Sanctuary

Chapter 10

The gates of Khuri-Khan were closed and bolted. There was no warning, no flurry of horns or rushing of guards. The iron portcullises, which once defied the minions of Malystryx simply dropped into place. The battlements, normally patrolled by the Khan’s soldiers, emptied.

This was not a development Gilthas had expected. For a day and a half, since word arrived of the supposed massacre of the nomad camp, mobs of Khurs, armed with sticks, hand tools, and stones, had issued from the city to attack Khurinost several times. The largest of these groups comprised a thousand people, but each time, they were turned back without difficulty by Planchet, Hamaramis, and the elven host. Tents on the camp’s periphery were torn down and burned, but the angry Khurs never penetrated far into Khurinost. Then the city gates had closed.

The Speaker and most of his advisors stood in the clear area in front of his royal tent. The spot was the highest point in Khurinost, though not by much. The late afternoon sun was behind them. Its orange light sparkled off the glazed tiles and yellow domes of Khuri-Khan, washing the scene in a deceptively pleasant and benign glow.

“What’s Sahim-Khan playing at? Is he trying to protect us from his people, or what?” Gilthas muttered.

None of his advisors knew. Absent from the group was Lord Morillon. He was in the city, seeking an audience with the Khan. Planchet, just returned from surveying the damage done to the outer ring of tents, removed his helmet and mopped his forehead with a rag.

“Could be he wants to cut off our water,” he said.

He spoke out of his own thirst, but his suggestion was a logical one. Every drop of water in Khurinost had to be carried from the city. If Sahim-Khan refused them access, the next nearest wells were at Ving’s Oasis, forty miles northeast, a journey of two or three days for elves on foot. The horrors of the march to Khur five years ago would be repeated, and on a daily basis. Gilthas needed alternatives. He recalled Hamaramis and, with Planchet, discussed how to repair the Situation.

“We ought to storm the city,” Hamaramis suggested. “The humans have left us ladders all around Khuri-Khan.”

The scaffolding, erected for repair work on the walls, remained in many spots.

Planchet shook his head. “Sahim-Khan must know that. He’s not a fool.”

The Speaker studied Khuri-Khan through a brass spyglass. Its ruby lenses, polished by the gemcutters’ guild of Qualinost, had allowed him to watch the streets of Qualinost from the heights of the palace. Now they brought Khurish defenses into sharp focus for the Speaker’s tired, sun-scorched eyes. He hated the idea of attacking Khuri-Khan. They had dwelt here in relative peace and safety for five years. They had no real enmity with Khur. If they stormed the city now, they would have to go all out to win. Failure meant utter destruction. They were too few to overwhelm the humans quickly, so war in the desert kingdom would go on and on. If Neraka or the minotaurs intervened, catastrophe would engulf elves and Khurs alike.

“Perhaps it was not the Khan who closed the gates,” Planchet said. He was worried about his young friend Hytanthas, who had not returned to the elves’ camp. Perhaps Hytanthas had stumbled in his mission, and the gates had been closed at the instigation of the mage Faeterus.

Hamaramis reminded them about the fanatical followers of Torghan, and Planchet said they mustn’t forget the Nerakan emissary they’d seen in the Khuri yl Nor. The Khurs had long-standing ties to the Dark Knights, and many of Sahim-Khan’s soldiers had served as mercenaries in their hire.

“Are we prepared to move?” the Speaker asked, still gazing through the spyglass.

“We are short several hundred carts,” Hamaramis replied. “There wasn’t enough timber to build them, and no time to trade for the wood. So we’re building travois.”

Wilder elves often transported goods and possessions by this means. A simple travois required only two long poles and canvas or hide to stretch between them. It could be pulled by horse, donkey, or even a sturdy goat. The trailing runners would not bog down in the sea of sand outside Khuri-Khan.

Glumly, Hamaramis departed to continue the preparations. He was against leaving, and his opposition had grown more open over the past few days. He preferred to stay and attack. Seize the city, he had argued; negotiate with the Khurs from the safety of their own stone walls.

