The movement inside the ring of tents slowed and stopped. The humans settled into their shelters. The beast’s tongue flicked out again. The human smell was enticing, though the elf tang was definitely present. The impetus in its blood burned like a fever: Find elves; kill them. The drive could not be denied. If humans were intermingled with its intended prey, they would die, too.
The beast rose from its hiding place, shaking off dirt and rocks. In four bounds it reached the outer line of tents. It bore straight into the first tent, rending the goatskin walls to tatters with a single swipe of its horns. Within slept three humans. The first two died without waking. The third had time to shriek once before she perished.
The tents did not impede the sand beast’s progress. It raced through the camp. Tattered canvas and leather caught in its horns trailed through the banked cookfires, catching fire. One tent was set alight, then another, and another. Against the heightened glare, humans raced about, yelling. Methodically, the creature slew them all, in case they might be elves in disguise.
Barely twenty minutes after the beast’s entrance into the camp, silence reigned. The only sound was the crackle and pop of the fires burning unchecked in three different places. Nothing remained alive, and the smell of blood was strong.
Too strong. The beast left the silent camp and circled upwind. A tantalizing whiff of elf came to it, borne on the cool night wind from the mountains. With uncharacteristic deliberation, the sand beast set out again and resumed trailing the pack of elves.
Near dawn the first riders of Adala’s band reached a hilltop overlooking their camp. Horrified by what they saw, they sent for the Weyadan and her warmasters.
The nomad war party had passed the night in the saddle, trying to swing wide around the elves’ path and outflank them. Unfortunately, they didn’t know the foothills as well as they did their usual terrain, and too many of them became lost in the gullies and ravines. They’d finally assembled as the sky began to lighten, and Adala was taking them back to camp when word came of the terrible disaster.
White-faced, the Weyadan rode through the savaged camp. No one was alive. All those left behind-wives, children, old folk-had been ruthlessly slain. The tents and supplies that weren’t burned had been shredded and trampled.
“Who could have done this?” asked Wapah, riding at Adala’s elbow, the tears flowing unchecked down his face. This question was repeated over and over by the stricken men-and punctuated by harsh screams as one after another they found their butchered, burned families.
Outside her tent, Adala made her own dreadful discovery. Her two youngest children, the last remaining at home, lay dead on the blood-drenched ground. Brave, forthright Chisi lay atop Amalia as though she’d tried to shield her gentle sister from the horror that had found them. On her knees beside them, Adala wept, swaying from side to side as anguish buffeted her.
“The laddad did this,” she finally said.
Wapah frowned. “No, Weyadan. However barbarous we find them, they are not such fiends. It is some fateful occurrence. Perhaps-”
“Fool! Can’t you see with your own eyes?”
He stared at her-her own eyes were great bottomless holes of pain. “The laddad did this,” she said fiercely, raising her voice to repeat her words for all the others. “The laddad did this!”
Bilath reported no broken elf weapons, no dead elves, and no dead elf horses, but Adala insisted the laddad had gleaned every item after the massacre, to hide their guilt.
Nothing Wapah or Bilath could say would dissuade her from this conviction. Then one of Bilath’s men brought shocking news that stopped all speculation. In a nearby ravine were the prints of three horses. The prints bore the unmistakable mark of laddad smithery. More, they led down the ravine, away from this camp, and joined a mass of similar hoofprints. An army of laddad had indeed passed by.
“For these murders,” Adala vowed, “they will pay.”
Wapah, though unconvinced, said nothing.
The others shouted and wailed their anger.
No longer was this a war only to preserve the sacred land of Khur from foreigners. Now, cradling her daughters’ torn bodies, her robe stiff with their blood, Adala of the Weya-Lu dedicated herself to Torghan, god of vengeance. No prisoners would be taken. No quarter would be given. This was a war to the death.
Chapter 6
Planchet and Hytanthas remained in the rooftop lean-to for hours, watching as patrols tramped up and down the streets, hammered on doors, and bellowed at each other across the empty squares. Whatever the original disturbance, Sahim-Khan’s soldiery had quelled it-no doubt with a heavy hand.
