By the time Sadira had gathered the power for her spell, a small group of halflings had moved to the edge of the field. Osa raised her sword and they raised their spears. Sadira grabbed a handful of pebbles from the ground and, uttering her incantation, threw them toward the warriors.
The stones shot past Osa with a loud clap of thunder. Each missile struck a target square in the chest, knocking the halfling off his feet and sending him sprawling to the ground in a spray of blood.
The sorceress had no chance to gloat over her victory, for another halfling cried out behind her. Sadira hazarded a glance over her shoulder and saw the silhouette of a warrior gesturing in her direction. Wasting no more time, the half-elf rushed to Osa’s side and pulled the mul into the sands. Together, they ran into the shadows of the large dune and stopped there to see what the halflings would do next.
“You throw rocks?” Osa asked, her eyes fixed on the halflings that the magical stones had killed.
Sadira nodded, wondering whether it would be better to sneak or run back to the campsite. Either way, there was no doubt that they should stay in the shadowy troughs between the dunes. Like half-elves, muls could perceive ambient heat when there was not enough light to see otherwise.
As Sadira was considering the problem, dozen of trills sounded from the other side of the field. She looked toward the sounds, but could see nothing beyond the open expanse of moonlit ground. The half-elf stepped farther into the shadows and lifted her cane.
“That sound like army, not hunting party,” said Osa, her thick voice too loud.
Although Sadira agreed with the mul’s conclusion, she was too stunned to say so. It appeared an entire tribe of halflings had come down from the mountains. Realizing that the caravan’s only hope of escape lay in her hands, Sadira lifted her cane. “Nok,” she whispered, activating its magic.
She felt the weapon begin to draw its energy from her body, and a purple glow twinkled to life within the obsidian pommel. At the same time, dozens of halfling warriors charged into the field. Sadira pointed the tip of the cane at them.
Before the sorceress could utter the name of her spell, Osa grabbed her arm. “Leave,” the mul ordered, dragging Sadira into the shadows. “We run.”
Sadira tried to pull free, but the woman’s grip was too powerful. “Let me go!” the sorceress yelled. “I can kill half of them now!”
If she heard Sadira’s protests, Osa gave no indication. Instead, still limping because of the javelin in her thigh, the mul dragged the sorceress into the darkness between the dunes. The halflings raced after the women, calling to each other in the chirping language of the forest spiders. Sadira wrapped the hem of her cloak over the cane pommel, masking the purple light that glimmered from its depths.
Even after Sadira’s elven vision had begun to work again, Osa did not release her. Instead, the mul kept her hand on the sorceress’s arm, leading the half-elf first into one dark trough and then down another. As they rushed past the walls of pink-glowing sand that enclosed them, Sadira was strangely conscious that the music in the campsite continued to play, its melody strained and worrisome.
Despite Osa’s evasive maneuvers, the halflings had little trouble following, tracking the two women by the soft patter of their feet. Each time the mul led the way through an intersection, a few halflings went down the second trough, sealing off any possibility that their quarry could circle back toward the caravan. Soon, the dunes were filled with the trilling of halfling warriors, and Sadira knew that she, at least, would be exhausted long before they could evade their pursuers.
After Osa had led them down what seemed the hundredth side trough, Sadira heard the twang of a bow. The blue streak of a tiny arrow flashed past her head, and the sorceress cringed with fear. Though the dart itself would cause a little injury, the last halfling arrow she had seen had been tipped with a powerful poison.
Another half-dozen bowstrings hummed, and more arrows flew toward Sadira and Osa. Fortunately, even halfling archers were not very accurate when firing on a dead run, and the darts all hissed harmlessly into the sand. Still, Sadira was far from relieved. It would not be long, she knew, before one of the shafts found its mark.
“We’ve got to do something,” Sadira hissed.
Knowing it was useless to call out to the earless mul, Sadira opted for direct action. As they approached the next intersection, the sorceress pumped her legs as fast as she could and slammed into the other woman’s back. Osa sprawled headfirst into the sand dune, dragging the half-elf down and hissing in pain as she banged the javelin still protruding from her thigh.
Sadira rolled onto her back and faced the halflings. Her maneuver had confused the warriors only momentarily, and those in front were already moving toward the sound of her labored breathing. The sorceress pointed her cane at them, allowing the hem of her robe to slip off its glowing pommel. The halflings swung their spears and tiny arrows in the direction of the purple light.
The warriors loosed their weapons in the same instant Sadira cried the name of her spell, “Clear-river!”
With a loud roar, a stream of force rushed from the sorceress’s cane. The invisible river hurled the spears and poison arrows back toward the halflings, then slammed headlong into the warriors themselves. The little men opened their mouths to scream, but their voices could not be heard above the raging torrent of magical energy. They stood against its current for only a moment, then were ripped from their feet and sent tumbling into the darkness.
A few moments later, after the river and its roar had finally died away, Sadira grew aware of Osa lying at her side. The mul woman was studying her with an expression that was equal parts awe and fear.
“Let’s go,” Sadira said, motioning toward the music from the camp.
Osa shook her head, her blank gaze fixed on the sorceress’s cane.
“I won’t hurt you,” Sadira said, speaking slowly so the deaf woman could read her lips. “I want to help the caravan.”
The expression returned to Osa’s eyes. Seeming to collect her wits, she said, “No. I send sentries back before Milo die.” The mul’s eyes grew sad for just a moment, then she clenched her teeth and fought her emotions back. “Wait here for better time.”
Sadira frowned in confusion, but nodded.
Osa smiled, then motioned at the steel dagger hanging on Sadira’s hip. “Let me borrow.”
The half-elf unsheathed her dagger and gave it to the mul woman. Osa immediately sat down and began cutting the barbed javelin from her wounded leg. Sadira turned away to stand guard, in case any of the halflings still scurrying through the dunes happened to stumble upon them.
A few minutes later, the distant melody of the ryl pipes grew louder and more inviting. The halflings fell silent, and the sorceress suddenly found herself shuffling toward camp. She tried to stop, but the song could not be denied. Her body swayed and rocked of its own accord, the music filling her head with colors and gripping rhythms that she could not chase away.
Osa came up beside Sadira and slipped the sorceress’s steel dagger back into its sheath. “Now we go,” she said, speaking with her usual thick-tongued loudness.
Through a rip in Osa’s sarami, Sadira saw that the woman had removed the spear and bandaged the wound with a strip of cloth. The mul still moved with a slight limp, though it was much less pronounced than when the javelin had been embedded in her thigh.