Gilthas inhaled deeply the dry, overheated air. His sandaled toe nudged a broken amphora. The golden olive oil inside was gone, lost to the insatiable sand.
“How far to the nearest of those peaks?”
“Broken Tooth is nine miles away, Great Speaker,” replied Planchet.
“And how far is the last peak from Inath-Wakenti?”
No one knew. As Gilthas returned to his officers, there was a flurry of activity as maps were produced and consulted. Planchet reported, “From the westernmost peak, Pincer, the mouth of Inath-Wakenti appears to be twenty-five to thirty miles away.”
“That’s a broad range.” In the desert, five miles could easily mean the difference between survival and destruction.
Planchet assured him they would refine the calculations. Gilthas studied the map Planchet held for him then announced his decision.
“We will go to the first pinnacle. We will occupy each spire in turn, using it as a fortress against the desert tribes.”
The sun was sinking in the west. Gilthas returned to his horse, and Planchet went with him. Watching them ride away, one of Hamaramis’s younger officers made a disparaging remark about the Speaker’s wits. The old general whirled and struck the offender with his gauntleted hand. The elf hit the ground, blood trickling from his lip.
“How dare you!” Hamaramis rasped. Heat and the shouting of commands had taken a toll on his voice, but fury was clear in every hoarse word. “The heir of Silvanos is not to be insulted!”
The young officer, a Silvanesti protégé of the late Lord Morillon, arose with much wounded pride. “I ask forgiveness,” he said stiffly. “But you yourself said going there would be like jumping into prison.”
“So it may be. And if the Speaker commands it, jump we will!”
The chastened captains dispersed to their waiting troops. General Taranath remained with Hamaramis. “You fear this development?” Taranath asked, his gaze following the insolent Silvanesti.
Hamaramis shrugged, wincing at the pain in his shoulders. “It’s difficult to know the future. I am no seer,” he rasped.
“I said that once to Hytanthas Ambrodel. His reply was, ‘The future always arrives, whether we want it or not.’”
“I miss young Hytanthas. One of many fine officers we’ve lost.”
Taranath did not correct the old general. Hytanthas had been sent by the Speaker to find his missing wife. No word had come from him in months, but as far as anyone knew, Hytanthas was not dead.
A ragged blare of trumpets brought the mass of exhausted elves to their feet. They prepared to resume their trek.
Hamaramis and Taranath solemnly clasped hands. This close to destruction, each parting felt like the final one.
They succeeded in achieving the heights. As Planchet’s scouts had reported, the Lion’s Teeth were scalable, especially for those as motivated and agile as the elves. For days they had been clinging to the windy fortresses. Days of scalding sun, chill nights, and an ever-shrinking water supply. Two-thirds of the elves, including the Speaker and Planchet, camped on Broken Tooth. A much smaller band was dug in on the much steeper neighboring peak, Lesser Fang. Beyond them, the remaining elves had taken refuge on Chisel. By means of signal mirrors, those on Chisel notified the Speaker they had found a small spring bubbling in a cleft on the pinnacle’s side. It was difficult to reach in the best of conditions and nearly impossible under the constant sniping of nomad archers, but Taranath, in command of the elves on Chisel, rigged a chain of leather buckets to haul water from the spring under cover of darkness. Those on Chisel would not go thirsty but had no way of sharing their life-giving find.
Daily the desert floor around the pinnacles echoed with the sounds of battle. General Hamaramis and the remaining cavalry fought to keep clear the gaps between the steep mountains. The nomads no longer sought or accepted pitched battle. Instead they tried to ambush small parties of elf warriors, sniped at the peaks with arrows, then vanished into the blazing desert when Hamaramis brought the weight of his army to bear. The Speaker ordered bonfires burned atop the peaks every night. The bonfires served a dual purpose: not only dissuading the nomads from sneak attacks, but signaling to the elves on the adjacent peaks that their comrades were holding out.
One night, just before midnight, the beacon atop Lesser Fang went out. Word was sent to the Speaker, and he convened a hasty council. It was held atop the cairn they had constructed on Broken Tooth. The cairn afforded them an unobstructed view of the black outlines of Lesser Fang, Chisel, and Great Fang. Great Fang, highest of the pinnacles, blocked any view of Ripper and Pincer beyond.
“Perhaps they ran out of fodder for the flames,” said a Silvanesti councilor. Oil was more precious than steel at that moment, and little wood could be had for fires. Dried dung was the usual fuel in the desert.
“We cannot assume that,” Planchet said. The warriors around him murmured in solemn agreement.
“You’ve heard nothing?” Gilthas asked.
“Nothing at all, sire.”
The human blood in his ancestry meant Gilthas’s senses were not quite as acute as those of a full-blooded elf. If Planchet and the others did not hear anything from Lesser Fang, then there was nothing to be heard. Despite that, Gilthas leaned forward over the rickety wooden railing atop the cairn platform and peered into the blackness toward Lesser Fang. He strained to see until tears came to his eyes, but neither sight nor sounds reached him.
“We must know!” he said, driving a fist into his palm. Not for the first time, he wished for the presence of a mage or seer. Since the elves’ exile, these had been in short supply, targeted by both the minotaurs and the Knights of Neraka to blind the elves’ resistance and spread fear and despair.
Two young warriors volunteered to go to Lesser Fang, to find out what had happened. The peak was only a quarter of a mile away, but the two would have to descend Broken Tooth, cross open desert, then climb the steep side of the neighboring peak, all in darkness while evading vigilant nomads.
Gilthas saw no other option. He warned the ardent young elves not to waste their lives. “If the enemy has taken the mountain, come back at once. Don’t attempt a rescue. Come back and report what you find to me.”
They saluted and hurried away. The ever-present wind atop the peak freshened, swirling around the cairn. Gilthas coughed. The spasm didn’t stop, but grew stronger. Faithful Planchet laid a hand on his shoulder.
“You are ill, sire.”
Gilthas shook his head, drawing a shaky breath. “It’s only the chill night air. It dries my throat.”
The valet didn’t believe that for a moment, but it did give him a reason to urge the Speaker to leave the exposed sentinel post. The two of them descended, but Gilthas would not return to camp.
“I will remain here, in the lee of the cairn,” he said.
His tone told Planchet that the valet’s mothering would be tolerated so far but no further. Planchet gave in with good grace.
“An excellent idea. We will call you if there are any developments.” He climbed back up the stone pile.
Gilthas pulled his affre close about his throat. The coughing was becoming more and more difficult to stop once it began. Sometimes he coughed up flecks of blood.
He knew what ailed him. Consumption wasted the body and rotted the lungs. Legend held a consumptive grew more beautiful as death drew near. The glimpses he’d caught of his reflection told him he was not beautiful. He was a good fifteen pounds lighter than when he had dwelt in Khurinost. His eyes were heavily shadowed, yet red rimmed, and despite the sunburn on nose and cheeks, his pallor had grown markedly. No, certainly not beautiful, so he must still be full of life. But his cough was becoming more frequent, and his eyes were more sensitive to the brilliant light of the Khurish sun than they had been. Deep in his chest, there was a hollowness, a sort of dead emptiness, as if a block of wood rested there.