“I’m ready!” he yelled.
Sadira prepared for her next spell, making a small loop out of a piece of leather string. This she tossed in the elf’s direction as she spoke her mystic phrase. The loop vanished, and the elf rose off the ground. Sadira went to the line and pulled, bringing him the across the chasm as though he weighed nothing at all.
The elf arrived, an overbearing grin on his face. He was a huge man, standing fully two heads taller than Sadira. The light burnoose covering his frame did not conceal his barreled chest, and the thick forearms extending from the sleeves of his robe were heavily muscled. His silver hair hung over his back in an unruly tail that left his sharp-tipped ears completely exposed. Even by the standards of his race, the elf’s features were singularly gaunt and keen, with high spiked brows, a nose as thin as a dagger blade, and a pointed chin. The sorceress wondered if he were ill, for his flesh was pallid and his gray eyes framed by dark circles of exhaustion.
As the elf stepped onto solid ground, a large purse of metal coins jingled under his robes. To Sadira, it sounded as though he were carrying a considerable fortune on his person. A distrustful light flashed in the elf’s eyes, and she realized that her expression had betrayed her astonishment. She quickly lowered her brow.
“Thanks for your aid,” she said, hoping her smile would not betray how ill-at-ease she felt in the elf’s presence.
He returned her gesture, though his smile seemed far from sincere. “My tribesmen are your servants,” he said, bowing so deeply that water sloshed from the jug’s mouth. The elf’s gray eyes bugged out. “By the sun, I am careless!”
He tried to catch what he had spilled by swinging the bottom of the vessel downward and shoving the mouth under the stream of falling liquid. The elf succeeded only in striking a stone, knocking a large hole in the jug and splashing its contents over the ground. Sadira leaped forward and scratched at the wet sand in a vain attempt to salvage a few gulps of water, succeeding only in scraping the skin from her knuckles. She looked up at the elf.
“You did that on purpose!” she rasped, barely able to squeeze the words from her aching throat.
The elf looked hurt. “Why would I do such a thing?” he asked. “Water is too precious. I might as well throw my silver into the canyon!” He waved his free arm at the chasm.
“You might as well throw yourself in,” Sadira commented sourly, snatching the jug from his hands. “I’m well versed in the ways of elves. You want something from me, and until you get it, you’ll keep having ‘accidents’ with the water I need.”
The elf frowned. “Is that any way to speak to your savior?”
“You haven’t saved me yet,” Sadira answered. She held the jug to her cracked lips and tipped her head back. A few dregs of water, drops clinging to the interior walls, trickled down her throat.
“But I shall,” the elf said. He went to the canyon edge. “We have plenty of water over there.”
“And how will you bring it over here?” Sadira asked, throwing the ruined jug into the abyss.
He gave her a gray-toothed grin. “Perhaps you could bring over one of my warriors?”
“And then another, and another, after that, until I’ve brought the whole tribe over,” Sadira concluded.
The elf nodded. “That would be kind of you.”
“Forget it,” Sadira said. “You’re the only one I had the strength to bring over today. If you hadn’t wasted the water, it might have been possible for me to bring the rest of tribe over tomorrow.”
“Come now, surely you can-”
“I can’t use that spell again until tomorrow,” Sadira said, twisting her cracked lips into a sardonic smile. “But as you can see, I’ll be dead before then.”
The elf’s grin vanished. “I’m trapped here?”
“Not at all,” Sadira said, gesturing across the chasm. “You’re free to leave when you like.”
The elf studied the sorceress with a mistrustful scowl, then stepped away from the rim and hopped into the air. When he dropped back to the ground, he smiled and wagged a long finger at her. “You are a brave woman to make jokes at a time like this,” he said, kneeling at her side. “Let me look at your wounds.”
Sadira allowed him to examine her shredded legs.
“These are not so bad,” he said, indicating the thorn wounds. He shifted his attention, to her arm. “But this …” He let the sentence trail off, shaking his head.
The elf suddenly reached up and, pushing away Sadira’s interfering hand, undid the belt she had tied around her arm. The whole limb erupted into agony as circulation returned to it, and blood began to ooze from its cuts. Screaming in pain, Sadira shoved her tormentor away.
“Give me my belt,” she commanded, holding out her hand.
“Your arm must have blood or it will die,” the elf responded. He rose and threw the leather strap into the canyon.
“What good is it to have a live arm, if I bleed to death in an hour?” Sadira demanded.
“What good is it to live an hour, if your arm will kill you in a week?” the elf countered. He studied the sorceress’s savaged arm for a while longer, then asked, “Are you sure you can’t bring just one more person over the canyon?”
“I’m sure,” Sadira lied. Despite her thirst and her injuries, the sorceress thought it wisest to complete her negotiations before using any more magic.
“Pity,” said the elf, pulling off his burnoose. Beneath it, he wore a wide belt from which hung several heavy purses, a sheath containing a steel dagger, and his breechcloth. “In my tribe there is a windsinger who has healing powers. Perhaps I should have sent him over first.”
“But that wouldn’t have been prudent business,” Sadira finished for him.
“I didn’t realize your situation was so desperate,” the elf said, shrugging.
He stepped toward her, holding his huge burnoose by the sleeves and shaking it out. Unsure of his intentions, Sadira reached for her satchel. Her tormentor quickly moved to stop her, placing a huge foot on the sack.
“Why so afraid?” he asked, his lip turned up in a sneer that he may or may not have intended to be a smile. With exaggerated gentility, he placed the burnoose over her shoulders, covering the skin that was left exposed by her own tattered cape, and pulling the hood up over her head. “We must keep the sun off. You will live longer.”
“So I can bring your tribe across the canyon?”
“We only want to help, little one.” The elf cast a sad glance across the chasm. “Of course, I could do much more if my people were with us.”
The sorceress studied the elf for several moments. His sinewy body was fairly laced with knife scars, and there were other, more gruesome blemishes. If he had survived so many injuries, she suspected, the elf was telling the truth about his healer.
Even knowing that, however, Sadira hesitated to strike a deal. The enchantment she would have to employ was a complicated one that demanded more energy than she could summon without destroying another swath of land, and she was not sure she was prepared to commit such an act again. Her mentor had often chastised her for stretching her powers or sorcery to their limits, but until the fight with Nok, Sadira had never resorted to an intentional and massive degradation of the land.
Though the sorceress believed she had been justified in saving herself then, the present issue was less clear. Nok had been an imminent danger, but the threat now was not immediate. If she resorted to defiler magic to save herself from eventual death, would she use it out of simple convenience the next time?
Yet, her only other choice was to die. Considering the difficulties and hardships she would undergo during the search for the Pristine Tower, and the dim likelihood of surviving without her magical cane, it might be best to accept her fate now. But if she did, a thousand Tyrian citizens would die with her, and a thousand more each time the Dragon returned. Tyr would be no different than it had been during Kalak’s reign.