Sanctuary ee-1

by Paul B. Thompson

  “So, what does the Lord of the Night have to say?”

  After weeks of hearing nothing from the Order, Hengriff had decided on a dangerous deception. He had forged a set of instructions, ostensibly from Rennold to himself. If he guessed right, all would be well. If he chose a faulty course, his head would certainly be forfeit. His masters might forgive failure, but not one committed in their own names.

  He opened the leather flap and pulled out a sheaf of papers. He made a show of glancing over the papers before clearing his throat and booming,” ‘To his Mightiness, Sahim, Khan. of All the Khurs, greetings-’”

  A loud noise halted Hengriff’s recitation. Shobbat suddenly reentered the hall at the head of twenty guards.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Sahim demanded. “Are the laddad-”

  “I have news, Mighty Khan. I have learned the identity of the traitor in our city, the author of all our troubles, the one who conspired to slay the king of the laddad.”

  Pleased, Sahim said, “Excellent, my son! Excellent! Who is it?”

  Shobbat advanced until he was standing abreast of the Dark Knight. The soldiers halted two steps behind the prince. “The traitor, sire, is Lord Hengriff.”

  For a moment no one moved. No one seemed even to breathe. Brief as a heartbeat, as long as forever. Then nearly everyone was in motion.

  The papers fell from Hengriff’s hand. The Khan’s eight guards drew swords and rushed at him. So did Shobbat’s escort. Because he was at court, Hengriff was armed only with a dagger, but he drew it without hesitation and lunged at Shobbat. The prince backed away, groping for his own blade.

  Only the Khan was still. He sat on his golden throne, watching.

  Hengriff slashed overhand at Shobbat. The prince clumsily warded off the strike, his feet slipping on the polished floor. Much white showed around his eyes. The soldiers who would have intervened were waved off by Sahim. He wanted to see how his son would fare against the formidable Hengriff.

  The answer was, he quickly realized, not well. Shobbat was no duelist. His father, a redoubtable warrior in his own right, had required him to serve eight years in the army of Khur. Shobbat spent the time learning archery and dice, not swordplay.

  The Knight made a series of wide, circular cuts. Shobbat backed away until his heel caught the hem of his robe. He fell. The Knight stood over him, sneering.

  “Even this you bungle!” he said.

  A sword point, bright with blood, suddenly protruded from his chest. Hengriff’s sneer froze. He looked back at the guard who’d stabbed him.

  “Now!” Shobbat cried. “Everyone, strike home!”

  The guard withdrew his blade. In spite of his wound, Hengriff whirled, flinging his dispatch case at the man’s face, but nine more blades thrust home. The Knight thrust his dagger into the belly of another guard and wrenched the sword from his hand. At last Hengriff had a real weapon.

  He caught two blades in a bind and whipped them aside. Thrusting, he took the closest Khur in the throat; the man went down. A blade passed under Hengriff’s outthrust arm, cutting deeply into his armpit. Cursing the pain, he recovered and slashed at the guard who’d cut him, severing the man’s jaw from the rest of his face.

  The Knight avoided cuts and stabs from three sides as the Khurs tried to hem him in. He dispatched a fourth attacker when the man lunged too far and Hengriff caught him by the wrist. Bringing his blade down, he all but severed the man’s arm at the elbow. The guard dropped to the floor, screaming and clutching his savaged arm. He rolled away.

  The doors of the throne room burst open. More soldiers appeared. They didn’t charge in, but stood transfixed by the appalling scene that met their eyes. Teeth bared in a hiss of pain, drenched in his own blood and that of his attackers, the towering Hengriff was the very picture of an assassin.

  Shobbat shouted at the newcomers to surround the Nerakan and kill him. The prince’s voice broke through their shock. They attacked.

  Hengriff was a master warrior, but there was no escape for him. Still, he put his back to one wall and fought on. Two more Khurs fell to his sword. The tiled floor around him grew slick with blood, His wounds burned, and his right attn was weak from loss of blood. With one particularly effective counterthrust, he drove half a dozen soldiers back against that many more. In this temporary lull, Hengriff sagged against the wall. He turned his burning obsidian gaze on Shobbat. The prince stood next to his father’s throne, both of them protected by a wall of outraged soldiers.