The need to remain under cover when they wished to be back with their Speaker tested their patience. The sun reached its zenith, then passed it, in the unbroken blue vault of the sky. The scents of cardamom pods and kefre bark in the little garden were as oppressive as the heat. Hytanthas gave up on his human disguise, pulling the black wig from his head and stuffing it behind a row of pots.
When a long period went by without sight of the patrols, Hytanthas slapped the older elf on the back, saying, “Let’s go!” With a terse remark about respect due to elders, Planchet followed.
The Khurish habit of building houses wider at the top than at the base made the elves’ trek much less difficult than it would have been elsewhere. And crossing Khuri-Khan by rooftop proved an edifying process. As the elves clambered over dwellings, they heard babies crying, laughter, shouted arguments, and lovemaking. A hundred different food smells vied with smoke, incense, and the stink of privies. The lives of the ordinary people of the city were open to view as Hytanthas and Planchet passed above their heads, out of sight. Khuri-Khan was indubitably foreign, yet it was also vigorously, robustly alive.
Near the Temple Walk, the buildings grew higher and larger. These were no longer private homes, but government storehouses, granaries, and colleges for the priesthoods of the various temples. Sunset was well past when they finally found themselves overlooking the great promenade lined with holy shrines.
The entrance to each temple was illuminated by torches thrust into iron ring-frames. By the wavering light, Planchet and Hytanthas watched small bands of Khurish troops, with halberds on their shoulders, march back and forth. Other than these patrols, the broad lane was empty.
“There’s the Temple of Elir-Sana,” Hytanthas whispered, pointing to their right.
The temple’s dome was lit from within and gave off a faint blue glow in the darkness. No acolytes or priestesses were visible in the courtyard. The chimes lining the low wall jingled in the night breeze.
The question now was how to get down. They were thirty feet above the road, atop a three-story, flat-roofed building. Its walls dropped smooth and straight to the pavement, offering no likely footholds for a safe descent.
A careful search of the roof revealed the solution: a trapdoor secured from the inside. Hytanthas was able to slip his slender fingers under its edges and free it. Slowly, silently, they eased the cover up.
No one cried out below, so Hytanthas lay flat on the roof and looked through the opening while Planchet gripped his legs.
“It’s a hall,” Hytanthas whispered, head-down in the opening. “Lined with doors.”
Planchet murmured a curse. No nice empty storehouse for them-they were trying to enter a priestly dormitory!
He started to haul Hytanthas back so they could try another building, but the wiry young elf lifted his feet, gripped the edge of the doorframe, and somersaulted through the opening. Catlike, he landed noiselessly. Lifting his hands, he urged Planchet to use him as a ladder to climb down.
“Insolent whelp,” muttered the Speaker’s valet. Although less agile than Hytanthas (who was a quarter his age), Planchet was no graybeard. He lowered himself through the opening, hung for a second, and let go. Unfortunately, Hytanthas, in his zeal to help, managed to trip him. The two elves went down in a tangle, hitting the wooden floor with a loud thump.
They froze, expec
ting sleepy priests to emerge from the rooms. None did. No light showed beneath the doors. The holy ones slept on, undisturbed.
The elves hastened down the hall, toward a stair landing. As Planchet rounded the top of the steps, he ran headlong into a woman. She was clad in a pale gray gown and turban, and carried no lamp. The two intruders, looming up suddenly in front of her, stole her breath, and Planchet’s hand clamped over her mouth before she regained it. He pressed her against the wall, hoping to forestall any magic she might try to use against them.
“Curse it, we’ve entered a college of priestesses!” he hissed. “This isn’t Sa’ida, by chance?”
Hytanthas shook his head and whispered, “Be silent, lady. We intend no harm. We are unjustly pursued by the Khan’s soldiers and seek refuge in the Temple of Elir-Sana. Do you understand?”
She nodded, and he smiled. “We’ll let you go, but you mustn’t raise an alarm. Yes?” Again, a nod.
The elves exchanged a look. After a moment’s hesitation, Planchet took his hand away. Immediately, the priestess hissed, “No men are allowed here! Ever!”
