“This runs down to the river bank?” asked the elf.
“Dug it myself,” Rufe vowed.
“Can we fit in there?”
Mathi squinted at the narrow hole. It looked possible, but it was not an experience she really desired.
“Doesn’t matter,” Lofotan said, standing. “Zakki and his kind can’t possibly get through such a small tunnel. We can’t abandon them.”
They had been discussing what to do about Bulnac’s ultimatum. The mass of nomad horsemen remained at the tree line, waiting for the order to attack. No one believed the ruthless chieftain would really allow them to go. They had caused him too much trouble and deeply injured his pride. No one doubted that once they were out of their defenses, Bulnac’s men would slaughter them.
“We could jump,” Mathi mused, eyeing the river forty yards below. “If the water is deep enough-”
“This much,” Rufe replied, holding a hand a few inches over his head. Not nearly enough to break a fall from so high a place as the cliff.
“Then we shall die together, fighting as honorable warriors!” Zakki declared. Lofotan seemed resigned to just that fate. Treskan fondled his talisman and said little about fighting or fleeing.
“Whatever happens, let your people disperse,” the elf told the Longwalker. “No sense getting them all killed. Live to fight another day, you understand?”
“That is what we do, noble captain,” the kender said. He was remarkably calm about the danger hanging over them. It was probably because he had a foolproof exit already worked out, Mathi privately decided.
They returned to the summit of the hill as the sun reached its zenith. Two hours remained. Mathi broke out the last of Artyrith’s nectar, giving each defender his own bottle. Lofotan questioned the wisdom of that, but the centaurs broke off the bottles’ necks and guzzled the amber nectar happily. Treskan drank more decorously, but he plainly didn’t care if the nomads found him drunk or sober. Still disliking drink, only Mathi abstained.
The bottles were almost drained when there was a commotion down at the trees. Everyone went to the stakes and shaded their eyes to see what caused the disturbance. Four riders struggled out of the woods through the lines of horsemen already on watch. There was something on the ground between, something dark that rolled and lunged against the riders’ ropes. It didn’t take the defenders long to realize what it was.
The nomads had captured Balif.
They made their way up the hill, stopping frequently to maintain control of their furious captive. Ten yards from the stakes one of the nomads called out, “Elf! Elf, are you listening?”
Lofotan leaned on a slanting stake. “What do you want?”
“We got something of yours! This your beast?”
“No.”
The nomad was crestfallen. He had been looking forward to tormenting Lofotan with his captured property. Now that ugly pleasure had been denied him.
“Well, I guess you won’t mind if we skin it. It’s got a nice pelt.”
He drew a long knife. Mathi moved up behind Lofotan and put a hand to his shoulder. Still the old warrior said nothing.
“Hold him.”
The riders backed their horses, keeping their ropes taut. The knife wielder got down. Before he got within arm’s reach Mathi shouted, “No, wait!”
She spied Rufe out of the corner of his eye. She muttered, “Can your people in the tunnels get to him?” The kender held up his thumb.
“That’s my beast,” Mathi called. “He’s worth a lot to me. Don’t hurt him.”
The nomad laughed. “What’ll you give me to not cut him?”
“What do you want?”
He made a rude suggestion. Coloring, Mathi drew her sword, grip reversed, and threw it over the stakes. It was a good elf-forged blade, though plain in design.
“How about its life for that sword? It’s solid bronze, made in Silvanost!”
The nomad walked to where the blade lay, stuck point first in the soil. Just as he stretched out his hand to take it, four tunnels popped open around him and his comrades. In a flurry, the three riders were unhorsed. The captive beast tore off his bonds with his teeth. The nomad leader never reached the elf sword. Zakki put an arrow in his ribs. He folded like a Silvanesti chair, landing flat on his back. Faster than anyone could prevent it, the beast leaped on him and tore out his throat with his teeth.
Shocked, the remaining three nomads made a dash for the trees. Their spooked horses beat them there. Blood streaming from his jaws, the beast stood with his fore-paws on the dead man’s chest and roared at his former tormentors.
Lofotan gave Mathi a shove. “Go get him!”
“Aren’t you going to help?”
Face white, the elf snapped, “Get him before the savages come in force!”
Mathi slipped between the stakes. Hearing her footsteps, the beast whirled, teeth bared. She turned to stone.
“My lord,” she said evenly, “It is I, Mathi. Your sister.”
The creature, looking like the misbegotten offspring of a bear and a panther, tilted its head to one side and snarled. Mathi spared a glance down the hill. The nomads were coming to avenge their comrades.
“Sir,” she said, “come with me behind the stakes. The enemy is coming.” She wanted to say ‘you’ll be safe back there,’ but it was a lie she could not bring herself to speak.
Mathi held out her hand. If the beast pounced, she wouldn’t be able to get away before it tore her apart.
“Come, general. Be Balif just a little longer.”
Mention of his name had an odd effect on the creature. It got off its victim and slunk away in a wide circle, skirting Mathi as widely as it could. It did go through the stakes, and with a single sidelong glance at the other defenders, made for the supply tent. Balif vanished inside.
Lofotan shouted for Mathi to return. She picked up her sword and rejoined the little band of defenders.
Riders came up the hill, though not in attack strength. Perhaps forty men rode in tight formation to where the nomad slain by the beast lay. The centaurs leveled their bows, but Lofotan stayed them. Staring and muttering oaths, the nomads recovered the body and departed.
“What was that about?” Treskan wondered. Nomads were not usually so fastidious about their dead. The ones slain in the morning attack still lay on the hillside.
“I would say the bully with the knife was someone important,” the Longwalker said.
So he was. Less than an hour passed, and Chief Bulnac returned with his personal retainers. Mathi was amazed to see that the huge man had been weeping. He ordered his men to stay behind, and rode alone to the stake line. There he hurled a spear point first into the ground and cried, “I claim vengeance! Vengeance for the killer of my son!”
The Longwalker and his cronies began backing away as quietly as possible. Zakki’s fellows pulled on their death flowers-a centaur custom that involved putting on some item colored red. It didn’t have to be a flower. Usually a red scarf or scrap of red cloth would do. It meant they expected to die.
Lofotan took Mathi by the arm and whispered in his ear, “This is our chance!”
Bulnac repeated his challenge, his voice hoarse with grief.
“What do you mean?”
“He wants single combat with the killer of his son! I’ll fight him, and when I slay him, his followers may melt away in the greenwood!”
Mathi shook her head. “They’ll play bowls with our heads! What makes you think you can beat that giant anyway?”
“He’s only a human, and he’s blind with grief and anger.”
Before Mathi could protest further Lofotan stepped forward and said, “Here I am, savage. I am Lofotan Brodelamath, of House Protector, former captain of the host of the Great Speaker of the Stars, Silvanos Golden-Eye!”
Bulnac pointed his sword at him. “You shall die soon enough, elf, but first I drink the blood of my son’s killer! Where is the monster?” The other nomads had reported truly and told the chief how his son died.
Lofotan waved Bulnac’s threats aside and said, “You can’t take vengeance on an animal, fool. Fight me in single combat, if you dare.”