Twenty-seven Istarians and a mythology. Small payment for a hundred elves enslaved in the dark undercity, Stormlight thought bitterly. At least Istar would think twice before venturing into the desert again.

This, however, was a new place-the yellow grasslands south of the city itself, as promising as they were dangerous. It would take a full day of riding across their open expanse to reach the foothills, the mountains, and finally the outskirts of Istar. It was unknown country, treacherous and vague, and Fordus had been forced to leave behind more than two hundred of the Que-Nara, devout and basically peaceful Plainsmen whose gods had forbidden them to leave the desert in any act of aggression.

Still, close to four hundred Que-Nara remained with the rebels, proceeding against the warnings of their clerics, and the rest of the invading force was a ragged assembly of bandits and barbarians only lately come to the cause. Now, somewhere between these rebels and the dark foothills waited two proper legions-two thousand members of the crack Istarian Guard: crossbow, spear, and sword units, along with a cavalry famous throughout Ansalon. Enemy enough to strike fear in the most daring com shy;mander.

Yet there was no fear, no hesitation in Fordus Fire-soul, the pale-eyed Plainsman, Water Prophet and Lord of the Rebels.

Stormlight set his face in approval.

No fear was good.

After all, had not the Prophet routed the Istarians four, five times in the past?

Easy in the saddle, his translucent skin mottling with glittering green and orange flashes of an early opalescence, Stormlight watched the first shadows or the peaceful blue evening stretch across the level grasslands.

No fear was very good.

He cast aside his darker speculations.

In a small advance party not fifty yards away, For shy;dus the Prophet, on foot as usual, dropped to the ground in midstride. Behind him, two lieutenants and the bard paused and did likewise, Larken muf shy;fling the variegated head of her drum with the flat of her callused hand.

"Istar approaches," the commander whispered to them, with no more drama and moment than if he were observing the color of a horse or a strange cast of light in the clouds.

The tiny bard stared toward the foothills, straining to see what Fordus saw through the patch of knife-edged grass. Nothing.

But he knew. Fordus always knew about water and armies.

"If indeed it is two legions, we'll know it by night shy;fall/' Fordus continued. "We'll count the lights of their campfires, like they want us to. Then I'll send Stormlight and six men to scout them closely and part the flesh from the shadows. If they've set enough fires for four legions, they're even more afraid of us than I've reckoned."

And tomorrow? the bard signed with one hand. Fordus lifted his eyes, anticipating her gesture, her question.

"They'll want to meet us in the open fields, Larken, to use their numbers and horse to advan shy;tage." The Prophet rose to a crouch, drawing a line with his finger along the sandy ground. "When they see our ragtag troops, only Que-Nara and bandits and a handful of Balifor crossbowmen, they'll think those are all who stand with me."

The lieutenants nodded, oblivious to the softly plodding hooves of Stormlight's horse some dis shy;tance behind. Long ago they had learned to give their entire attention to their commander, to wait before they spoke.

Stormlight dismounted silently, bade the horse to lie down, and slipped through the circle of squatting ..rebels.

He knew well his old friend's ways. The plan would be simple, direct, and clean. Fordus was the type who'd take a sword to a knot rather than suffer a second more to untie it.

Yes, simple. And as always, successful. Fordus was no tactician, but in his hands, the most basic maneuvers blossomed to brilliance.

"The desert is with me, wherever I go," Fordus concluded quietly, his gaze focused on a distant place. "And we will bring them the desert, bring them sand and wind and mirrors of air, the deception of birds in the high grass."

One of the lieutenants, a young archer from Bali-for, shifted his weight and stifled a cough. It was always this way when the Prophet spoke in riddles.

But that was where Stormlight's task began. The elf let the Prophet's words settle on the assembled officers, then hooded his eyes with the white, translucent underlids of his people and stepped slightly away from the circle surrounding the chieftain.

"Second eyes," the Plainsmen called them-the white lucerna of the mining elves. Through that milky film, legacy of their race, the Lucanesti could see gems in dark tunnels, long veins of water in the heart of the sand …

Could see other things as well. The vein of truth in the subtle strata of words and images.

"The Prophet has spoken!" Stormlight proclaimed quietly, standing to survey the wave of mystified faces. The lucerna lifting, he raised hands that glit shy;tered purple with reflected light. It had come to him again, as it always did, in the midst of murmuring. Like lightning, the meaning of Fordus's cryptic poetry had struck his second in command.

"We'll hide half of you on the flanks," Stormlight continued, "and close around the Kingpriest's army when they charge. Gormion will command the southernmost troops, and when the Istarian lances contact her lines . . . the rest of us will spring out of the grass behind them. And may the axe of Jolith cleave through their ranks! There will be such a storm of sand and wind as never they have seen, and it will not touch us. The powers gather already." He pointed into the distance, where a rising cloud of dust marked the southern horizon. A hot breeze began to blow from the same direction.

The sterim. The wild desert storm that raced up into the Istarian mountains, gathering speed as it coursed over the plains, blinding and fierce in its fury. The elf's eyes glazed over, the brilliant lucerna closing once more, this time protectively against the anticipated wind.

Fordus's lieutenants nodded. These words they understood. As always, the plan was simple and ele shy;gant and practical-the poetry of war translated by the strange, exotic Stormlight.

It would work. They would "bring the desert to the Kingpriest," and his army would fall. It did not matter if they understood all of the words of the prophecy. They would win the battle.

Excitedly, brandishing their weapons and mur shy;muring boasts and promises, the lieutenants dis shy;persed into the ranks of the rebels. Only three remained: Fordus, Stormlight, and the bard.

"Where is the enemy now?" Stormlight asked, crouching by the commander. "What does the hawk say, Larken?"

The bard held his odd gaze for a moment and then motioned with her hands. Three miles to the north, Stormlight. Lucas says they are three miles to the north. That's all you need to know.

Stormlight and Fordus exchanged puzzled glances as the girl trotted away to join the receding column of troops.

"Larken hates me, doesn't she?" Stormlight asked, a crooked smile pleating his smooth and ageless face.

The commander shrugged. "Of course not, Storm shy;light. She's just poetic and high-strung. And you know she can only sing. It is a frustrating and sad thing when your hands must speak for you." He looked off over the northern plains.

"Temper or temperament, it's all the same," Stormlight concluded, following the comman shy;der's gaze into level, grassy nothingness. "But the Kingpriest is at hand. There's no time. The wind is rising."

The night passed in a haze of hot wind, and few of them found sleep in its discomfort.

But they were ready. Shortly before dawn, Storm shy;light crouched in the high rustling grass, watching as the Istarian commander signaled to raise his battle standards-the white tower on the red banner-in the weak morning light. The elf slowed his heartbeat, his breath shallowing until he stood motionless, his skin collecting sand and ash from the passing wind, crusting and knotting. Serenely, he sank into a stony quietude, indistinguishable from a thousand stones that littered the rubble-strewn edge of the desert.