  “You think you’ve won?” Hengriff panted, his voice still deep and carrying. “You forget who you’re dealing with. You’ll not outlive me long, traitor!”

  Shobbat sneered. “I don’t fear your Order. Loyal Khurs will protect the throne.”

  “Not my Order, fool! Fear the laddad!”

  Paling, Shobbat shouted, “Finish him!” Like a bear bayed by a pack of wolves, Hengriff fought with the desperate ferocity of the doomed. He maimed three more attackers before two Khurs with pole arms speared him from opposite sides. Their surviving comrades joined in, pushing the halberd shafts, and Hengriff was driven back against the wall and pinned there.

  His life drained away. He slumped forward, still held upright by the spearpoints piercing his body. His eyes glazed. The sword dropped from his lifeless fingers.

  The guards gave a victory cry. They sorted themselves into proper formation before their monarch. “Shall we take his head, Great Khan?” asked one.

  Throughout the bloody battle, Sahim-Khan had sat on his throne with apparent calm, taking in every aspect of the fight. He was not convinced Hengriff was a traitor, but this was not the place to question his son’s accusation. The Khan rose, straightened his yellow robes, and stepped forward to examine the dead Knight.

  “No,” he said. “Drag his body to the square before the palace. Placard it, so all will know of his treachery.”

  The soldiers dragged Hengriff out by the heels and dumped him in the courtyard before the palace gate. One scrounged materials to make the sign Sahim required. The others stared up at the sky, crowded with slow-moving, billowing clouds. They’d never seen such a display before.

  “What does it mean?” asked one.

  Another, secretly a worshiper of Torghan, said, “Those on High are angry! They would see this land purged of evil.” I

  A loud gargling screech gave emphasis to the soldier’s prediction. It sounded like no bird known in Khur. Deep and powerful, the cry was halfway between a lion’s roar and an eagle’s scream. A second screech was followed by a freshening of the wind. The gust traveled through the streets of the city. The soldiers at the palace could follow its progress by the dust clouds it raised. They turned away and covered their faces as it whirled through the square from west to east, scouring the pavement and rocking the spindly scaffolding still attached to the palace walls. Uprights gave way, and planks tumbled. Then as quickly as it had come, the wind was gone.

  * * * * *

  In Khurinost, the odd screeching noise drew the elves out from under the woven grass mats that shaded the encampment’s narrow lane. Unlike the Khurs, many elves recognized that cry. It had come from a Silvanesti griffon.

  Planchet emerged from the Speaker’s tent. He certainly knew the cry, although he could hardly credit hearing it now. Its author was so high, silhouetted against roiling white clouds, that Planchet’s keen eyes could not discern whether or not the griffon bore a rider.

  Across the square, an elf woman tried to comfort her crying child, both of them frightened by the commotion overhead. Planchet went and spoke kindly to her.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “It’s only a griffon.”

  “I thought the Khurs were coming to kill us,” whispered the elf woman.

  “They aren’t our enemies,” Planchet assured her. He squeezed her hand and chucked the chin of the crying child. “Our Speaker will not allow us to come to harm.”

  The elf woman obviously had not seen Gilthas carried into his tent earlier,
barely conscious. His wound had festered and a fever had erupted in his slender frame. Just now he had little ability to guarantee anything, but the Throne of the Sun and Stars had a power that went far beyond the mortal elf who held it. Like a potent talisman against evil, Planchet’s invocation of the Speaker’s name calmed mother and child, and he was able to leave them in much better spirits.

  He had lost sight of the griffon. He hurried back to the Speaker’s tent to tell him of the sighting.

  In Gilthas’s bedchamber, healers, courtiers, and captains stood by, poised to do whatever was required of them.

  “Great Speaker!” Planchet said, kneeling by the bed. “Did you hear the call of the griffon?”

  Blue eyes hazed by fever turned slowly to the valet’s face. “You heard it? I thought I was delirious,” Gilthas whispered.

