Their escape was timely. Trios of riders appeared on the high ground overlooking the river. They had followed the clear tracks to the water’s edge, noting the last kender clambering out of the ford on the other side. Balif, Lofotan, Treskan, and Mathi sat on their horses in plain view too.
Lofotan said, “My lord, we should withdraw.”
“Not yet. Sometimes it is wise to let the enemy see your banners.”
He was right. Knowing there were Silvanesti around instead of wandering bands of kender made the humans hesitate to pursue them. The deadly work Artyrith and Balif did at the grassland trail was bearing fruit.
Leisurely, Balif turned his horse away and rode up the bank to the sandy flat above. At that point the Thon-Tanjan was a boundary between the fertile green plains south and arid land north. That was an expanse of desert that stretched from the Khalkist Mountains in the west to the eastern ocean. North of the desert was a land little known to the Silvanesti. East lay the disputed territory, bound on three sides by water and on the north by desert. It was good land, well watered by local streams and heavily forested along the watercourse. On official maps in the capital the elves called it “Silvanoth,” which literally rendered meant “Silvanos’s Holding,” implying it was the personal property of the Speaker of the Stars. No one living there called it that. The kender called it Treetops, in honor of the very tall trees growing there.
With trembling hands, Balif sighted with his sunstone. Southeast was their course. Treskan and Lofotan rode on either side of him, keeping a close eye on their afflicted leader. Mathi followed behind, exulting in her creator’s scheme. She wished she had known what was going to happen. Still, it explained why she had been sent to attach herself to the general. Mathi thought Balif was going to be kidnapped, to face the judgment of those he had betrayed. However, it seemed her role was to observe and report the metamorphosis of the mighty Balif into a wild beast.
So why did her joy prove so fleeting? With the sun hot on her face, Mathi soon lost her pride in her creator’s deed. Balif was a betrayer, responsible for many deaths and suffering among her brethren. But why could she not rejoice at his plight? Why did the sight of his frail figure, jouncing along on horseback, fill her with stirrings of pity?
The kender band around them waxed and waned as they went. A few, including Rufe, hitched rides on the packhorses until Mathi caught them rummaging through the baggage for souvenirs. Then Lofotan ran them off.
Balif grew stronger as the day went on. He ate and drank prodigiously, considering his usually abstemious habits. Nectar, water, dried meat, and pressed fruit went down with ravenous intensity. He ate like an elf long starved. No one questioned him on it, but Lofotan and the others took note.
They made good time across open country on the east bank of the river. The ground was rising, growing hillier as they neared the forested region south of the ford. When approaching the line of trees, their kender escort all but disappeared. Even Rufe departed at some unseen moment, leaving the foursome to ride on alone.
“Now that our small friends have gone, I have some things to tell you,” Balif said. Lofotan halted his horse to listen, but Balif bade him ride on.
“If this transformation of mine grows worse-and I expect it shall-you must take steps to protect yourselves and our mission,” he said. “You must restrain me each night.”
“But will you assume beast form every night?” asked Treskan.
Balif didn’t know. The previous night might have been a harbinger of things to come, or it could have been triggered by some unknown factor. Perhaps the thunderstorm provoked his metamorphosis, or the positions of the moons in the sky. Who knew?
“In any event, protect yourselves.”
“I will bind you hand and foot each night,” Lofotan vowed.
“Not enough.” Balif’s strength was enhanced when in beastly form. Rope would not hold him. Had they any chain?
“I have a few lengths in the baggage,” said Lofotan. It was heavy logging chain, used to drag timber behind a sturdy horse.
“Use it.”
His old comrade objected. Binding with chain was undignified.
“So is rending your friends to bits with claws and fangs.”
Chain might injure the general’s wrists and ankles, Lofotan added.
“Do it, nonetheless.”
“We will do as you command, my lord,” Treskan said. Lofotan looked at the reins in his hand and said nothing.
Before dark, they carefully chose to camp on a hilltop amid a thicket of overgrown myrtles. They were unloading the horses when Balif turned his head sharply and announced that he smelled smoke. So saying, he alerted the others, and they smelled it too, even Treskan with his less-than-keen nose. Lofotan climbed the tangled branches of the tallest myrtle and quickly spied the source of the smoke.
“There’s a large column of smoke rising from the next ridge,” he called down. It was a single, thick spire, probably a large campfire. Wildfire smoke would rise from many smaller points.
“Humans?” Mathi wondered aloud.
At her elbow Rufe said, “Yes, a big camp of them.”
She started at his sudden proximity. “Don’t do that!” she cried.
“Do what?” asked Rufe.
Balif laughed heartily. He hadn’t done so all day. “Have you scouted them already?” Balif said. Rufe admitted he had. He had “found” a few items too, things he hadn’t seen before.
Balif held out his hand. Reluctantly the kender put his spoils on display. He had a stone knife made of obsidian. It was too finely made to be a nomad’s tool. The shell inlay on the handle make it look like a cleric’s blade. Rufe had an amber necklace, a beaded headband, and most remarkably, a full-length arrow that he pulled out through his collar. It was so long, it must have gone straight down to his foot, but no one noticed him limping before he pulled it out.
“Let me see that.”
Balif examined the arrow closely. The shaft was daubed white, had a bronze head, and used soft, gray-white feathers for fletching. Balif paid special attention to the feathers.
“Ghost owl feathers,” he said, frowning. The ghost owl was unknown in Silvanesti territory. Its range was in the Plains River Valley west of the Khalkist Mountains. The nomad band must have come from there.
“Maybe they traded for arrows with bands further west?” Mathi asked. Balif said no. Among nomads, every archer made his own arrows, matched to his bow. Whoever made the arrow had access to ghost owl feathers. The invaders had come a long way.
“Do we move on?” Lofotan asked. Rufe could not give them any guess as to the size of the nomad party, but there must have been many to merit such a large campfire.
Balif said, “No. We stay here.” Night was close upon them. They were right under the nose of the humans, but if they kept quiet, they ought to be able to pass unnoticed.
Everyone ended up looking at Rufe.
“What?”
“You know, my lord, it might be worthwhile to have a look at this human camp. Governor Dolanath and the Speaker will need an accurate count of the invaders,” Lofotan said.
Balif was reluctant. He finally agreed to send Lofotan, Mathi, and Treskan to reconnoiter the nomads’ camp. Rufe would stay behind to guard their camp-and him.
“I do not trust the little man, and what good is the girl if a fight comes?” Lofotan protested.
“You insult our friend Rufe. He comes and goes but always comes again. Mathi is quieter than the scribe and has good eyes.”
Mathi would have preferred to stay with Balif but no matter. A spy mission might give her a chance to leave a message for her friends, whom she knew must be shadowing their party.