Shobbat opened his eyes. He did not go out to hunt until the night was well advanced, but something had disturbed his rest. He nosed the tent flap open. The camp slept. He sniffed deeply several times. The odors of wood smoke and charred meat interfered, but he caught the scent of blood, newly spilled, coming from the wall. Never taking his eyes from its dark bulk, he skirted the sleeping Adala and stalked toward the cairn. The smell of blood grew stronger the closer he came. His ears swiveled forward and back. Sounds came to him, sounds out of place in the sleeping nomad camp: the creak of harness leather, the deep breathing of horses on the move, and twice, the muffled clink of metal on metal.
In one bound he gained the top of the wall. There was movement to the northwest. A line of dark figures was coming through the gap. Although they were wrapped in cloaks and scarves, Shobbat’s beast-sharpened eyes detected the telltale glints of metal armor. The elves were on the move. He threw back his head and howled.
Adala awoke at once. She looked to the wall, expecting to see four sentinels. Instead, she saw the beast silhouetted in the pale starlight. He was galloping to and fro and howling as though he had gone completely mad. She pushed herself to her feet and ran to her banked campfire. She dropped a few handfuls of kindling onto the faintly glowing embers. The twigs blazed up.
A line of men leaped into view. They were on foot, leading horses. No, not men: laddad!
“To horse! To horse!” Adala cried. “The laddad are here!”
She ran through the camp, rousing everyone and rekindling campfires where she could. Worn out by the day’s work, most of her people hadn’t bothered to bank their fires; nothing remained but dead ash. Befuddled by sleep, her people were in disarray. They stumbled through the poorly lit camp to their horses but were forced to halt as arrows rained down from the night sky to land in front of them. They were cut off from their animals.
Alhana saw fires blooming in the semicircle of tents and knew surprise was lost. There was worse to come. Samar hurried back with an appalling report. Porthios had ordered the cavalry to attack. He intended to extinguish Adala’s followers once and for all. Alhana and the griffon riders were aghast, but Samar had seen no hesitation in the cavalry. Elves who’d fought their way to Inath-Wakenti through hordes of merciless Khurs had no compunction about obeying their leader’s ruthless order.
The griffon riders took flight. Alhana led them straight to the fore of the galloping warriors, hoping to prevent a massacre. The griffons landed amid the swirling melee. Taking advantage of their intervention, many nomads fled, abandoning everything but the clothes they wore, making a dash for the open desert.
Porthios strode through his thwarted cavalry, his ragged robe whipping around his legs.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“What are you doing?” Alhana replied, face pale as alabaster. “The archers had cut them off from their horses. You could have ridden away and left them behind. Why attack?”
“Dead humans cannot speak.”
Furious, Alhana jerked the reins and Chisa reared, scattering the nearby horses. Porthios did not flinch. “If you have no stomach for this war, you may rejoin the Puppet King,” he said bluntly.
She devoted a few seconds to calming her fractious griffon, using the time to get herself under control as well, then proclaimed, “I am going with you, Porthios, as your wife and your conscience. Do not try to evade me in either role!”
So caught up were the elves in the confrontation between husband and wife, none noticed Shobbat creeping along the wall. When the Golden griffons had swooped overhead, Shobbat flattened himself on the rocks and froze in place lest he be torn apart by their powerful talons. Then he was on the move again, resolved to strike. His target was not the laddad woman mounted on one of the terrible griffons, but the masked elf in front of her. His voice rang with cold command, as did the voice of Shobbat’s father, the khan. The masked one apparently was the leader of the laddad, and Shobbat intended to kill him. Moving with patient care, Shobbat crept closer and closer then gathered his rear legs. He sprang.
A hardwood shaft hit him in midflight, sending him crashing among frantic horses and hostile warriors. The arrow had come from the hard-faced elf mounted on the largest griffon.
Even an argument between Alhana and Porthios could not long interrupt Samar’s vigilance for his lady’s safety. He took aim to finish off the beast, but it scrambled away. Yowling horribly in pain, it zigzagged between the horses’ legs and was quickly lost in darkness.
The shock of the creature’s attack put an end of the argument. Porthios ordered the site cleansed of any evidence of the elves’ passage. Arrows were retrieved, tracks cleared away. What remained of the camp was put to the torch.
Warriors on the edge of the group noticed her first: a lone woman clad in a black geb. She walked slowly toward them. A donkey followed close behind her, although its reins hung free, dragging in the dirt. The elves watched her warily but allowed her to pass unhindered. She moved like a sleepwalker, eyes staring straight ahead, shuffling feet stumbling occasionally on loose stones. When she drew near, Alhana recognized her.
“Go back, Weyadan,” Alhana warned. “The fight is over.”
Her warning went unheeded. Adala kept coming. She veered toward Porthios. Drawing to a halt, the nomad woman said, “Faceless One, you were cursed by Those on High. Adala Fahim curses you too. By your bloody deeds, all shall know you for the insatiable monster you truly are!”
Porthios turned away from her in silent disgust.
“The lightning will take you,” Adala added and stared up at the night sky, waiting. Nothing happened. The night was cold and quiet but for the crackle of the fire consuming what remained of the camp. Those of Adala’s people who had survived the fight had fled into the desert. The Weyadan was alone.
The warriors, with Porthios at their head, turned their horses and rode away. The griffon riders lingered, awaiting their mistress. Alhana dropped a skin of water and a bundle of food for Adala. The nomad woman did not even look at them. Her unblinking gaze was focused on the departing Porthios, as if she could compel his destruction by her will alone. There was nothing more to be done for her. Alhana signaled the riders to fly.
The dust and ash churned up by griffon wings slowly settled. Adala sought her tent. Little Thorn clopped along patiently behind her.
Her tent had fallen but was unburned. Kicking at it, she wondered what Those on High intended for her now. How could she complete the wall by herself? A weaker person might have yielded to despair. Adala decided there was a greater plan at work, a plan so vast and complex she couldn’t see it yet. But she would.
Her fallen tent rippled, though no breath of breeze stirred. Little Thorn brayed.
The beast exploded from the collapsed tent, teeth bared and paws extended. He hit Adala and knocked her flat, rolling her over and over on the ground. His head thrust forward, and he sank his fangs into her throat. To ward off the valley’s cold, she wore several layers of cloth around her neck, and those stopped his teeth from piercing her skin. His four legs securely pinned her limbs.
“You,” he rumbled. “Sign is you. Now you die!”