  “No, sire. It was real.”

  “Is she here?”

  “I don’t know. I lost sight of the creature, but we will find out soon.”

  Gilthas licked dry lips, and Planchet held a small cup of water to his mouth. Once Gilthas had swallowed a few drops, he asked about Lord Morillon.

  Unfortunately the Silvanesti had not been found. Planchet was forced to report they feared the worst.

  An elven healer bent and whispered in his ear. The valet nodded. “Sire, Vizier Zunda has come, with priestesses from the Temple of Elir-Sana.”

  “Holy Lady Sa’ida? She is said to be wise in her craft. Admit them.”

  Planchet turned to relay the order but a bizarre interruption occurred. The air suddenly rushed out of the tent, drawing the roof down violently. The tired canvas split, opening a great rent to the sky. The attendants cried out in alarm.

  Directly over the Speaker’s tent, a neat round hole had been bored through the towering clouds. It looked as though a giant finger had poked through the overcast sky and into the center of Khurinost. A whirlwind spun down from the hole, drawing streams of cloud vapor with it as it descended on the Speaker’s tent.

  As the wind screamed, Planchet shouted orders. Healers knelt around the Speaker’s bed, covering him with their bodies. Warriors formed a square, facing outward with swords drawn.

  Only seconds after it was first sighted, the vortex touched down on the Speaker’s tent, tearing it apart. Walls and ceilings collapsed. Elves were buried under masses of fabric. I Hands over their heads, the Speaker’s loyal guards kept the roof off him and the healers covering him.

  Suffocating in the thick canvas, Planchet could not see but only hear the chaos. Elves were shouting, footsteps pounding. Carefully, he thrust the tip of his sword through the canvas and made a small opening. No one protested, so he widened the hole.

  “My ancestors!” Planchet breathed.

  “What is it?” demanded Gilthas, pushing away the healers covering him.

  “Not what, Great Speaker-who!”

  The Lioness was bounding over the wreckage of the tent. Eagle Eye hadn’t even touched ground before she was off his - back and running toward her husband. She wore only the tattered remains of her smallclothes, and was soaked from head to toe. She cleaved through the astonished guards and healers, dropped to her knees, and took her husband in her arms.

  Gilthas said her name, over and over, as Planchet propped him up from behind. Despite the fresh blood that seeped from his cheek and neck, his voice was joyous with relief.

  “Kerianseray, how? How in the names of all the ancient gods did you get here?”

  “I flew. You sent Eagle Eye, so I returned him.” Her voice quavered nearly as much as his. “All the way from the Valley of the Blue Sands, I came.”

  She eased him back against the strong shoulder of Planchet. “An arrow!” she said, studying his wound with a practiced eye. “I knew it!”

  “How did you know, lady?”

  Kerian shook her head at Planchet’s question. “Never mind. Who did it. Was it Khurs? Nerakans?”

  The valet admitted they didn’t know yet.

  With Kerian’s help, Planchet settled the Speaker on his bed, then went to round up food and drink for her. And clothes, though he did not say as much to her.

  While they were moderately private, Gilthas took her hand. “You look wonderful,” he whispered, his tear-filled eyes looking her up and down.

  She grimaced, suddenly self-conscious. “We ran into a storm aloft, a tornado. I’m lucky it left me any clothing at all!”

  “Only the Lioness could ride home on the back of a whirl- wind,” he teased. “Are your warriors near?”

  She shook her head, embarrassment hardening into grim lines. “No, they were just leaving Inath-Wakenti when I had to leave them.”

  Briefly, for her throat was truly parched, she described their experiences in the valley-the phantom lights, the stone ruins, the disappearance of the sand beast and many of her warriors, and the utter lack of any animal life.

  “Not so much as a fly lives there, Gil. Leave it to the ghosts and will-o’-the-wisps.”

  During her recitation, however succinct, Gilthas began to succumb to the effects of his wound and fever, as well as the shock of her arrival. He was barely conscious.

  “Can’t be done,” he murmured, and she had to bend close to hear what he said next. “We must leave this place.”

  His eyelids closed, and he slept.