“Begging your pardon, holy lady, but we’re not men,” Planchet said reasonably, touching the tip of one pointed ear.
“Males! This is sacrilege!” Her voice was rising. “The Khan will hear of this violation!”
That was enough for Planchet. He snatched the scarf from her head, loosing a fall of gray hair, and gagged her with the cloth. She tried to yell, but only a thin gurgle emerged around the gag.
He took her by one arm, Hytanthas grabbed the other, and they propelled the priestess down the stairs. At the bottom, they found a small cupboard under the steps. Planchet pressed her inside. Whipping out his silk kerchief, he tied her ankles together. When he asked Hytanthas to surrender his own kerchief, the younger elf shrugged. He had none.
“What kind of uncouth stripling goes out without a kerchief?” Planchet snapped.
“A poor one, with no more possessions than he stands in!”
Planchet spun Hytanthas around and pulled off his geb, leaving him standing in leggings and low boots. The priestess’s eyes grew wider still at the sight of the bare-chested elf. Planchet had to admit he was an odd-looking sight. The dye he’d used for his disguise had been applied only to arms, neck, and face. His torso was several shades lighter.
Planchet tore a strip from the geb’s hem and used it to bind the woman’s wrists, then tore another to bind her wrists to her ankles, hoping to delay her escape. He tossed the ruined garment back to Hytanthas.
“And what am I to do with this?” Hytanthas asked sarcastically.
“Make yourself some kerchiefs,” Planchet rejoined.
The woman’s eyes, incandescent with fury above the gag, followed them as they closed the cupboard door.
They exited the building through a side door, which put them in an alley. The gate in the wall surrounding the Temple of Elir-Sana was directly ahead, across the promenade; the iron portal stood open. The patrol had already passed by, and all was quiet. They stepped out of the alley’s concealment and strode toward the temple gate.
As Hytanthas reached the gate, a deep voice rumbled behind them, “Stand where you are!”
Planchet hissed a soft curse. Both elves pivoted to face this new menace.
Hard leather heels thudded. A broad-shouldered, dark- skinned man strode forward. He was clad in leather trews and a short tunic, much like the attire worn by huntsmen in Qualinesti. The stranger’s togs were not the green or brown of the forest, however. They were an unsettling shade of purplish red. His wide face was clean shaven, with brows thick and black. He was head and shoulders taller than the two elves. His identity was obvious to both of them. It was the Nerakan emissary, Hengriff.
“That’s hardly proper attire for where you’re going,” he said, gesturing at Hytanthas’s torn geb. His other hand rested on the pommel of a sheathed sword, a slender court blade.
“Your own garb is out of place, too,” Planchet said wryly. “Don’t you stifle in all that leather?”
“I’m accustomed to it. Besides, I prefer it to the local style. Too much like a woman’s dress. Males are not allowed within this temple, you know.”
While he talked, the elves desperately searched the darkness behind him. Hengriff seemed alone. Although a formidable-looking fighter, the Knight could hardly hope to best two agile, sword-armed elves. Still, he seemed supremely confident.
Hytanthas said, “We have business with the high priestess. We’re known to her.”
“Business? What business could elves have with a fusty old priestess?”
“Our own,” Planchet said, then shoved Hytanthas through the open gate, shouting, “Go!” Unfortunately, the captain, taken by surprise, stumbled.
The Knight shouted a command. Suddenly, the night air was filled with a strange whirring sound.
Four lengths of rope, blackened by soot, hit the pavement in an arc behind Hengriff. Down each rope slid a brawny human dressed all in black-short black tunics, close-fitting trousers, and suede boots. In seconds, the men had landed silently and drawn swords. They sprinted toward the elves.
Planchet jerked Hytanthas to his feet, and the pair scrambled through the gate. The pursuing Nerakans did not try to crowd through the narrow opening, but vaulted the chest-high wall. It delayed them hardly at all. Hengriff approached with more deliberation, entering by the gate.
“I have questions and I want answers,” he said firmly. “You’ll come with us.”
“Not today, Nerakan!”
