CHAPTER 19
When the funeral pyre of their chief burned out, the nomads took up their arms and prepared to avenge his death by destroying the stubborn defenders of Balif’s bluff.
Three times they came before sun-up. Their first thrust was mounted. The nomads formed at the foot of the hill and slowly ascended without battle cries. They came to grief when their horses stepped on the flimsy lids of the kender’s tunnels. Many riders were overthrown, and the rest stopped in confusion, certain the land was pocked with pits deliberately designed to trap their horses. The first attack was called off. Back down the hill went the nomads, to reform for another assault, this time on foot.
Inside the tunnels, the kender took the sudden breakthrough of horse hooves as an indication they were the target of the attack. Faster than you could say ‘Rufus Wrinklecap,’ they abandoned their holes, pouring out on the dewy turf at the top of the hill. Lofotan hurriedly tried to work them into companies of a hundred each, but he could never get an accurate count. As soon as one company was mustered, the elf moved on to the next, only to find many of the same kender lining up. They denied it, of course, but Lofotan gave up. He told the Longwalker to keep his people behind the stakes and have at any humans who came their way.
Mathi brought water and food-what little there was-to the supply tent after dark. Balif huddled inside, nursing his wounds. Any attempt by Mathi to enter the tent was met with snarls and swipes of his formidable claws. Thereafter she kept a vigil outside, ready to respond to any need the general might express. From time to time she was spelled by Treskan, who had acquired an ugly cut on his face and assorted bruises.
He was joined outside the tent by Rufe, who appeared out of nowhere and sat cross-legged on the ground next to Treskan. He nodded to Rufe. Rufe nodded back. Neither spoke for a long time.
“Looks like you won’t be getting the horse we owed you,” Treskan said.
“Eh? Why not?”
He smiled ruefully. “Always stout-hearted, aren’t you?”
Morning peepers sang to them. Out of nowhere Rufe asked the scribe where he came from.
“Woodbec,” he said
“Is that on the south coast?” asked Rufe.
“No, inland.”
Rufe gave a him probing glance. “Will you be going back there?”
“Yes, sooner than I thought.”
“Tell them my name,” said Rufe. Treskan didn’t understand, so Rufe repeated, “Tell the people of your home my name. That way when I come to visit, they’ll know who I am.”
Treskan smiled. “I shall do that.”
The warning “Here they come!” went up from the wall. In the lull since Bulnac’s duel, the defenders had thrown up a flimsy barrier of tree limbs to bridge the unfinished line of stakes. Mathi ran up, carrying spare spears and a helmet for Treskan.
Rufe got up, dusted the seat of his pants, and walked toward the makeshift barricade.
“Where are you going?” Mathi said.
“Where I am needed.”
Mathi suddenly felt concern for the little man. She wondered if she would ever see him again.
The nomads came tramping up the hill on foot, stopping frequently to inspect open kender holes. Some had the bright notion of turning the tunnels against their makers, but the shafts were too narrow to admit bulky humans.
Lofotan flung arrows at them. He had only two sheafs of arrows left of the supply they had packed from Silvanost, a hundred arrows in all. The centaurs had even fewer. They held their missiles until the nomads were in range of their weaker bows. Lastly the Longwalker’s kender piled up projectiles for their hoopaks, slings, and what diminutive bows they possessed. Their range was short, but in the last critical moment of a charge, they could add a critical weight to the defenders’ barrage.
The humans were hampered by having to shoot their arrows uphill, but enough fell behind the stakes to make the defenders anxious. Every time a kender was injured, two or three of his comrades immediately bore him off to the far side of the hill. The slow but steady loss weakened the line. Mathi stalked among them, trying to convince them to return, but the kender evaded her outstretched arms and ignored her pleas.
“It’s our time!” the Longwalker shouted. A hail of strange missiles lashed the nomads. Mathi could swear she saw a bone white goat skull, complete with horns, hurtle at the enemy along with the stones and darts. The humans put their shields up. Flying junk rattled off them with considerable noise. Those with their chests exposed took a beating from Zakki’s centaurs. who shot them down easily.
Still the throng of nomads surged forward, reaching the stakes. They began pushing and pulling at the obstacle, even climbing the slanting poles to pull them down. The defenders backed up a pace, then another, until Lofotan was standing alone in front of everyone. Zakki galloped to him and begged him to retire. The elf nodded curtly, slung his bow over his shoulder, and drew his sword.
Treskan opened his collar and fished out his precious talisman. His mouth moved with unheard words-a prayer to his patron gods? Seeing about a thousand naked swords squeezing through the fence would make anyone pray. He closed his fingers tightly around the small golden trinket.
A dozen or so nomads peeled off from the main band and head for the supply tent. She shouted a warning, but no one could hear a single cry amidst the cacophony of battle. Mathi bared her sword and sprinted for the tent. Treskan saw her alarm and broke away to follow her. Halfway there it sank in what he was doing.
“I’m running toward twelve armed men carrying a sword! They’ll kill me-I’m not a warrior, I’m a historian!” he cried.
“I’m not a warrior either, so run more and talk less!” Mathi retorted.
The thought of Balif being overwhelmed by a mob of angry nomads put fire in her veins. Shouting and waving her blade, she tried to divert the men from the tent.
Four faced off against them. The rest slashed down the ropes and trampled the tent. They thrust their sword into any likely heap under the canvas. Converging on the center, they stabbed again and again. Then the bulge in the center of the fallen tent ripped apart, revealing Balif.
He had changed again. He had regained part of his elf nature. All along his beastliness had waxed or waned according to some arcane purpose known only to Vedvedsica. He had been fully beastlike for a while, but now Balif stood up like any elf or man. He was covered in fur still, but his frame was more normally configured. His sudden change in appearance startled the nomads, who hesitated. Seizing on their indecision, Balif grabbed a spear from the stock stored in the supply tent and impaled the closest warrior.
The reverse of fortune made the men rushing Mathi and Treskan halt and turn back. Mathi cried, “General! General, behind you!” Balif whirled, using the spear shaft to drive back anyone trying to ambush him from behind. Mathi found herself trading sword cuts (of all things!) with a distracted nomad who was busy watching Balif slash his comrades to pieces. Treskan swung his weapon like a crowbar, connecting with a nomad’s bearded face and laying him flat.
With four nomads dying in the dirt, the others gave up their attempt to slay Balif and fell back to rejoin the main attack. Mathi made her way to where Balif stood, shoulders hunched, staring at the retreating humans.
“My lord, are you all right?”
His head snapped around. A face that was definitely Balif’s glowered behind the fur.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Yes, my lord.” Panting, Mathi added, “Shall we rejoin the battle?”
He kicked through the tent wreckage and strode to where the nomad horde struggled to overcome the small band of defenders. The sight of the half-beast general, stalking to the forefront of the fight, distracted everyone. Actual fighting dwindled, then petered out. Both sides withdrew a few steps and gazed in wonder at the strange creature standing between them.