Simralin is fighting to reach the King, but she is already too late. The last of the Home Guards are cut down, and the once–men fall on Arissen Belloruus like wolves. The King disappears beneath
There is nothing Simralin can do. She backs away, calling the rest of the Elves to her, those she can still see amid the carnage, those who are still standing. Maybe half are able to reach her, breaking clear of their attackers. The rest are lost in seconds, buried in the monstrous swarm of bodies that converge on them and bear them to the earth.
She retreats into the rocks with those who remain alive, and they turn their weapons on their attackers. There are so many of them by now that it is virtually impossible not to hit something, and dozens collapse as they surge toward the defenders.
“What do we do?” Chenowyn shouts in her ear.
Indeed. What is there to do? The King is dead and with him almost the whole of his command. Kirisin is safely away, and there is nothing left for the Elves who remain but to fight to save their own lives. A reasonable choice, but flight seems the better option.
“Fall back!” she shouts.
She leads them up into the rocks, through the narrow defiles and rugged terrain, knowing the best ways to go to keep the enemy from massing in pursuit. They may come after the Elves–indeed, they almost certainly will–but they will have to do it in ones and twos. That gives the Elves a chance. There are fewer than fifty of them now, and once they manage to put some distance between themselves and their pursuers, they can go to ground, can find places to hide where they will never be found.
But first they must get clear of the fighting.
For a time, it appears they will. The passage they follow is riddled with dead ends and side trails that go back the way they have come, and if you didn’t know the way, as she did, you would become quickly lost. Their pursuit falls away and then disappears entirely. They continue to climb into the mountains, and she knows that when they reach the high desert beyond, they will be able to use the ravines and ridgelines to hide themselves as they make their way eastward. They will not turn south until they are safely clear of the roads that Kirisin and Logan will have taken.
Those roads are too easily discovered, and they would be run down before they reached Redonnelin Deep. Better to fade into the barren landscape beyond, where trails are much harder to find and tracks may be more easily disguised.
“We’ve lost them,” Chenowyn declares with a grin after they have crested the mountains and can see the eastern slopes and the desert beyond.
Indeed, they have. But the demons that control the army have thought ahead to this and sent winged creatures to track them. The creatures swoop down in attack not a mile beyond the rim, when they are still descending the exposed rocky slopes of the higher elevations. They rip and tear at the Elves, who try in vain to protect themselves. The winged creatures are swift and their strikes precise. Several of the Elves are wounded and one is killed before their attackers fly back the way they have come.
Simralin knows what will happen next, and there is no defense against it if they stay together.
“We must separate into smaller groups,” she tells them. “No more than half a dozen each. Then we must fan out and go to ground. The winged things will guide the once–men to where we are, if we give them the chance. We do better by separating. Stay hidden until nightfall, then make your way north to the river. Track it east until you find the camp or signs of its passage. Track it from there to those who will be helping Kirisin.”
They embrace, all of them, before setting out. They do not know which of them will survive this. Some will not. Some will never be seen again.
Eliasson takes one group and is gone. Chenowyn chooses to stay with Simralin. She is not a leader and has no desire to start learning to be one now. With another three in tow, they head directly east into the badlands of the high desert, working their way quickly across a long stretch offlats to where fissures and upheavals have changed the terrain into a jumble of ridges and ravines.
They travel through midday, and then Simralin takes them several miles down a dry wash strewn with small rocks. Before the wash ends, they climb out again and turn down a slide that leads to a carapace; here they find an overhang and take shelter.
They stay all night, peering into the darkness, listening to the silence. At one point, they hear screams, but the screams come from a long way off and it is impossible to determine their direction. They take turns standing watch. They wait to be discovered.
When morning dawns, though, they are still safe. Simralin goes out for a quick look and comes back right away. Smoke rises from several places west, closer to the mountains. The smell is of burning flesh. The winged creatures patrol the skies in ones and twos, visible in all directions, even east. They must stay where they are until it is dark again.
They pass the day in misery. The sun beats down on the empty terrain and turns it into a furnace. The air is so stiflingly hot and dust–filled that they choke on it when they breathe. They have almost nothing to eat or drink, but they share what they have. Simralin knows where to find water farther north, but it is a long journey. She knows, as well, where they can find another of the hot–air balloons the Trackers have stashed across the Cintra and north. But the balloon is slow and cumbersome, and it is no match for the winged creatures if they spy it.
She tells the others she has made a decision. When night comes, they must leave their hiding place. If they stay, they risk discovery. Hiding is no longer an option. The once–men are actively hunting them, using the flying creatures to ferret them out. Worse, they have almost no food or water left, and the circle of predators is tightening. They cannot risk staying where they are. Their choice is simple: they can try to reach water, or they can try to reach the hot–air balloon.
Her companions choose the balloon. Anything that will get them away from the Cintra quickly.
When it grows dark, she leads the others out from their hiding place and onto the flats. The sky is clear and filled with stars, but the moon hangs low and distant against the horizon, reduced to a tiny sliver. The balloon is perhaps three days off, if they travel steadily. She chooses a route that takes them east through the high desert and away from the larger body of their hunters. The flying creatures, if they sight them, will not be able to bring the once–men right away. But she knows, as well, that any sighting is probably the end of them. Once seen, they can be tracked from the air until help arrives, no matter how long it takes.
They travel single–file through the night. She stops them frequently to check for the flying creatures, but sees no sign of them. In the darkened sky, nothing moves. On the landscape about them, nothing moves. They are alone with their thoughts and one another.
Still, she is not comfortable that they are safely clear.
And she wonders about their companions, the ones from whom they separated, gone other ways,
THEY FIND new SHELTER as the dawn nears and go to ground for another day. They have nothing to eat or drink. The heat is unbearable, and their thirst acute. They sit waiting for the day to pass, miserable and despairing. The journey to reach the balloon will take another two days, and they are already weak and exhausted. It is questionable if they will be able to finish the trek.
At midday, Simralin goes out to look around. The sky is clear, the land empty of life. There is no sign of the winged hunters. She settles on a fresh course of action. This is country she knows. She decides to leave the others long enough to hunt for water. If she is lucky, she will come upon food, as well. The greatest danger lies in not being able to find her way back. But she is a skilled Tracker, and she is certain she will be able to do so.