What this bold, forthright plan failed to consider was that once the city was theirs, the elves were trapped. The nomad tribes would gather and expend every last drop of blood to drive them out, and Neraka could not be ignored. The Knights would certainly intervene, storming into Khur as liberators. The last hope of the elven nations would be caught neatly in a stone prison of their own making.

The answer, Gilthas still felt certain, lay in finding a new place to live. The elves needed barriers of distance and inhospitable wastes to guard them from the sudden proliferation of enemies. Only then could they grow and rebuild their strength.

A shadow fell on him, and Gilthas looked up. Planchet had opened a linen parasol to shade him.

“I wonder where Lady Kerianseray is?” the valet said, offering him a damp cloth.

Gilthas pressed the cloth against his throat and brow. “Some place cool, I hope.”

He’d received a very short dispatch from her, two days after the arrival of the first. Kerian and her warriors had entered the valley. The climate was mild and damp, but they’d found no signs of life. Strange stone ruins covered the valley as far as they could see. She intended to penetrate to the center of the valley, fulfilling her mission of exploration, then return.

Gilthas hardly knew what to make of the terse report. It contained no details from his archivist, Favaronas, and raised more questions than it answered. Was the Inath-Wakenti suitable for their people, or not? Was there a supply of fresh water? Any game? What was so strange about the ruins? Did they show evidence of having been built by ancient elves, as some of the legends had it?

The Lioness did thank him for sending Eagle Eye to her. But her promise to “put him to good use against our enemies” did not have a particularly diplomatic ring to it.

Of course she was under great stress, but did her reports have to be so vague and unhelpful? Was she allowing her personal feelings to color them? She was dead against his plan to migrate to the valley. Like the other warriors around the Speaker, Kerian preferred to decide her own fate by fighting. Even though he understood this, he could not allow war to overtake his people. He had to rule his own wife in that regard. The stakes were too high.

He mopped his brow again, glancing skyward. The sun was relentless. Khurinost would exhaust its ready water supply in a day if Khuri-Khan remained inaccessible.

“More to the point,” he said, “where is Lord Morillon? We need those gates opened!”

Lord Morillon was saying those very words to Sahim-Khan, on the rooftop garden of the royal citadel. Enormous screens, woven of reeds and rushes, shaded the garden. In better times, fountains flowed among the ferns and willows, adding the music of falling water to the scene and allowing more tender plants to be grown. As yet, the water system had not been repaired, so the greenery was confined to smaller, potted bushes and flowers which servants carried indoors during the worst heat of the day. Despite its sparse look, the garden still afforded an excellent view of the city.

“If our people are shut out, Great Khan, they will be forced to storm the city for water.”

“Attack Khuri-Khan?” Sahim thundered. “Blood will run down the walls of the city should that happen!”

The Silvanesti noble bowed, saying smoothly, “Your Majesty is wise. Blood indeed will flow, elven and human.”

Honey-tongued Zunda stepped forward and intoned, “Great is the patience of my master, Sahim the Many-Blessed! His forbearance is like the gods’ own! He has heard of the terrible atrocities wrought against his desert children, and still he is merciful. Still he stays his hand against the laddad, for he has pledged to maintain their safety. The word of Sahim-Khan is like a thunderbolt, implacable and unchanging!”

Suave, diplomatic Silvanesti never grind their teeth in frustration, but Lord Morillon was close to doing just that. He said—for the eighth time since arriving at the palace—that there was no proof a massacre had occurred, much less that it had been perpetrated by elves. “If the Mighty Khan would receive my king, the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, he would know this tale is false.”

“Desert tribesmen are known throughout this land for their truth telling,” said Zunda. “It is, for them, as essential as water and salt.”

“I can only repeat: There is no proof Lady Kerianseray or any other elven warriors have harmed a single nomad. No one has offered the slightest evidence an atrocity has even occurred. If it has, the Great Khan should look elsewhere for culprits—Neraka, perhaps.”

Lord Hengriff also was present on the rooftop. The representative of the Dark Knights stood a few steps away, among a crowd of other foreign dignitaries he overtopped by head and shoulders. His dark face was expressionless as a mask, even when the Silvanesti noble invoked his country’s name.