  Planchet returned with a jug of palm wine in each hand. The guards and servants began working to rig new supports for the tent roof. Kerian took a jug of wine and put it to her lips.

  Planchet informed her of the disappearance of Lord Morillon. She replied with a flippant comment, but his careworn face was very somber. “He’s been found, lady,” he continued. “In the desert outside the north city gate. His throat was cut from ear to ear”

  Chapter 13

  Daybreak came, with the nomads nowhere in sight. Glanthon had riders scour the pass for signs, but the Weya-Lu appeared to be gone. The pine copses and juniper thickets on the hillsides overlooking the pass were empty. On the floor of the pass, a distinct trail of hoofprints led due south. The way out of Inath-Wakenti was free and clear.

  As the Lioness had commanded, the company of elves would bear west, not south, the direction from which they had come. This eventually would put them on the caravan road from Kortal to Khuri-Khan. Since that road bypassed the cauldron of the High Plateau, it was a safer route in some respects, but for several days they would be riding further away from their comrades in Khurinost and closer to the border with Neraka. Still, Glanthon agreed with his commander’s reasoning that this was the best way to go. Feeling a bit naked without the encircling mountains, trees, and ghostly ruins, the elves rode forth into the open desert again.

  One of the last tasks they’d completed before leaving Inath-Wakenti was to make a small lap table for Favaronas. Thin planks of yellow pine were pegged together into a surface that allowed the archivist to write and read while on horseback. A hole near the top center of the board fitted over his saddle pommel. This stabilized the lapboard and kept it from sliding off the moving horse. Favaronas shortened his stirrups and balanced the lapboard across his drawn up knees. In this way, he could work on his report to the Speaker even as they were on the move.

  Without nomads to fight, Glanthon soon grew bored and came back to ride alongside Favaronas and distract him with a discussion of the valley. Glanthon believed a system of tunnels underlay the ruins. He was certain the secret of the ruins lay underground. Had time permitted, he would have sought permission from the Lioness to search further in the tunnels they’d found, looking for signs of their missing comrades and more evidence of previous civilizations.

  “You think our missing warriors are in the tunnels?” Favaronas said.

  “Where else?” Glanthon reasoned.

  “With magic involved, there’s no limit to where they might have been taken. The next valley over, or even to the stars themselves.”

  Favaronas’s testy response silenced the talkative warrior, but only briefly. Glanthon changed
the subject, asking whether Favaronas had learned anything about the odd stone artifacts they’d removed from the underground chamber.

  The archivist sighed. “Not very much,” he admitted. Each of the eight stone cylinders bore a brief inscription engraved on one side. Favaronas was convinced they’d once been real books, but had been changed to solid stone.

  “I have deciphered the labels, at least partly. They are not, as I first thought, a forgotten dialect of Old Silvanesti. Instead, each syllable is an abbreviation of a longer word or phrase. The first is marked Ba-L af-Om-Thas, which means ‘Balif, Lord of the Thon-Thalas,’ and Hoc-Sem-Ath. Which I believe translates as ‘Halfway Between Lives.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I wish I knew.” The archivist recalled the discussion at the Speaker’s dinner, the night before they’d begun this journey. The cartographer Sithelbathan had said the furthest outpost of the ancient elven kingdom, Balif’s Gate, was supposed to have been located in or near the valley.

  Glanthon looked over his shoulder at the three mountains, Torghan’s Teeth, receding behind them. “You think those stones are the ruins of that outpost? You think Silvanesti made them?”

  “Not necessarily.” The imprecision of it all plainly made the archivist unhappy. “But I’m beginning to think the valley was visited by followers of General Balif, probably after the First Dragon War, thirty-five hundred years ago. We know from ancient tradition that Balif left Silvanesti under a cloud, or a curse, and eventually helped found the kender nation of Balifor. Some authorities claim he became a kender himself, but there’s no evidence for that theory.” He sighed. “Many relevant records are still in the temples of Silvanost, closely guarded. Others were lost in the First Cataclysm.”

  “Perhaps these cylinders contain the true history of Balif!” Glanthon exclaimed.