The Amber Enchantress

THREE CARAVAN DANCERS

Over the melody of the ryl pipes came a strange trill, a feral call almost indistinguishable from the song. The sound was hauntingly familiar, enough so that it weakened the music’s spell and released the sorceress from the ecstasy that had seized her. As Sadira’s pivoting hips slowed and her rocking shoulders wavered to a stop, she focused her drink-blurred eyes on the face of a nearby musician.

“D’you hear that?” she asked, her slurred words barely audible over the bracing cadence of his finger drums.

“Dance,” he said.

“No,” Sadira replied, struggling to fight back the compelling waves of music that filled her head. “Something’s out there. We could be in danger.”

The man, a nikaal with dust-covered scales and a black mop of hair, cocked his reptilian head about at odd angles, turning his recessed ear slits in all directions. When he heard nothing unusual, he repeated his command. “Dance!”

Sadira stepped away from the dancing ring, where women of many races-nikaal, human, tarek, even dwarves-were leaping about a sour-smelling fire of dried inix dung. The men stood gathered around the circle, either playing instruments or simply watching the dancing women with eager eyes. They were all dressed in Nibenese fashion, with a colorful length of cloth wrapped around the waist, then passed diagonally over the upper body. To Sadira, it looked as though the saramis might come unwound at any moment, but so far the robes had stayed in place even through the wildest gyrations of the dancers.

Once she escaped the dancing ring, Sadira turned to examine the rest of the campsite, searching for the haunting sound that had interrupted her trance. The caravan had stopped in the ruins of a toppled tower, a circular basin half-filled with sand and lit by the flaxen light of the two Athasian moons. The small compound was surrounded on all sides by what had once been the tower’s foundation, a jagged wall that still rose anywhere from a few feet to a few yards above the ground. Atop the ancient wall stood a half-dozen sentries, their eyes fixed on the dark sands outside the camp. The sentries showed no sign of alarm, or even curiosity. Sadira began to wonder if she had imagined the sound.

Hoping she would hear the trill again if she moved away from the music, the sorceress retrieved her cane and walked over to a large cask a few yards away. Next to the keg stood Captain Milo, an attractive, dark-skinned man with a well-kept beard and rakish smile. With Milo was his drive master, Osa, a female mul as hairless and as powerfully built as Rikus. She had a square face, with thin lips, enigmatic gray eyes, and a scar-laced scalp that suggested she had spent more than a few years in the gladiatorial ring. On the sides of her head were small holes, surrounded by lumps of fire-branded flesh that had once been ears.

The captain filled a mug and handed it to the sorceress. “You dance well, Lorelei,” he said, using the name Sadira had been given when she joined the caravan.

“It’s hard not to, once you’re out there,” the half-elf answered, noticing that the mul woman was watching her lips. “They’re playing more than music on those instruments.”

“The music is enchanting,” the captain agreed, giving her a noncommittal smile. “And I am happy that you partook of it. Most passengers do not understand. They think the women dance for the men’s pleasure, not their own.”

“I dance for both,” Sadira replied, giving him a crooked smile. “What’s the harm if I dance and a man watches? There are more dangerous things to do with an evening, and whose business is it, anyway?”

“Perhaps the business of one of the gentlemen who was with you when we met,” Milo suggested. “I was under the impression that one of them was your …” he hesitated, looking for the right word, then said, “your special companion.”

“Both of them were,” Sadira said, enjoying the astonishment her answer brought to the faces of the captain and his assistant. Smiling to herself, she took a long drink from her mug. The broy was warm and spiced with a pungent herb that disguised its underlying sourness while enhancing its enrapturing powers. “They’re both my lovers, but no man is master to me,” she said.

“Nibenay is a long distance to travel just to escape men who have no claim on you,” observed Osa, speaking with the thick tongue of one who could not hear her own words.”