“The truth will be known,” Sahim declared. “I believe in the will of the gods.”

In reality Sahim-Khan believed in nothing but Sahim-Khan. As always, his mind was busy considering how best to make use of the current situation. Morillon’s threat to fight for water might prove a useful lever for prying more money out of Neraka. Sahim sought out Hengriff in the crowd, only to discover the bull-voiced warrior had slipped away unnoticed. Such discretion was remarkable in so large a man-remarkable and unnerving.

“Mighty Khan, the gates?” the Silvanesti lord was saying.

He was a persistent snake. Sahim had to credit him for that. Next to round, bewigged old Zunda, Morillon looked trim, cool, and elegant.

Sahim settled himself back in his throne—not the heavy, priceless Sapphire Throne, which never left the audience hall—and arranged his white and gold robes. Thus seated, he was a head taller than the standing elf. He made the most of his advantage, looking down his nose at Morillon.

“Zunda, how long till sunset?”

“One hour, Mighty Khan,” the vizier replied promptly. He’d long ago learned to have a multitude of disparate facts to hand, even one which his master could easily know for himself, simply by looking over his shoulder at the lowering sun.

Sahim mulled the answer in silence for moment, then barked: “Commander of the Guard!”

The quick flash of surprise on Morillon’s face was most gratifying. The laddad wasn’t as sure of himself as he appeared.

General Hakkam came forward. Armor clanking, he knelt before his lord. “Commander, take what troops you need and clear the city gates of all malcontents,” the Khan said. “If they resist, put them to the sword!”

Hakkam’s weathered face showed even more surprise than the elf’s, but he acknowledged the command immediately. Before he could rise to go, Sahim spoke again.

“However, the gates will remain closed.”

It seemed all in the crowd were holding their breath. None could fathom what the Khan was up to. From the look on Morillon’s face, it was obvious he, too, was at a loss.

“As you must certainly recall, my lord,” Sahim said, “elves are not allowed within the city after nightfall. The Khan of Khur cannot allow his defenses to be compromised. The malcontents and rioters will be cleared from the gates at once, and the gates will open as usual—at sunrise tomorrow.”

General Hakkam departed.

Morillon expressed his gratitude. His words carried no trace of irony.

“Justice is the cornerstone of khanship,” Sahim said, allowing his amusement to show. It was not a pleasant expression. “The merchants in the souks must trade. I’m sure they miss their laddad customers.” He put a hand to his lips, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “You had best warn your Speaker. Keeping sufficient troops on the gates to ward off rioters will be a drain on my treasury. I will of course be forced to institute a new tax.”

An awed hush fell over the rooftop garden. Morillon’s breathing seemed suddenly loud. All of his diplomatic training was required to keep him from shouting. “What tax, Mighty Khan?” he asked.

“Henceforth, all persons entering Khuri-Khan to trade must pay an entry tax.” He glanced at Zunda. “One gold piece per head.” The vizier lowered his eyes and nodded, ever so slightly.

The amount was ridiculous, exorbitant, and fell especially on the elves, who entered frequently for trade purposes. Morillon’s Silvanesti aplomb failed him utterly. His mouth fell open. Sahim smilingly assured him the tax was only temporary, until the troops could be returned to their barracks.

Morillon bowed stiffly. “I will convey the Great Khan’s words to the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. Will Your Mightiness receive the Speaker to discuss the matter of the alleged massacre?”

Sahim waved a hand magnanimously. “I need no reassurance, my lord. The word of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars is more than enough for me.”

Pale, tight-lipped, Morillon swept out, ignoring the stares of Sahim’s uncouth courtiers. Another so-called tax! This was the second time the Khan had insulted the Speaker to Morillon’s face. The Silvanesti was a lifelong servant of the throne of the Stars and his patience was nearly at an end. Sahim-Khan didn’t know it, but he’d made a lasting enemy of Lord Morillon this day.

Passing through the citadel courtyard, walking so rapidly his small entourage had to jog to keep up, Morillon noted two humans talking together. Lord Hengriff and Prince Shobbat were deep in conversation by a shadowed wall. That is to say, Shobbat was talking animatedly. Hengriff was listening, arms folded across his chest.

