“I am Balif!” he declared. His voice was rough and low, but distinct and recognizable. “I slew your chief and your chief’s son. By right of combat I am your chief now!”
“Beast!” someone cried. “Monster!”
“Yes, I am a beast. I am also master of this land!” He held out his spear point first and swept his arm in a wide circle. “All this I claim for myself and my people.”
“What people, beast?”
He gestured at the crowd of kender and centaurs behind him. The Longwalker proudly took his place at Balif’s side.
“Here is the chief of my people. This land is theirs. Any who wishes to dispute this may challenge my right with his blood!”
Mathi trembled. She never imagined the enemy of her kind could be so noble or so valiant. Oh, she had heard the tales of Balif’s wit and valor, but she had always been taught that Silvanesti were vain, spoiled creatures, cruel and cold. He was not the Balif she saw now. Wracked by an all-consuming curse, the general had rallied enough to stand and speak, and to challenge his enemies to face him singly. Brave warriors all, the nomads had seen how Balif had defeated Bulnac and Varek. They understood they were not dealing with a trained animal like their hunting dogs, but an accursed elf of power and intelligence. They kept their distance.
“What are you?” a human voice demanded, albeit with respect
Balif put his hand on the Longwalker’s shoulder to steady himself. His body had been shaped and re-shaped, and standing was not easy.
“I am Balif, protector of the Wanderfolk.”
“You killed our great chief!”
“The fight was fair. Who says it was not?” No one replied.
Sunlight brightened the scene. In all the furor no one had noticed the dawn approaching. Balif averted his face from the new day’s glare. It hurt his eyes.
“Go and trouble this land no longer!” he said, wincing. “So long as Balif lives, this land shall belong to the Wanderfolk!”
Many of the nomads, already disheartened by the death of Bulnac, lowered their arms and walked away. Firebrands among them tried to rouse their fighting spirit and rally the others, but the slow decay of their morale rapidly became a full-scale collapse. Too many of them had no reason left to fight. They were used to roaming a wide range, grazing their herd animals and raiding their settled neighbors. Following Bulnac, they expected rich plunder and easy adventure. What they had got was endless miles of plain and forest, feisty little people and warlike centaurs. Bulnac paid for his ambition with his life. His men, a great many of them at least, preferred not to do the same.
In time even the stalwarts decided to withdraw. They backed away, glaring balefully at the weary defenders of Balif’s redoubt. No one bothered them so long as their direction was down the hill.
Mathi came to Balif. “Rejoice, my lord!”
Still in view of the humans, Balif stayed standing. He opened one eye against the sunlight to see her. Mathi was startled to see that his eye was yellow-green, with a vertical slit pupil like a cat’s.
“Why should I rejoice?” he rasped.
“You have just founded a new nation.”
“No.” He shuddered. “I shed blood. This one will found a nation.”
So saying, he let go of the Longwalker’s shoulder and collapsed. Treskan rushed over. Balif lay on his side, twitching uncontrollably. The centaurs and most of the kender were coming.
Mathi grasped the Longwalker by his vest. “Keep them away,” she whispered. “Don’t let them see him like this!”
Serius Bagfull nodded and went to intercept the jubilant defenders. He spread his arms wide and declaimed about the new day, how it was the dawn of a new nation for their people. Listening with half an ear, Treskan pronounced the Longwalker a true politician. The kender leader knew what to say and when to say it.
Mathi spread a cloak over Balif. The general was trembling as though with fever; the corners of his eyes and his lips were stained with a strange black liquid. She feared for Balif’s life. Was he dying? If so, there was nothing Mathi could do about it.
Horns blared in the woods far down the slope. Fearing a return of the nomads, the kender panicked and fled to far end of the bluff. Zakki and his comrades, reduced to just five, fought to escape the flood of little people bearing them away from the line of stakes.
Mathi rose, looking for Lofotan. The valiant old warrior had made himself scarce when Balif appeared. Alerted by the horns, he had joined the centaurs with bow in hand. His last sheaf of arrows lay at his feet.
The clash of arms reached up from the trees. No one understood. Were the nomads fighting each other? It was possible. Humans were by nature very fractious, and nomads in particular were always ready to fight each other if no other enemy was available.
The horns sounded again, louder and closer. Lofotan stiffened. He lowered his bow.
“Those are brass horns,” he said, puzzled. Nomads used rams’ horns
The truth dawned. Treskan spoke for all when he cried, “Silvanesti!”
They could make out nothing from the hilltop. A great thrashing and crashing filled the woods, punctuated by shouts and the clang of metal. Zakki wanted to run down the hill and see what was going on, but Lofotan restrained him. If there were elves below, they might not know that the centaurs were allies.
Mathi had no such worries. She vaulted through the line of stakes and sprinted down the bloody hill. Lofotan called to her, but she waved the elf’s words away and kept going. The hillside was a maelstrom of kender pits, slain horses and men, lost arms and spent arrows. Near the bottom, by the spot where they had cut so many saplings, she paused.
Riders in bright bronze armor rode through the trees trading blows with nomad warriors. There were a lot of them, at least as many as the humans, and they steadily drove Bulnac’s men back. Mathi heard a peculiar roar overhead. A shadow passed over her. She looked up and saw griffons in the sky, wheeling and diving. There was no doubt who the newcomers were. Only Silvanesti rode griffons.
The thick green woods screened the nomads from aerial assault, but the sight and smell of griffons terrified their horses. They pitched their riders and bolted, half-mad to escape their ancestral enemies. With that, the third and last battle of the day was over.
The horse-riding elves pursued the fleeing foe, but the griffon riders circled back to the summit and landed. Mathi mopped sweat from her face and went up the hill to meet them.
They were splendid figures, the griffon riders. Chosen for their dexterity, grace, and slimness, they were the most elegant warriors Mathi had ever seen. Unlike cavalry or foot soldiers, they wore armor only on their lower limbs, a helmet, and close-fitting cream-colored silk garments with gold or scarlet sashes. Their weapons were very long, slender lances made of some translucent material-glass, or rock crystal elongated by some secret technique of the elves.
The griffon riders remained mounted. As Mathi approached, the fierce creatures spread their wings and clawed the ground with their taloned forefeet. They knew instinctively that she was not what she appeared to be. Mathi halted well out of reach of the keen, cold-eyed griffons.
“Greetings!” she said. “Your arrival is most timely!”
The griffon riders did not answer. Their mounts screeched and bobbed their heads in a very distracted manner. The nearest rider, who had the tallest crest on his helmet, addressed Mathi. His voice was muffled by the nasal bar and wide cheek pieces of his headgear.
“Who are you, that our griffons regard you as an enemy?”
The smile melted on Mathi’s face.
“My name is-”
“Mathani Arborelinex. Yes, I know. But who are you?”
The Silvanesti knew her name? That was perplexing. Mathi explained that she had been in the wilderness many days, hobnobbing with centaurs, humans, and kender. No doubt they all rubbed off on her a bit.