“I travel not to escape someone, but on an errand,” Sadira said, realizing that her hosts’ questions were more than casual inquiries. “Why are you so interested in my reason for traveling to Nibenay?”

“We must know the cargo we carry-”

“Lorelei is not cargo,” Milo said reproachfully. He gave Sadira a friendly smile. “What Osa means is that we’re concerned for your welfare. Nibenay is not like Tyr. Lone women are always in great danger there. Perhaps you should stay with us in the compound of House Beshap.”

From the way Osa frowned, Sadira guessed that there was more to this invitation than simple kindness-and more to their relationship than that of captain and drive master.

“Thanks, but no,” Sadira said. “I’ll be safe enough.”

The captain did not look discouraged. “Then you know someone in Nibenay?”

“I can take care of myself,” Sadira answered. She lifted her mug to her lips and looked away, hoping to forestall any more questions.

Milo waited for her to empty the vessel, then said, “You really must allow me to be your guide.” He took Sadira’s mug, drawing a frown from Osa, and started to refill it. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Thanks, but no,” Sadira said, holding out a restraining hand.

“To which, my guide services or my broy?”

“To both,” Sadira answered. “I’ve had enough to drink. Besides, that’s not why I came over. I heard something earlier-a trill, somewhere out in the sands.”

“Hungry lirr,” Osa said. “I see pack at dusk.”

“All the same, have a look,” Milo ordered.

“Guards have ears, not me-”

“Do it!” the captain insisted.

“Yes, Captain!” Osa snapped, reaching beneath her sarami and withdrawing a curved blade of bone. She set her square jaw and glowered at Sadira briefly, then looked back to Milo. “Three wives enough,” she growled, glaring at him fiercely. With that, she stalked over to the wall.

“Three wives?” Sadira asked, watching the mul woman climb out of the campsite.

Milo’s swarthy skin deepened to a darker shade. “Two of them stay in Nibenay.”

“And the third?” Sadira looking toward Osa.

“What a man won’t do to keep a good drive master,” the captain said wistfully.

After Osa had disappeared into the darkness, Sadira said, “I was serious about that whistle, you know. I couldn’t quite place the sound, but I know I’ve heard it before-and it was no lirr.”

“Perhaps it’s raiders,” said Milo. “If so, they’ll be sorry they picked this caravan. Osa may not be my most beautiful wife, but she’s by far the best fighter employed by House Beshap.”

Sadira gripped the pommel of her cane more tightly. “Do you think we’re likely to be attacked?” she asked apprehensively.

“It has happened many times before. The desert is full of elves and other thieves,” the captain said, shrugging nonchalantly.

When he made no move to silence the camp, Sadira asked, “Aren’t you going to prepare for battle?”

“No. The drivers need their music,” Milo said. “Besides, if we had to stop dancing every time someone heard a strange sound in the desert, we would be a sad caravan indeed.” He returned his gaze to the whirling figures, letting his head bob to the beat of the finger drums. “About your visit to Nibenay,” he said, still watching dancers. “I wish you’d reconsider and stay at House Beshap. If one of the sorcerer-king’s agents should happen to see you dance, you would never be allowed to leave the city.”

Sadira was tempted to accept the offer, for few places in any city were as secure as a merchant house’s compound. Nevertheless, she wanted no watchful eyes, friendly or otherwise, tracking her movements while she was in Nibenay. “I won’t stay long,” she replied firmly, “and my acquaintances will look after me while I’m there.”

“You mean those who wear the veil?” the captain asked.

Under her breath, Sadira cursed. Although she had not given him much of a hint, the captain had guessed her plan accurately. Upon entering Nibenay, she intended to contact the Veiled Alliance, hoping that the secret league of sorcerers would provision her and help find a reliable elf-if such a thing existed-to guide her to the Pristine Tower.

Sadira forced a laugh from her throat, trying to sound both amused and surprised. “What makes you say a thing like that?”