The Knight’s eyes moved, crossing Morillon’s gaze in passing, and his impassive countenance altered. The look on his face was so fleeting, Morillon found it difficult to categorize. Was it acknowledgment? A grudging respect? The Dark Order, for all its machinations, was a far more honorable opponent than the grasping, conniving Sahim. Perhaps in that brief moment Knight and elf shared the realization that both were heartily sick of Khur and its ruler. Change was coming. Whether it would be for Neraka or the elves was uncertain, but the current course could not continue.

A very eloquent glance. In a snap of sky-blue silk, Morillon was out the gate and gone. Hengriff continued to stare thoughtfully after him.

“—was delivered!” Shobbat was saying, voice rising. “Did your courier get through as I ordered?”

Hengriff nodded, and the prince demanded, “Well, has he returned? I would speak to him about the nomads’ reaction ”

The Knight didn’t respond. He was still thinking about the Silvanesti noble. Lord Morillon was a chink in the Speaker’s armor. Gilthas trusted him too much, relied too heavily on his counsel, but Hengriff recognized Morillon’s type. He was of the class of elves who let their nation slide into ruin while they observed all the niceties of protocol and manners. Kerianseray and the Qualinesti were much more dangerous. They would have deduced long before now that they had a spy in their midst. Morillon was still in the dark.

“You’re not listening!”

Hengriff fixed the impatient prince with a baleful eye. “No, I’m not. When you calm down and speak rationally, I’ll listen, Your Highness.”

Shobbat quivered. He wasn’t used to such insolence, any more than he was used to standing in the heat. Sweat stood out on his forehead. Tiny red veins webbed the whites of his eyes. He had dyed his hair its usual dark shade, but in strong sunlight, the black carried a faint greenish tinge.

“I need to know what’s happening,” he said, striving for a calmer tone. “Are the nomads coming?”

“Who can say, Highness? Your desert folk are like wolves, fierce and wild. I’ve lived here two years and I don’t begin to understand them.”

Shobbat, Khur born and bred, didn’t understand the nomads either, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Hengriff.

Changing the subject, the Knight told him of his father’s agreement to clear all the city gates of troublemakers.

“Really? All the gates, you say?” The prince pressed a fist to his lower lip. If soldiers of the Household Guard had been sent to all nine gates of Khuri-Khan, there couldn’t be many left in the palace.

“Careful, Highness. Your thoughts leap from your face.”

Shobbat forced a careless laugh and palmed sweat from his forehead. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m simply suffering from the heat. I should retire indoors and escape the warmth.”

Hengriff bowed to the heir of Khur. “To Your Highness’s continued good health.”

The prince withdrew. Once he had seemed a ridiculous figure but Hengriff was beginning to wonder if he had underestimated him. The situation was coming to a head, and quickly. Hengriff’s dispatches to Jelek stressed this urgency. He felt the Order must be ready to move on a moment’s notice. When the crisis came, the fate of the elves would fall not to him who struck first, but him who struck the most decisively.

Six lengthy dispatches, carefully enciphered, he had sent to Jelek via the border town of Kortal. Six dispatches in as many weeks, yet no answer had come back. If Hengriff had been the suspicious type, he might think his messages weren’t getting through. Worse still, could Rennold be ignoring him?

Odd sounds reached the citadel courtyard. Distorted by the brick canyons of Khuri-Khan, the tumult sounded like the crash of waves on a rocky shore. Hengriff knew better. They were the sounds of conflict.

His four bodyguards arrived, already mounted, leading his horse. “My lord!” cried his man Goldorf. “There is fighting at the city gates!”

Hengriff swung into the saddle. “Sahim-Khan ordered his troops to clear the gates. Who are his guards fighting?”

“Torghanists.”

Hengriff betrayed surprise. The priests of Torghan were taking Nerakan pay, and he hadn’t asked them to blockade the city. So who had? His dark eyes narrowed. He suspected the meddling hand of Prince Shobbat in this development.

“Well, let’s see how Sahim’s men fight,” he said, grasping his reins in one large fist.

