Paul B. Thompson Tonya C. Cook
Sanctuary
Prologue
A flock of blackbirds took flight, screeching wildly. They were not used to strangers. The sight of so many figures, moving toward them, incited panic. In moments the birds were lost against the unbending glare of the sun, but the emptiness was soon filled by a long column of cavalry.
Dusty horses, heads low, trudged over coarse sand and loose stones, their riders dozing in the saddle. Stragglers limped along the column’s flanks, shields hanging from spears borne on weary, bony shoulders. None lacked a wound-these ranged from stray cuts and bruises to missing limbs. More than a few were gray-faced, bearing the unmistakable mark of impending death.
All were elves, many of the Kagonesti strain, but fully half belonged either to the western, Qualinesti line or the Silvanesti, eldest among the ancient race.
At the head of this mournful procession walked Kerianseray, general of all the elven armies. Years in the desert had deepened her natural brown skin tone and given her eyes a penetrating squint. Just now, her eyes were fixed on her trudging feet, willing them to make one more step, and another, and another.
She was leading her griffon. Eagle Eye had come to her as a gift from Silvanesti lords grateful to have escaped their homeland ahead of the invading minotaur host. Kagonesti she might be, but the protocol-sensitive nobles insisted that Kerianseray should have the finest mount in the army, not only as the leader of the remaining elven host but as wife to Gilthas, the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. In skirmish after skirmish, Eagle Eye had proven his mettle, taking the measure of many a fierce minotaur and ushering numerous foes into the hereafter. But even under the guidance of his ferocious rider, he could not reverse the inevitable.
Kerianseray, known to friend and foe alike as the Lioness, had led ten thousand elves south through the desert of Khur, seeking some means of entering the despoiled kingdom of Silvanesti from the north. Her warrior band was united by an unquenchable desire to expel the invaders from the sacred sylvan fastness of that most ancient elven homeland. Half a thousand perished even before the border of Silvanesti was reached, lost to heat, tainted water, and poisonous reptiles. Where fine sand finally gave way to loamy soil, and stunted pines and twisted junipers to leaf-bearing trees, the minotaurs were waiting. Using their dreaded “dragontooth” tactics, they shredded the Lioness’s force long before it reached Silvanesti land. Her grand plan to raise the common folk in revolt against their brutal overlords died before it could be born.
Repulsed at the border, the elves had shifted eastward, hoping to get around the wall of minotaurs. Everywhere they tried to enter Silvanesti, they were met by the swords and axes of the brawny bull-men. Food and water dwindling, the Lioness was forced to retreat. Failure in battle was one thing; she had known defeat before. Failure here, with nothing at their backs but three hundred miles of desert, was much worse. Annihilation stared every elf in the face. All they could do was return the way they had come, back across the scorching desert, hoping they would reach their temporary home—the tent settlement near Khuri-Khan-before they perished.
A rider was cantering through the slow-moving column, streams of dust rising behind him. Kerianseray heard the hoofbeats and halted, tugging on Eagle Eye’s braided halter.
The griffon, unhappy to have his raptor’s claws on the broiling sand, arched his neck and clawed at the offending ground. The Lioness spoke briefly to him and be quieted.
The rider slewed to a halt. “General, I bring urgent word from the rear guard!”
She squinted up at him, wracking her sun-broil memory for a name. Hytanthas it was. Hytanthas Ambrodel. Two centuries ago his forefathers dwelled in the marbled halls of Qualinost advisors to the Speaker of the Sun. Centuries before that, in Silvanost, his ancestors would have owned Kagonesti slaves. This dirty, disheveled young soldier was now among the last of his line.
His lips were so parched that he could hardly push the words out. After swallowing several times, he managed to rasp, “The enemy presses upon us! Lord Taranath says a regiment at least!”
A regiment. Two thousand minotaurs.
Exhaustion weighed on Kerian like a thick, heavy cloak. She still commanded almost eight thousand elves, but the enemy was well-supplied and fresh. Her elves were all but spent.
Her officers collected around her. She questioned Hytanthas openly for everyone to hear. This was how the Lioness led, not from some lofty position, but as a comrade among equals. For this and other reasons, she was respected by her warriors almost to the point of adulation.
According to young Ambrodel the horned enemy was coming straight on, in battle array.
An elf, his sword arm in a sling, exclaimed, “Afoot? Perhaps we could just ride away from them!”
“Ride where?” said another injured officer. “The only thing in front of us is wasteland!”
“That’s what they want,” the Lioness said. Absently, she stroked Eagle Eye’s feathered neck. “To drive us out and let the desert kill us.”
“Let’s stand and fight, then!” said the first elf. Others, despite their hurts, loudly seconded this declaration.
Kerian shook her head. Even if they managed to wipe out the attackers, they’d lose half their strength in the battle. Each and every warrior was precious these days. Expelled from their homelands, the elves had only the resources they’d been able to carry with them. Horses and trained fighters were more valuable than any amount of steel or precious jewels.
She scratched her head, dislodging a cascade of sand from her hair. The thick curls resisted her efforts to confine them in a braid, so she tied them back with a leather thong.
Her battered army was watching her, waiting for orders. No matter how gravely wounded, their heads were unbowed. If she ordered it, each and every one would fight—and most would die. Such an order was unthinkable. The preservation of the army was far more important than a fleeting gesture against the minotaurs.
She put a foot in the stirrup of Eagle Eye’s slim saddle and swung onto the griffon’s back. As she settled herself, the sea of expectant faces continued to regard her in silence.
“The army will march east, to the sea,” she announced.
Some were openly stunned. While the coastline was less harsh than the deep desert, it was also subject to the watchful eyes of the minotaur fleet. Escaping detection would be impossible. The enemy could cruise along and land troops ahead of the retreating elves at any point.
Those who had served with the Lioness in her long campaign against the Knights of Neraka were not shocked, however. They knew she wasn’t desperate or reckless, knew she must have some bold device in mind.
Quietly, she added, “I need volunteers.” Although she didn’t specify a duty, all present suddenly realized what she was about to say. The officers straightened to attention, volunteering one and all.
“I need a covering force to delay the minotaurs. To make a stand.” She gestured to a slight rise among the gnarled junipers. “There, on that knoll.”
Hytanthas Ambrodel opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she waved a hand. “No, not you, Captain. I need you for something else.”
He didn’t recognize this for the kindly falsehood it was. The Lioness’s weary face gave nothing away, but she wanted to spare the too young, too ardent captain this particular task. She had lost too many like him on this campaign.
A Silvanesti named Baranthalonus, a veteran, saluted. “General, allow me the honor.”
She asked him why. His sunburned face turned south, hazel eyes growing distant, as if seeing the green land that still lay beyond the horizon. “I should like to die at least close to Silvanesti land,” he said simply.