Milo studied her for a moment, then motioned at the sorceress’s cane. “That does,” he said. “You carry a fine steel dagger on your hip, yet hardly seem aware of it, while you treat your cane as a warrior would a fine sword. If you walked with a limp, such a thing might be understandable, but one who dances as you do needs no crutch. Therefore, your cane must be a magical weapon, and you must be a sorceress.”

“Very observant, but you’re wrong,” she said, wishing her mind were not so clouded by broy. “The cane’s value is sentimental. It belonged to my mother.”

Milo smiled politely. “Was she a sorceress, too?”

Sadira scowled, wondering if Milo intended to abandon her here. Like most common people, caravan drivers seldom tolerated the presence of a sorcerer, blaming all spellcasters for the magical abuses that had reduced Athas to a wasteland. “If you’re so sure I’m a sorceress, why have you brought me so far?” Sadira asked.

“Because you’ve paid for your passage, and I am an honest man,” Milo answered. “Besides, I know the difference between defilers and honest sorcerers. If you were the type who ruined the land to cast a spell, you would not be going to visit the Veiled Alliance.”

The captain’s reasoning was logical. Although Sadira had never contacted any Veiled Alliance outside of Tyr, she had heard enough about the different societies to know none of them tolerated defilers. In spite of Milo’s reassurances, though, Sadira still thought it wiser not to admit her identity.

“Perhaps you are the sorcerer,” she said. “You certainly seem to know more about the Veiled Alliance than I do.”

“Not because I am a sorcerer, but because one of my wives dabbles in the art,” Milo said. He leaned closer to Sadira and, in a hushed voice, added, “She has been trying to contact those who wear the veil for many months. I was hoping you might assist her.”

“I’m sorry, I really wouldn’t know-”

Sadira stopped in midsentence, for again she heard the strange trill ringing above the ryl pipes. This time, being farther away from the music, she recognized the sound as the dulcet chirping of a singing spider. The half-elf had heard the sound only once before: on the other side of the Ringing Mountains, in the halfling forest.

Milo frowned at the sorceress. “What’s wrong?”

“Didn’t you hear that chirping?”

The captain nodded. “A bird of some sort. I don’t recognize what kind but-”

“Is wasn’t a bird,” Sadira interrupted. “It was a spider.”

“A spider that chirps-and that loud?” the captain replied, disbelievingly. “You were right-you have had too much broy.”

“No,” Sadira insisted, laying her cane in the crook of her arm. “These spiders are huge. The halflings of the Ringing Mountains hunt them for food-”

“We’re a long way from the mountains,” said Milo.

Sadira had to agree. The spiders were gentle creatures that made their homes in trees and fed themselves on puffy fungus that covered the forest floor. It did not seem likely that they could survive a trip into the desert, where there were neither many trees nor any fungus, yet the sorceress felt certain the chirping was very close to the sound the beasts made when they rubbed their spine-covered legs together.

“If isn’t the spiders, it’s someone imitiating them-and doing very well at it.” Sadira said.

“Like who?”

“It can only be halflings,” the sorceress said. “Their normal language is half bird squeaks and squawks. What I heard is probably a dialect they use to hunt spiders.”

“Halflings don’t come into the desert.”

“These have,” Sadira said. “You’d better prepare for battle.”

The captain rolled his eyes. “Please. The sentries have seen nothing-”

“And they won’t, until it’s too late,” Sadira countered. When Milo still made no move to stop the dancing, the sorceress said, “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

With that, Sadira walked over to the wall. Milo followed a step behind, reaching beneath his wrap to draw an obsidian blade. The pair climbed out of the campsite, then dropped into the dark sands outside the ancient foundation. The two moons lit the crests of the surrounding dunes in a shimmering yellow glow, leaving the troughs bathed in impenetrable purple shadows. Like a range of snorting hillocks, the silhouettes of the inixes loomed a short distance to the west. A gentle breeze blew from their direction, carrying on its breath the mordant smell of their reptilian bodies.

