Word of Traitors_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [132]
Words rose in her, and her voice rang over the sound of pipes and drums. “As the armies of the Dhakaani emperor fought, so shall we! Behold the Riis Shaarii’mal! Behold the Three Tearing Wheels of Dhakaan!”
“Give honor!” shouted Dagii from her side.
Nine companies of disciplined dar warriors responded in unison, fists striking chests in a single salute sharp as a crack of thunder.
The Valaes Tairn shifted warily. Ekhaas bared her teeth. The elves knew their ancient enemy—and they knew the symbols of Dhakaan. The Riis Shaarii’mal had flown above countless battles between dar and elves in the time of the empire. To bring it forth again was a challenge, a declaration of rivalry. The leader of the warclan leaned over and spoke with one of the elves beside him. The rider nodded and urged his horse down to meet Keraal.
“Only one?” growled a warlord on the hill.
“Patience,” said Dagii.
Drums and pipes fell silent. The elf reined in his horse a few paces from Keraal. The hobgoblin raised the red banner. “I speak for Dagii of Mur Talaan, lhevk-rhu of these warriors!” he roared in Goblin.
Behind his veil, the elf’s eyes narrowed in disdain. He answered in the musical tones of Elven, lilting nonsense to many of the dar on the battlefield but clear to Ekhaas. “I speak for Seach Torainar, high warleader of the Sulliel warclan—”
“Now,” said Dagii.
The drummer behind Ekhaas brought a stick down hard on the skin of his instrument.
On either side of Keraal, the trampled sod rose and flew back. Goblins hidden in camouflaged pockets popped up onto their knees, raised compact crossbows, and sighted. The waiting elves jerked in surprise. The elf who had ridden forward cried out and started to wheel his horse, but he was too slow. Ten bowstrings sang and ten bolts flew—
—and ten scarlet flowers blossomed on the white hide of the elf’s horse. The animal wore light barding, but it wasn’t armored everywhere and the goblin bolts sought any exposed flesh. The horse screamed and bucked at the pain, fighting its rider’s attempts at control. The goblins were up and running from their hiding places, racing up the dirt track to join the army. Keraal turned his horse and retreated as well, but slowly, mockingly. Bows rose among the waiting elves and arrows buzzed but they were too far and their own man, struggling with his horse, blocked true aim.
The wounded horse shrieked again. It stumbled once and its hindquarters collapsed as the strandpine sap that had coated the goblins’ crossbow bolts burned into its blood. The elf leaped from the saddle and stared in horror at his crippled mount trying to drag itself with its forelegs. Its hind legs kicked uselessly. Then the elf wailed nearly as loudly as his horse, drew his scimitar and leaped forward to slash the beast’s throat. Blood sprayed him, dark against scarlet robes. The horse’s screams fell silent, but the elf’s did not. Still wailing like a madman, he turned and raced after Keraal.
His cries were joined by others as the ragged lines of the Valenar broke and elves streamed into battle.
The only things they hold sacred, Chetiin had once said, are their ancestors and their horses.
Keraal put spurs to his horse and galloped up the track, the Riis Shaarii’mal snapping in the wind of his passage. Arrows loosed by the charging Valenar traced a dark line behind him. Ekhaas stole a glance at Dagii. The young warlord’s face was hard, his eyes intent. He held his left hand in the air, waiting … waiting …
He brought it down. The piercing voice of the warpipes rose.
And out at the edge of the battlefield, just behind the holes