Sanctuary

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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.

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