Sadira’s kank was staked few yards apart from the rest of the caravan mounts, isolated from the larger beasts to keep it from being inadvertently trampled. Like the inixes, her mount still carried its cargo-her personal belongings and her waterskin-in case the caravan had to leave in a hurry. A dozen spear-carrying sentries prowled among the animals, watching for elves or predators that had snuck into the area hoping to find an easy meal.

Milo started toward the animals, but Sadira caught his arm and led him in the opposite direction. “Halflings are hunters,” she explained. “They’ll all approach from downwind, where the inixes can’t smell them.”

“Lead the way. They’re your halflings.”

Sadira took him around the north side of the foundation, to a short stretch of moonlit cobblestones-all that remained of the ancient road the tower had once guarded. The lane ran a dozen yards north before being swallowed by the endless sands of the desert. The half-elf paused here, listening for signs of the halfings, then dashed into the sands across the road. Milo followed a few steps behind, easily keeping up with her in spite of his awkward robe.

Sadira guided them into the a dark trough and waited. Soon, her elven vision began to function, lighting the night up in a vivid array of colorful shapes. The special eyesight was one of the few inheritances she valued from her father. When no other light source was present, it allowed her to see in the dark by perceiving the ambient heat that all things emitted.

Sadira instructed Milo to grip the tip of her cane, then set off through the pink-glowing sands. She had to stay in the dark troughs and not look at the glittering crests of dunes. Even the weak light of the moons would wash out her elven vision, rendering her as sightless as a man staring into the crimson sun. Still, by staying in the shadows, she would have the advantage over any halflings they happened upon. The little men did not share the gift of elven vision and were as unseen in the dark as humans.

Despite his own blindness, Milo easily kept pace with Sadira. Within a few minutes, they had snuck a hundred yards into the sands, and the half-elf stopped at the base of a large dune. To their right was a small expanse of rocky, moonlit scrubland, with even higher dunes on the far side. In order to proceed any farther, they would have to cross the open area or climb over the mound ahead. Sadira elected to wait here, for any halflings approaching camp from this general area would face the same obstacles.

“Do you see something?” whispered Milo.

Sadira shook her head, then remembered he could not see the gesture in the dark. “No,” she said. “It’s better to hide. If the halflings hear us moving about, we’ll never find them.

They waited several minutes, the music of the ryl pipes drifting to them on the wind. Sadira’s body responded to the melody or its own accord, and she could only keep from swaying to its rhythm through a conscious act of will. Milo did not show as much restraint as she did, letting his head bob in time to the insistent beat.

At last, a short trill sounded from the other side of the moonlit expanse. It was answered immediately by another, and then a third.

“Do you hear that?”

“Yes,” Milo replied.

“Come with me,” Sadira said, concluding that her quarry was approaching camp somewhere beyond the open expanse.

The sorceress stepped onto the edge of the scrubland, then waited while the moonlight washed out her elven vision. The sweet smell of newly cropped tinchweed was mixed with the sour odor of fresh inix dung, and the sorceress guessed that this was where the drivers had grazed their mounts at dusk. The halflings had probably been here even then, watching in silence-no doubt looking for her and the cane that she had neglected to return to Nok. It was an unfortunate time for the halfling chieftain to decide that he wanted his weapon back, for she had no intention of giving it to him.

After Sadira’s sight returned to normal, she started across the brush-flecked field at a sprint with Milo close behind. They were about halfway across when a loud trill sounded from the shadows just ahead. Sadira halted, realizing that the halflings were even closer than she had thought.

Milo continued past her, whispering, “Let’s catch him!”

A thick-tongued voice cried out from ahead. “No, Milo!”

“Osa?” he gasped. A strident chirp sounded from ahead of the captain. He stopped abruptly and raised his sword, crying, “By Ral’s light!”