He and his bodyguards galloped straight to the west gate, which faced the elves’ camp. They scattered Khurs left and right. The Lesser Souk was emptying rapidly as the sound of swordplay rang over the market. The sight of the Nerakans on horseback only hastened the process.

This gate was known to city-dwellers as “Malys’s Anvil” because the red dragon had crushed so many foes against the stout iron portcullises. When Sahim-Khan’s guards arrived the gatehouse had appeared undefended, but as they broke ranks to open it, stones and timbers rained down, thrown by Khurs concealed inside. A squad was sent up each side of the battlement, to storm the gate in unison and trap the attackers inside. Unfortunately, the fanatics proved to be armed with more than brickbats; they produced swords and spears and, in the narrow confines of the parapet, Sahim’s guards had a real fight on their hands. Soon the ground around the gatehouse was littered with bodies. Most wore nomad gebs, but more than a few wore the scale armor of the khan’s royal guard.

Hengriff halted his horse some distance away to watch the unexpected fight. His men pulled up respectfully behind him. Silent at first, the bodyguards soon were offering a running commentary on the progress of the battle and bellowing advice to the outmaneuvered guards.

“Cut at their legs! Civilians are terrified of that—keeps ‘em from running away!”

“Look at those shields, dangling from their wrists like a lady’s nosegay. Get your shields up, you goatherds! Watch those spearpoints!”

“I’ll bet you wish you had a score of archers just now, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” Hengriff growled and the bodyguards subsided, merely shaking their heads at the display before them.

Below, the guards breached the flimsy barricade around the gate. Leaping over baskets filled with brickbats, they quickly routed the Torghanists on the ground. In hours, the remaining eight portals were likewise free of “malcontents.”

Long before that, Hengriff had led his men back into the city. The Knight had other falcons to fly during the coming night.

Hytanthas arched his back, stretching. He was tucked inside an angle of broken wall, on the grounds of a once-beautiful villa. Through a chink in the wall he’d been watching the ruined house for half a day He’d begun to think he was on a kender’s errand.

Disguised again as a human, he had lurked in wine shops and low inns seeking clues to the whereabouts of the elusive sorcerer Faeterus. He’d learned nothing of note until he overheard a merchant complaining to his fellows about a peculiar order he’d received.

“I am a poulterer,” the merchant declaimed proudly, “not a trapper. Who orders a dozen live pigeons? Nobody eats those filthy birds!”

His colleagues mocked him mercilessly. Apparently this was not the first time he’d received such an order, nor the first time he’d complained about it.

“Then why didn’t you refuse?” taunted one of his colleagues.

“Because of the money!” put in another.

There were guffaws around the table, and the poulterer joined in. The money was indeed good, good enough to convince him not only to procure the despised pigeons, but to deliver them to the city’s ruined northern district. He’d stopped here for a refresher before venturing into that cursed area. His comrades agreed the Harbalah was home to ghosts—and worse.

At this point Hytanthas insinuated himself into the conversation. Posing as a Delphonian down on his luck, he offered to deliver the pigeons. The chicken merchant was eager to shift the duty to another. He paid Hytanthas two silvers-insulting wages, which the elf accepted with fawning gratitude—then gave him directions, and a warning.

“Remember, leave the cages outside the old garden wall. Don’t go any closer to the house.”

“Why so much fuss? It’s a ruin, isn’t it?”

“Just don’t, if you value your life’s blood!”

Hytanthas heeded the warning. He had placed the caged birds where he’d been told, then took up a position in one of the wrecked outbuildings to see who claimed them. He was certain it would be Faeterus. The shattered mansion was the perfect setting for a renegade wage. And Hytanthas had heard unsavory stories about dark magical rites involving the sacrifice of animals, like pigeons.

The land rose slightly from Hytanthas’s position up to the villa proper. As the sun set, the shadows swelled like a dark sea, claiming first the grounds, then the decrepit house. Blocks warmed all day gave up their heat by night, so Hytanthas had a snug place from which to watch the pigeon basket. Too snug, in fact. After so many hours of inactivity, he began to nod.