Hengriff laughed at Hytanthas’s defiant statement. Echoing like a bull’s bellow, the sound filled the courtyard. It died abruptly when light flooded the scene. The double doors to the temple had opened. Silhouetted there, her long shadow reaching out from the colonnade, was a woman.
“Begone! Men of war, you cannot remain on sacred ground!”
Hengriff shouted across the distance, “You don’t command me, Sa’ida, nor my men!”
The high priestess, followed by a handful of acolytes, appeared out of the light. She looked even more commanding than Hengriff. Stern and regal, she kept her eyes fixed on the Knight, and spread her arms wide as she approached. Her white robe seemed to gather the light, surrounding her with a bright, flowing aura.
Without looking away from her, Hengriff ordered his men to take the elves. The four warriors advanced, but when they were just five yards away, the swords suddenly flew from their hands. The Nerakans tried to keep coming, but a powerful force pushed against them. They bent forward at the waist, like men bucking a high wind, though the air was still.
Hengriff put a hand on the hilt of his own sword, but did not draw his weapon. In grim silence he watched his men shoved relentlessly backward across the courtyard and through the opening in the wall. Once in the street, however, they straightened, the unseen pressure no longer affecting them.
“You’ll regret this, healer,” Hengriff rumbled. “You’ve made an enemy.”
“Death was always our enemy! Go!”
The Knight spared a glance at the elves. “This is not finished,” he told them. He and his men departed, submerging into the darkness beyond the sacred enclosure.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Sa’ida sent two acolytes to close the temple gates; the clang of iron broke through the elves’ dazed immobility. Planchet got to his feet and straightened his clothing, brushing dust from his knees. He performed introductions in his most diplomatic manner. Sa’ida pursed her lips, frowning.
“I know who you are. This one”-she nodded at Hytanthas-”has been here before. But you cannot remain. It is forbidden.”
“Yes, lady, I know, but we hoped you could provide sanctuary,” Planchet replied. “The Khan’s soldiers are in the streets, hunting elves.
“It’s not the Khan you need fear, but the followers of Torghan.”
She gestured at her followers. Two gray-haired acolytes approached, received quiet instructions, and departed.
Hytanth
as, still dazed by events, found he had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Those men,” he finally asked, “how did you repel them, holy lady?”
“Potent protective spells are woven around our sacred shrine. No one may bear weapons of war into the goddess’s sanctuary.” The two elves glanced down at the swords they wore. “Do not draw them,” she warned. “If you do, you will be driven out, even as they were.”
The gray-haired acolytes returned, each carrying a bundle of clothing. Khurish robes, mostly old and dingy, were laid at the elves’ feet.
“Hengriff is intimate with the Khan. When word reaches him that you are here, soldiers will come. I am sorry, but I cannot offer you any hospitality. You must disguise yourselves and go,” Sa’ida said.
Hytanthas started to object, but Planchet cut him off. The valet thanked the priestess politely and began sorting through the clothing. Reluctantly, his companion did the same, discarding the torn garment he still wore. They decked themselves in sleeveless gebs and trailing outer robes. A scarf wrapped around the head concealed their tell-tale ears. Thus swathed from head to foot, and with the added cloak of night, their disguises looked authentic.
Planchet tugged the sash tight around his waist, bowed slightly, and walked toward the iron gate. Hytanthas hovered briefly, torn between the need to go with his comrade and the desire to try and learn more about the Nerakan Knight. Sa’ida ended his conflict by turning and leading her followers into the temple. The doors closed, the bright light was cut off, and Hytanthas was left in darkness.
“Come, lad,” Planchet called. “We’ve a long way to go.”
The journey across the dark city was a nervous one, but they reached Khurinost without serious incident. Dawn was breaking as they approached their greatest challenge, the city gatehouse, but luck was with them. A horde of soukats milled outside, eager to get back to their stalls in the markets. The mayhem of the day before had not discouraged them. Indeed, some spoke about how good business ought to be today as curious crowds came out to see where so much blood had been shed. Beset by the noisy, pushy tradesmen, the guards on the gate didn’t give the disguised elves a second glance.
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