As Sadira moved forward to see what was wrong, the tip of a barbed spear burst through Milo’s back. When the sorceress reached his side, she saw that a halfling had risen from the center of a spinifex bush and attacked. The warrior’s eyes were gleaming yellow as he pushed his small spear further into Milo’s body.

Screaming in anger, the sorceress brought the obsidian pommel of her cane down on the halfling’s tangled mess of hair. It struck with a sharp crack, and the halfling collapsed in a heap.

Milo dropped his sword and stared at the spear in his stomach with disbelieving eyes. As the captain pitched onto his face, something rustled behind Sadira. She spun around and saw a halflling crawling toward her on his belly. The sorceress did not give him a chance to stand. She leaped to the warrior’s side and smashed his head again and again with her cane.

Sadira heard a set of heavy footsteps, then looked around to see Osa’s bulky form rushing toward her. The mul was limping badly, and the sorceress could see that the shaft of a barbed spear protruding from the woman’s thigh.

Osa stopped at Milo’s side and felt his pulse. When she detected no heartbeat, the mul kissed him in a last farewell, then snatched up his sword and looked to the sorceress. “Go!” she said, nodding toward the dune from which her husband and Sadira had come.

“I’m sorry about-”

Sadira did not have a chance to finish her apology, for Osa leaped to her feet and resumed her sprint across the moonlit field. The sorceress ran after the limping mul, but could not keep up even at her best pace.

As they approached the shadows where Sadira and Milo had hidden, several trills sounded ahead. Sadira stopped immediately, realizing a group of halflings was lurking in the darkness. Osa continued on, oblivious to the sounds.

The sorceress pointed the palm of one hand toward the ground, spreading her fingers apart. Shutting out all other thoughts, she focused on her hand, summoning the energy for a spell. The air beneath her palm shimmered, then power began to rise from the ground into Sadira’s body. As soon as she felt the surge weaken, the half-elf closed her fist and cut off the flow. If she had pulled more energy into her body, she would have killed the plants from which she drew it, defiling the soil and rendering it barren for ages to come. By stopping when she had, however, the sorceress had caused no permanent damage to the land. Within a day, the shrubs would recover their lost life-force and continue to grow as if they had never been tapped.

By the time Sadira had gathered the power for her spell, a small group of halflings had moved to the edge of the field. Osa raised her sword and they raised their spears. Sadira grabbed a handful of pebbles from the ground and, uttering her incantation, threw them toward the warriors.

The stones shot past Osa with a loud clap of thunder. Each missile struck a target square in the chest, knocking the halfling off his feet and sending him sprawling to the ground in a spray of blood.

The sorceress had no chance to gloat over her victory, for another halfling cried out behind her. Sadira hazarded a glance over her shoulder and saw the silhouette of a warrior gesturing in her direction. Wasting no more time, the half-elf rushed to Osa’s side and pulled the mul into the sands. Together, they ran into the shadows of the large dune and stopped there to see what the halflings would do next.

“You throw rocks?” Osa asked, her eyes fixed on the halflings that the magical stones had killed.

Sadira nodded, wondering whether it would be better to sneak or run back to the campsite. Either way, there was no doubt that they should stay in the shadowy troughs between the dunes. Like half-elves, muls could perceive ambient heat when there was not enough light to see otherwise.

As Sadira was considering the problem, dozen of trills sounded from the other side of the field. She looked toward the sounds, but could see nothing beyond the open expanse of moonlit ground. The half-elf stepped farther into the shadows and lifted her cane.

“That sound like army, not hunting party,” said Osa, her thick voice too loud.

Although Sadira agreed with the mul’s conclusion, she was too stunned to say so. It appeared an entire tribe of halflings had come down from the mountains. Realizing that the caravan’s only hope of escape lay in her hands, Sadira lifted her cane. “Nok,” she whispered, activating its magic.

She felt the weapon begin to draw its energy from her body, and a purple glow twinkled to life within the obsidian pommel. At the same time, dozens of halfling warriors charged into the field. Sadira pointed the tip of the cane at them.

