Paul Thompson - Destiny

The agonized confession choked off abruptly. He pushed a little away from her. She watched him gather his strength, drawing it around himself like a threadbare robe.

She regarded his shivering form for a few seconds then asked, “Do you trust me, Gil?” A wordless nod was his answer. “We cannot live in this valley unless its enmity to animal life is overcome. We don’t have the resources to overcome it. Lady Sa’ida is our best hope. I can go to Khuri-Khan and return in a day and a half. Give me your permission to go.”

“You’re always storming off somewhere. The missions are always vital. You don’t value your life enough, Ken-li. When you rode out of Khurinost to face the nomads, I thought you were going to die.”

That had been her goal at the time, although he didn’t know it. She’d overcome that bit of madness.

“Now you want to go away again.” He sighed, eyelids drooping. “I’m in no condition to stop you.”

She rested a hand on his cheek. “You are my sovereign. You can stop me with a single word.”

Light sparkled briefly in his eyes. “If only I could find that word.” The eyelids came down, and the spark was gone. “You may go.”

Sleep stole him away. Kerian remained beside his pallet a long time. Several times his breathing went so shallow that she thought it had ceased, but her hand on his chest still felt the slow beat of his heart.

“I am your wife,” she said, although she knew he couldn’t hear. “And I will return.”

Two riders picked their way through the debris of the nomad camp. The man wore brown trews and boots, and his leather jerkin concealed a mail shirt. His sword he wore openly. His dark hair had grown long and was grizzled at the sides. The woman was fifteen years younger. She wore her hair in a single black braid that reached the middle of her back. Her outfit was much like his but black instead of brown. A crossbow of unusual design rested across the pommel of her saddle.

Breetan Everride, Knight of the Lily, and sergeant Jeralund had traveled a very long way to reach this point. They had come from Qualinesti by foot, by ship, and by horse, pursuing a legend in the making. Their quarry was the stranger who had emerged from the depths of the forest in the former elf kingdom. He had incited a rebellion against the bandit lord Samuval with startling success. Although he was covered from head to toe by a rough robe, gloves, and a mask that bared only his eyes, they had reason to believe him to be an elf of good birth.

When the efforts of that troublemaker came to the attention of the Knights of Neraka, Breetan was sent to collar him. Her command was wiped out but for a handful of men, including the sergeant, who had dubbed the rebel leader “Scarecrow” for his ragged appearance. Breetan’s superiors had given her one chance to redeem her failure: find the Scarecrow and kill him before the revolt he had inspired consumed all of Qualinesti.

She thought she had him cornered in the Skywall Peaks south of Qualinesti, but he managed to flee on a griffon before she could put a crossbow bolt through his heart. From one of the elves he’d left behind, Breetan learned the Scarecrow’s destination. The answer was puzzling. The griffon riders were making for a spot in far northern Khur near the mountain range that separated the desert kingdom from Neraka.

Puzzled or not, Breetan had maintained the chase. Her burning haste cost them a fine saddle horse apiece just getting to the west shore of the New Sea. A fast ship carried them to the far end of the sea. On land again, skirting the western edge of the Khurish desert, Breetan found nomads who loved Nerakan money more than they hated Nerakan Knights. They told her the exiled elves had left behind their sanctuary at Khuri-Khan, crossed the desert, and taken refuge in a valley known variously as Alya-Alash, Valley of the Blue Sands, and the Silent Vale. Whatever its name, it was located in the northernmost reaches of Khur—the very place the Scarecrow and his griffon riders were reputedly going. So there she and the sergeant were, many days and many miles later.

Nothing usable remained in the wreckage of the camp. What hadn’t burned had been scavenged. Dead horses lay where they had fallen. Broken arrows and shattered swords littered the stony ground. A rubble stone wall ran straight as an arrow across the pass, yet it could not have been intended as a defensive work. It was incomplete. The ruined nomad camp lay between one unfinished end and the west side of the pass. No wonder the Khurs had been routed. Well-trained elf cavalry sweeping around the head-high wall would put any barbarians to flight.

Jeralund dismounted and picked through the debris for clues. Breetan rode slowly along the wall. The dead had been removed, but the amount of blood spilled on the stones gave ample evidence of the fight that had raged. Near the end of the wall, she reined up. The desert stretched out ahead, shimmering in the pitiless sun. It was only midmorning, and already she felt as though she’d been hung over a fire to roast. She pulled her wide-brimmed Khurish grass hat lower on her head and pulled away the loosely woven linen strip that protected her eyes from the sun’s glare. The sand around her was churned with the prints of horses and human feet, but the trail leading away was obvious. Defeated at the valley mouth, the nomads had fled into the realm they knew, the great wasteland.

Her appraisal was interrupted by an odd sound: the clatter of stone on stone. It came from somewhere to her right. She rode toward the sound, gripping the wrist of the crossbow with her free hand.

In a hollow behind a sandy knoll, she found a lone man. He knelt amid scattered stones, piling rocks onto a new cairn. By its size and length, Breetan knew it for a grave. Alert for ambush, she gave in to her curiosity and urged her horse down the sand drift. She circled around so when she halted, the sun was behind her.

“Greetings,” she said. “What happened here?”

He glanced up from under his wide-brimmed hat then resumed stacking stones. “One of many pointless battles,” he replied. “This is the grave of the last to fall.”

“A kinsman?”

“My clan, my tribe. The Weyadan.”

The intricacies of Khurish relations did not interest Breetan. She asked the Khur whether he’d seen any elves.

“Who wants to know, Neraka?”

Apparently her accent was clear enough, even if her garb was that of a western rover.

“I am Breetan Everride, Knight of the Lily. I seek a laddad wanted for crimes committed against my Order.”

“Your law means nothing here.” Two more rocks thunked into place. “This is a land of hard edges, where right and wrong are always clear—even if men and women choose not to see them.”

Breetan drew a purse from her belt and tossed it at his feet. The rattle of coins within was unmistakable. “Perhaps steel will encourage a change in your philosophy. The laddads are in the valley, yes?”

“Whether one or one hundred, it is only laddad.”

He went back to work on the grave, and Breetan gave up on amiable persuasion. She leveled her crossbow at his right thigh. “Whether whole or lame, you will answer me, Khur,” she said, mocking his elaborate manner of speech.

He pushed himself to his feet and doffed his hat. His eyes were grey. None of the nomads she’d encountered thus far had such odd, pale eyes.

“The laddad went into the valley twenty days ago,” he said.

Jeralund appeared atop the dune. He gestured for the young knight to join him. Breetan lowered the heavy repeating bow. From all she knew, the Khurs always had been willing friends of Neraka. And they had little love for the elves.