and launched himself skyward from a standing start.

All Breetan could see was pounding wings, rising griffons, and bobbing riders. She had four bolts before she must reload. The Scarecrow was on the largest griffon, sitting behind a warrior elf. With four arrows, she could bring down their griffon. If the fall didn’t kill the target, she would reload and finish the job.

She began to stand, to track the flying beast, but Jeralund grabbed her sword belt and dragged her down again.

“What are you doing?” she cried. “He’s getting away!”

“Don’t be foolish, Lady! You’d never hit him now! And if he is alerted by your shot, you’ll never get a second chance.” The target was quartering away from them at a speed greater than that of a horse at a full gallop. Adding to the impossibility of the shot were sweeping wings and the other griffons still rising from the plateau, crowding the target.

In her anger, Breetan saw none of that. “This is mutiny, Sergeant! Let me up!” She struggled, but the heavier man kept her from standing. “I’ll see you hanged for this!” she raged.

“As you wish, but if I’m to be gutted by a mob of furious elves, I would at least like the satisfaction of having succeeded in killing their leader.”

The griffons passed high overhead, and the two humans hid beneath the overhanging boulders. Jeralund put his lips next to Breetan’s ear. “He maybe gone, but where he goes, we can follow.”

Her teeth were bared in a hiss of fury. “How can we follow flying beasts?”

“Think,” he urged the impetuous knight. “We can find out where he intends to land.” He pointed to the elves in camp, all staring rather forlornly after their departing comrades. “All we have to do is get one of them and ask.”

As usual, the sergeant’s tactics were sensible. “You get one. I’ll ask the questions.”

When the griffons had circled away, Jeralund released her and raised up to peer down at the elves’ camp. Immediately, he felt the cold edge of Breetan’s dagger on his throat, just below his knotted kerchief.

“If you ever lay hands on me again, I will kill you.”

His voice was maddeningly calm. “My life is yours, Lady, for the duration of this mission.”

He slipped out of their hiding place and crept down the shadowed side of the promontory to waylay an elf from the camp. Leaning against a sun-warmed boulder, Breetan trembled with anger and more than a little hunter’s fever.

The elves walked all night, across the wadi and up the opposite bank. There they waited while the various groups trickled in. Dawn was just brightening the eastern sky by the time the last of the stragglers arrived and the nation was once more a single great column. They had made it across the obstacle. No nomads had attacked. They began to congratulate themselves.

Their relief was premature. When the first blood-red sliver of the rising sun cleared the eastern mountains, the nomads fell upon them.

The Mikku, familiar with the wadi, had ridden hard and crossed it at a low point farther down. They caught the elves with their backs to the dry riverbed. Of Taranath and the rear-guard cavalry, there was no sign, only more and more Khurs. Like ants converging on a dying serpent, riders emerged from a screen of low trees and charged. Only forty yards separated them from the elves, so they hadn’t room to gain much momentum. They were counting on swords, rather than the impact of their galloping horses, to drive the laddad nation to its death over the steep side of the wadi.

Gilthas, at the head of his people, had just cleared a stand of juniper and seen the pass into Inath-Wakenti ahead when the sounds of battle reached him. Joy evaporated in an instant. Despite all his people’s sacrifices, the nomads had caught up with them.