Before the sorceress could utter the name of her spell, Osa grabbed her arm. “Leave,” the mul ordered, dragging Sadira into the shadows. “We run.”

Sadira tried to pull free, but the woman’s grip was too powerful. “Let me go!” the sorceress yelled. “I can kill half of them now!”

If she heard Sadira’s protests, Osa gave no indication. Instead, still limping because of the javelin in her thigh, the mul dragged the sorceress into the darkness between the dunes. The halflings raced after the women, calling to each other in the chirping language of the forest spiders. Sadira wrapped the hem of her cloak over the cane pommel, masking the purple light that glimmered from its depths.

Even after Sadira’s elven vision had begun to work again, Osa did not release her. Instead, the mul kept her hand on the sorceress’s arm, leading the half-elf first into one dark trough and then down another. As they rushed past the walls of pink-glowing sand that enclosed them, Sadira was strangely conscious that the music in the campsite continued to play, its melody strained and worrisome.

Despite Osa’s evasive maneuvers, the halflings had little trouble following, tracking the two women by the soft patter of their feet. Each time the mul led the way through an intersection, a few halflings went down the second trough, sealing off any possibility that their quarry could circle back toward the caravan. Soon, the dunes were filled with the trilling of halfling warriors, and Sadira knew that she, at least, would be exhausted long before they could evade their pursuers.

After Osa had led them down what seemed the hundredth side trough, Sadira heard the twang of a bow. The blue streak of a tiny arrow flashed past her head, and the sorceress cringed with fear. Though the dart itself would cause a little injury, the last halfling arrow she had seen had been tipped with a powerful poison.

Another half-dozen bowstrings hummed, and more arrows flew toward Sadira and Osa. Fortunately, even halfling archers were not very accurate when firing on a dead run, and the darts all hissed harmlessly into the sand. Still, Sadira was far from relieved. It would not be long, she knew, before one of the shafts found its mark.

“We’ve got to do something,” Sadira hissed.

Knowing it was useless to call out to the earless mul, Sadira opted for direct action. As they approached the next intersection, the sorceress pumped her legs as fast as she could and slammed into the other woman’s back. Osa sprawled headfirst into the sand dune, dragging the half-elf down and hissing in pain as she banged the javelin still protruding from her thigh.

Sadira rolled onto her back and faced the halflings. Her maneuver had confused the warriors only momentarily, and those in front were already moving toward the sound of her labored breathing. The sorceress pointed her cane at them, allowing the hem of her robe to slip off its glowing pommel. The halflings swung their spears and tiny arrows in the direction of the purple light.

The warriors loosed their weapons in the same instant Sadira cried the name of her spell, “Clear-river!”

With a loud roar, a stream of force rushed from the sorceress’s cane. The invisible river hurled the spears and poison arrows back toward the halflings, then slammed headlong into the warriors themselves. The little men opened their mouths to scream, but their voices could not be heard above the raging torrent of magical energy. They stood against its current for only a moment, then were ripped from their feet and sent tumbling into the darkness.

A few moments later, after the river and its roar had finally died away, Sadira grew aware of Osa lying at her side. The mul woman was studying her with an expression that was equal parts awe and fear.

“Let’s go,” Sadira said, motioning toward the music from the camp.

Osa shook her head, her blank gaze fixed on the sorceress’s cane.

“I won’t hurt you,” Sadira said, speaking slowly so the deaf woman could read her lips. “I want to help the caravan.”

The expression returned to Osa’s eyes. Seeming to collect her wits, she said, “No. I send sentries back before Milo die.” The mul’s eyes grew sad for just a moment, then she clenched her teeth and fought her emotions back. “Wait here for better time.”

Sadira frowned in confusion, but nodded.

Osa smiled, then motioned at the steel dagger hanging on Sadira’s hip. “Let me borrow.”

