Looking north, toward the blackness that was Torghan’s Teeth and the mouth of the valley, she added, “Let the
Half a thousand Weya-Lu warriors raised their hands over their heads and shouted in unison.
The noise was so great the courier’s horse reared in alarm. Only the rider’s skill and quick thinking kept him in the saddle. His task was complete, and he had no desire to linger. He put spurs to his black horse and galloped away.
Filled with new spirit, the nomads heaped all the carefully hoarded fuel on their campfires. The flames blazed up, sending gouts of sparks into the air. The tribesmen’s chant soared upward as well.
As he rode away, the Nerakan courier could see the glow of the nomad fires for a long time. He could hear their roar in chants even longer.
Hengriff, waiting on horseback in a draw a mile away heard them, too. Sparks had fallen on the tinder. All that remained was to see how big a bonfire would result.
The gates of Khuri-Khan were closed and bolted. There was no warning, no flurry of horns or rushing of guards. The iron portcullises, which once defied the minions of Malystryx simply dropped into place. The battlements, normally patrolled by the Khan’s soldiers, emptied.
This was not a development Gilthas had expected. For a day and a half, since word arrived of the supposed massacre of the nomad camp, mobs of Khurs, armed with sticks, hand tools, and stones, had issued from the city to attack Khurinost several times. The largest of these groups comprised a thousand people, but each time, they were turned back without difficulty by Planchet, Hamaramis, and the elven host. Tents on the camp’s periphery were torn down and burned, but the angry Khurs never penetrated far into Khurinost. Then the city gates had closed.
The Speaker and most of his advisors stood in the clear area in front of his royal tent. The spot was the highest point in Khurinost, though not by much. The late afternoon sun was behind them. Its orange light sparkled off the glazed tiles and yellow domes of Khuri-Khan, washing the scene in a deceptively pleasant and benign glow.
“What’s Sahim-Khan playing at? Is he trying to protect us from his people, or what?” Gilthas muttered.
None of his advisors knew. Absent from the group was Lord Morillon. He was in the city, seeking an audience with the Khan. Planchet, just returned from surveying the damage done to the outer ring of tents, removed his helmet and mopped his forehead with a rag.
“Could be he wants to cut off our water,” he said.
He spoke out of his own thirst, but his suggestion was a logical one. Every drop of water in Khurinost had to be carried from the city. If Sahim-Khan refused them access, the next nearest wells were at Ving’s Oasis, forty miles northeast, a journey of two or three days for elves on foot. The horrors of the march to Khur five years ago would be repeated, and on a daily basis. Gilthas needed alternatives. He recalled Hamaramis and, with Planchet, discussed how to repair the Situation.
“We ought to storm the city,” Hamaramis suggested. “The humans have left us ladders all around Khuri-Khan.”
The scaffolding, erected for repair work on the walls, remained in many spots.
Planchet shook his head. “Sahim-Khan must know that. He’s not a fool.”
The Speaker studied Khuri-Khan through a brass spyglass. Its ruby lenses, polished by the gemcutters’ guild of Qualinost, had allowed him to watch the streets of Qualinost from the heights of the palace. Now they brought Khurish defenses into sharp focus for the Speaker’s tired, sun-scorched eyes. He hated the idea of attacking Khuri-Khan. They had dwelt here in relative peace and safety for five years. They had no real enmity with Khur. If they stormed the city now, they would have to go all out to win. Failure meant utter destruction. They were too few to overwhelm the humans quickly, so war in the desert kingdom would go on and on. If Neraka or the minotaurs intervened, catastrophe would engulf elves and Khurs alike.
“Perhaps it was not the Khan who closed the gates,” Planchet said. He was worried about his young friend Hytanthas, who had not returned to the elves’ camp. Perhaps Hytanthas had stumbled in his mission, and the gates had been closed at the instigation of the mage Faeterus.
Hamaramis reminded them about the fanatical followers of Torghan, and Planchet said they mustn’t forget the Nerakan emissary they’d seen in the Khuri yl Nor. The Khurs had long-standing ties to the Dark Knights, and many of Sahim-Khan’s soldiers had served as mercenaries in their hire.
“Are we prepared to move?” the Speaker asked, still gazing through the spyglass.
“We are short several hundred carts,” Hamaramis replied. “There wasn’t enough timber to build them, and no time to trade for the wood. So we’re building travois.”
