Sanctuary полностью

He ducked under the ridge pole and knelt in front of her, taking care not to spill the contents of the tin plate he carried. Only ripe olives, bread, and rice, all cold, but she made no comment on the poor fare.

Two days had passed since the laddad had escaped into the Valley of the Blue Sands. Adala had pitched her tent where she stood, and the rest of the nomad warriors camped around her, tending their wounded and burying their dead. Here they would remain until the elves returned.

Trouble was, they were not equipped for a long stay. They had only the food and water they happened to be carrying at the time of the battle, and nothing more. It was their tradition to fight light and unencumbered; siege warfare was not their style. The bulk of their supplies had been lost when the family camp was attacked.

Shortages appeared immediately. Inmost Khurish camps, each tent had its own fire, but the nomads had so little fuel, campfires were rationed to one per five tents. Traditionally, they burned cow or goat droppings, but they were far from their herds. Water was precious, and food scarce.

Adala went without a fire, though any warrior in her host gladly would have given up his fuel to her. She sat in her tent and sewed on a project of her own, her only illumination the starshine she collected in a concave silver mirror set in the open door.

“There’s no sign of the enemy,” Wapah reported. She nodded, but didn’t look up. Her fingertips were pricked and red with irritation, the inevitable consequence of sewing so long in such poor light.

He waited for her to stop sewing and eat. When several long minutes passed with no sign of this happening, he decided to go ahead and ask the question weighing on his mind. She would eat when she would eat.

“Maita, how long will we stay here?”

Lately, the tribesmen had added this to her titles. No longer speaking of “Adala’s maita,” they named her Fate itself.

“We will stay here until the laddad come out.” She turned the heavy rectangle of cloth over and started stitching on the other side. “Or until we are told to go.”

“Told by whom?”

“Those on High. I am but Their instrument.”

Frowning, Wapah departed. It was a dark and somber camp he traversed back to the tent of Bindas, newly sworn war chief of the Weya-Lu. The tribe’s warmasters had taken to congregating there, not least of all because Bindas’s late uncle, Gwarali, never traveled anywhere without a generous supply of wheat beer. The leaders sat together in the hot darkness, sipping beer from tiny brass cups and speaking in low tones about their situation. Already there was talk of leaving the valley mouth. They didn’t need to hover here, the dissidents said. All they need do was guard to route back to Khuri-Khan, and they would surely catch the laddad as they tried to return to their people. Food, water, medicine, and other supplies could be had by trading if only they left this place and kept on the move. That was their way. Sitting here in the shadow of the Pillars of Heaven was foreign, and dangerous.

“The Weyadan knows what she is doing,” Wapah insisted. “Those on High have chosen her to cleanse our land. Do you doubt her?”

None would say so, but the beginning of that sentiment was plain in the black tent, as plain as the aroma of Gwarali’s brew.

Talk turned to strategy. What was the best way to catch and defeat the elusive elves? Their long-legged horses were strong and fast, if not as hardy as desert ponies. Laddad armor resisted the nomads’ favorite weapon, the bow. Even their swords had longer blades than the tribesmen’s.

“In Estwilde, the Nerakans rode with lances,” said Bindas. He’d served as a mercenary in the Knights’ army during the recent great war. “They pierced any metal plate they rode at.”

“You need hardwood to make lances,” another mercenary veteran pointed out.

“We can trade for it.”

“Before the laddad come out?”

And so it went. Voices rose and tempers flared as more beer was consumed and frustrations were voiced. A few of the warmasters who’d been to the world outside Khur offered to lead troops into the valley to find the elves.

The older chiefs were shocked. “Your crime would be as great as theirs!” one said.

“Where is it written we may not enter the valley?” said a young warmaster. “It is tradition, yes, but why? What makes this place so sacred?”

Wapah cleared his throat. Many rolled their eyes; the Weyadan’s cousin was known as a talker.

“When Those on High made the world, each in turn pressed a hand on the new ground, leaving an impression. Each god said, ‘This is my place. Let no one desecrate it.’ Over time, the elements and various upheavals obscured most of these places. But the Valley of the Blue Sands remains, just as when the gods made it. It is their place, not ours, and not the laddad’s.”