The half-elf unsheathed her dagger and gave it to the mul woman. Osa immediately sat down and began cutting the barbed javelin from her wounded leg. Sadira turned away to stand guard, in case any of the halflings still scurrying through the dunes happened to stumble upon them.

A few minutes later, the distant melody of the ryl pipes grew louder and more inviting. The halflings fell silent, and the sorceress suddenly found herself shuffling toward camp. She tried to stop, but the song could not be denied. Her body swayed and rocked of its own accord, the music filling her head with colors and gripping rhythms that she could not chase away.

Osa came up beside Sadira and slipped the sorceress’s steel dagger back into its sheath. “Now we go,” she said, speaking with her usual thick-tongued loudness.

Through a rip in Osa’s sarami, Sadira saw that the woman had removed the spear and bandaged the wound with a strip of cloth. The mul still moved with a slight limp, though it was much less pronounced than when the javelin had been embedded in her thigh.

Osa took the sorceress by the hand and, with a considerable exertion of strength, prevented her from dancing straight toward the music. Instead, she guided Sadira back through the dark furrows between the dunes.

As they came within sight of camp, Sadira saw that the halflings were also dancing toward the music. The short warriors were whirling through the air in a frantic swarm, hurtling spears or firing arrows toward the campsite. On the other side of the ancient walls stood the caravan drivers, swaying to the melody and shooting arrows into the savage horde that the ryl pipes had drawn out of the desert.

“We go around,” Osa said, pointing to where the inixes and Sadira’s kank were still tethered. As the sorceress had told Milo earlier, the halflings had indeed approached from downwind. The area on the other side of camp was completely free of enemy warriors.

Osa skirted the open sands and crossed the cobblestone road north of the tower, still dragging Sadira’s squirming form by the hand. Although the sorceress appreciated the wisdom of drawing the little warriors into the open, she also saw that the results of the effort were far from certain. With their double-curved bows and the protection of the stone wall, the drivers had a distinct advantage over their charging foes. On the other hand, two dozen of their number already lay in the bottom of the sandy pit, and the rain of halfling shafts was taking a steady toll on those who remained standing. If many more of the caravan’s archers fell, there would not be enough of them to keep the halflings from pouring over the wall.

Osa stopped near the inixes, a couple of dozen yards from the tower. “Safe. No one mistake you for halfling,” she said. “I go back for Milo,”

Sadira’s feet shuffled forward. Despite the situation, she found herself actually enjoying the compulsions of the music. She guessed that the ryl pipes relied on some manifestation of the Way. Although magic could be used to influence a target’s thoughts, it seldom exerted such control over the raw emotions of so many. It was unfortunate that the ryl players could not use their powers to achieve a more physical effect on the halflings.

That was where she could help, the half-elf decided. As Sadira danced forward, she raised her cane into the air and spoke the word to activate it. Again, she felt it drawing its energy, from deep within her body, and a purple light came to life within the pommel. When the sorceress reached the campsite, she would use Nok’s own magic to chase off the warriors he had sent.

Before Sadira had taken two more steps, a complete silence suddenly descended over the area. Her body abruptly stopped dancing. She stumbled over her own feet and fell sprawling to the ground.

The sorceress started to rise, but stopped when a halfling’s words shattered the silence. “Lay down your weapons,” he ordered. Though it had been almost two years since she had heard the voice, Sadira immediately recognized it as that of Nok himself. “You will not save yourselves by fighting.”

Realizing that there was only one way to rescue the caravan drivers, Sadira sprinted to her kant and undid its rope. She climbed onto its back and turned her mount away from camp, then lifted her cane above her head and cried, “Skyfire!” Three bolts of crimson flame shot from the tip of the rod, filling the sky with ruby light and casting a scarlet haze over the yellow moons.

Confident that Nok would correctly identify the source of the magical display, Sadira whipped her cane across the kank’s antennae and launched the beast into a furious gallop.