“Find us firm ground,” said High Marshal Connaught to the scout. “These horses can’t handle boggy—” He threw himself off as his horse sank hock-deep by one leg. They all dismounted. Close up the valley was smaller than they had thought; its hills were low dunes rising above the level, its stream only a trickle across the sand surface. “But plenty if we dig,” the High Marshal assured the others. “It’s like those waterholes in the low desert.”
While the scout and several men-at-arms searched for a firm path to the north end of the valley, the Marshals and knights looked at the angled canyon that wound away to the right. That way the ground seemed firmer, and the little stream, though narrower, gurgled ankle deep over fine gravel.
“It’s too bad we aren’t going this way,” said High Marshal Fallis. “I suppose it’s blocked at the far end by another cliff.”
“Let’s look at it,” said Marek, one of the knights, and the only member of the Order of Gird. “We ought to learn the shape of the land, in case of trouble.”
“In case of trouble,” said Joris dryly, “nothing in this land offers comfort. We should have been born with wings.”
“I agree with Marek, though,” said Connaught. “We should know, and mark the map.”
They set off on foot, the High Marshals, Amberion and Paks, the knights, and Ardhiel and Balkon. In a few minutes an angle of rock cut them off from sight of the others. On either hand the cliffs rose straight out of the sand, as if carved by a knife. Paks noticed a great arch set into the northeast wall. Under it a dark shadowed space looked large enough for a building. She looked from cliff to cliff, uneasy. In several places the stone seemed to have broken away leaving an overhanging arch, some much smaller than others. She nudged Balkon.
“Why does the rock do that? Is it natural? Did something shape it?”
“What—oh, it is the arch you mean? That is stone itself. I have not seen before, but I have heard. It is good stone that can take an arch; the arch is the drossen shape—” He saw her puzzled look, sighed, and tried in Common. “The shape that stone holds when it is sound—strong—healthy. Not nedross, like that stone that we came by, where the wall broke to let us in. Look in the High Lord’s Hall—you see that even human masons know the right shape, the good shape, for stone holding stone. The longer the arch, the better the stone.”
“Oh.” Paks shivered. She did not like this valley; it was hard to judge how high the cliffs were, how far they had come from their friends. She looked back, to see someone leading a horse across the stream, heading down the valley. She could not see the other men-at-arms or horses at all; cliffs cut off her view of the main valley. She craned her neck to look at the large arch again. Surely the whole party could shelter there—if you could get horses up the cliff. She started to laugh at that idea, and suddenly stopped. Something had moved in its shadow. For an instant she could not speak, but then she called to Amberion.
“What is it?” he asked, turning. Before Paks could answer, Ardhiel cried out in elven, swinging his bow from his shoulder and snatching arrows. Paks pointed upward, then staggered as an arrow slammed into her helmet.
“Keep your faces down!” bellowed High Marshal Fallis. “Eyes—” But Paks knew that, and had already dashed for a leaning rock. Pir and Adan huddled there too. More arrows clattered on the rocks around them. She heard a high-pitched cry from above, and then the terrible smack of a body on rocks. Another scream from across the canyon. Then silence.
“That won’t be all,” said High Marshal Fallis. Paks looked around. Ardhiel was close to the cliff on the far side; she saw Fallis near him. Connaught, Amberion, and Joris had taken shelter behind another rock near her, and Marek and Balkon behind yet another. She risked a quick glance upward, but could see nothing for the overhang.
“Beware!” Ardhiel’s voice rose again, and he yelled something in elven. Paks saw a swarm of black-clad figures leap from cracks in the rock, turned just in time to meet more of them attacking on her side. She and the two knights leaped to their feet.
At first it seemed they might be cut down in their separate groups. The attackers were skilled with their narrow blades, and had numbers and height on their side. Adan staggered; a blade had gone deep in his leg. Paks covered his side; together she and Pir managed to fight their way back to High Marshal Connaught, half-carrying Adan between them. Fallis and Ardhiel dashed across to join them, and the group locked into a unit, back to back with Adan in the center. From her position, Paks could not see if any of the others, far back down the valley, had noticed any disturbance. She was fighting too hard to have breath to yell. She did not even recognize what she was fighting until the tip of Pir’s sword flicked back one of the hoods.
“Elves!” she cried; the fine-boned face, the long graceful body now seeming the same as Ardhiel’s. But the elf called to them.
“No—not elves. Iynisin—unsingers—once of our blood—”
“And we are still the true heirs,” called one of the enemy, in elven. Paks could just follow the words. The voice held the same music as Ardhiel’s, but was colder. “We have not changed; you have fallen, cousin, making alliance with mortals and rockfolk, to the insult of your blood.”
“Daskdusky scum,” muttered Balkon, swinging his axe wide from his corner position.
Though outnumbered, the little group was able to shift slowly back toward the main valley. High Marshal Fallis, facing that way, told them he saw the men-at-arms coming. Paks, Pir, and Amberion, holding the rear, stepped back cautiously, keeping the enemy blades at bay. Then Marek called a warning. Paks glanced up at the nearest cliff. There, moving swiftly on the sheer wall as if it were level, a great many-legged thing dropped down on them. At the overhanging ledge it stepped into the air and fell, swinging on a shining line behind it, leaping from its first touch on the ground to arc high above their heads. Pir swung and missed; Paks twisted, trying to strike behind her; her sword clashed on Fallis’s, and the thing leaped out to whirl and attack again.
While they were still shaken by this creature, from high overhead a loud voice cried a single word. Paks stopped short, hardly able to breathe. She felt as if she’d been dipped in ice. Her eyes roved, following the great monster. Now she could see it had almost the form of a spider, many legs around a bulbous body. She felt her hand loosening on her sword.
But with a ringing tone like that of a great bell, white light glowed around them. Paks could move again; she felt her heart beating wildly, but her hand clenched on the sword. As the monster leaped, she hacked at its head. Her sword skidded off the hard surface, but Pir’s severed a leg. Paks thrust again, for the eyes. It reared back, aiming small tubes along its belly at her. Amberion shoved her aside. A gout of grayish fluid missed her; she heard Adan cry out behind. But by then Amberion’s sword had severed the head, and the thing lay twitching on the ground.
“Stay close,” said Amberion. “It is a spell of fear laid on us.” Paks felt no fear, now, and fought on.
In the space of the monster’s attack, more enemy fighters had come from the cliffs to cut them off from the rest of the party. These were bowmen, close enough that their arrows could wound even through armor. Between them and the bowmen were two ranks of swords. Paks took a deep breath. She had not expected to have such a short career as paladin—not even paladin yet, she reminded herself—but she thought she would as soon die in this company as any other. She saw Balkon bend to kiss his axe. High Marshal Fallis had done something for Adan; he was standing more steadily. Connaught frowned at the enemy, lips folded. Amberion touched Paks on the arm.
“It’s only five to one,” he said, smiling. “Your Duke has faced worse than that.”
Paks grinned. “Oh well—we’ll win through easily, then.”