The clatter of broken stones jerked him from sleep. Gripping his sword hilt, he peered through the chink in the wall. The wicker basket was where he’d left it, its avian cargo asleep.

He heard another small avalanche of disturbed masonry. Someone was moving in the ruins. A low, breathy growl penetrated his hiding place, then a voice, hoarse with age, pitched slightly high.

“What is it, Talon? Intruders?”

The voice was behind him, to the left of the villa’s front door, in the ruined garden. With all the stealth imparted by heritage and training, Hytanthas rose up from his crouch and peeked over the low wall. There was Faeterus, not ten yards away. He was standing in profile, hooded, heavy robe draped over his hunched shoulders. One long-fingered hand held a thin, glittering leash. At the other end of the leash was a walking nightmare.

The monster stood on four feet, like a lion, and its body was covered by thick, tawny hair. It had a long neck coated in sleek, bronze-colored scales. Atop this, surrounded by a stiff red mane, its head was an awful parody of an elven or human face, with a flat nose and a mouth many times larger than a person’s. Row upon row of silver metallic teeth filled the creature’s fearsome smile. Its tail switched back and forth, like a cat’s.

“This is what happens when I take down my wards to receive new birds; someone takes advantage,” Faeterus said. “Very well, Talon. Find the intruder.” He released the thin leash.

Hytanthas ducked down. He heard the monster’s paws dig into loose rubble as it sprang away from its master.

“Whoever you are, you’d better run. When the manticore finds you, the meeting won’t be pleasant.”

Hytanthas gathered himself, took a deep breath, and leaped over the wall. He landed with feet wide apart and presented his blade to the robed mage. He looked around nervously. The manticore was not in sight.

“In the name of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, surrender!”

Faeterus looked surprised, but only for an instant. “Ah, I see. An elf hiding in a human shell. That explains Talon’s confusion. What’s your name, Hermit Crab?”

Hytanthas told him, just as the manticore came bounding back down the path. Hytanthas rushed forward, laying the edge of his sword alongside Faeterus’s neck.

“Keep that thing away, or I’ll have your head!”

Faeterus snapped his fingers. The monster halted at once, as if arrested by an invisible tether. Dropping on its haunches, it stared at them with round, cold blue eyes, grinning with its insanely large mouth. Hot breath, stinking of carrion, washed over Hytanthas’s face.

“I’m taking you to the Speaker to be judged for your crimes,” he said.

“I don’t think so.” Hytanthas tapped him with the flat of his blade. Faeterus chuckled lightly, adding, “Yes, a good blade, and I’m sure you know how to use it. But it’s not yet time for me to meet Gilthas Pathfinder.”

With that, he simply went away. How or where, Hytanthas could not begin to guess, but one instant he was gripping the mage’s bulky robe; in the next blink of an eye, his hand was empty. His sword, now resting on nothing, dropped to the dirt.

The manticore leaped.

Hytanthas got his blade up in time to ward off the monster. His point raked across the bright scales but did not pierce them. He backed rapidly, keeping his weapon pointed at the beast. Huffing, the manticore advanced slowly.

Hytanthas spotted Faeterus. The mage now stood on a veranda high on the side of the ruined villa. The basket of pigeons sat beside him. His face showed no excitement, merely calm curiosity. Apparently he wanted to see how his monstrous pet dealt with an armed and agile intruder.

Hytanthas cut at the manticore’s eyes. The creature stood its ground, batting the tip away with one paw. Hytanthas reversed his motion and thrust at the paw. His keen point pierced it from furred top to padded sole. Dark blood flowed. The beast howled, opening its mouth so wide the elf feared its head would break at the hinge and fall off. Its voice was high and piping.

The manticore attacked again. Hytanthas pirouetted aside, but the beast’s claws caught his Khurish robe. He was dragged down, landing on his back atop broken masonry, and the sword flew from his hand. The monster’s claws slashed across his chest. The mail shirt he wore beneath his robe saved him from being gutted like a fish, but the blow still knocked the wind from his chest.

Furious at its failure to draw blood, the manticore swatted the elf like a housecat toying with a mouse. The blow sent Hytanthas rolling across the weedy ground until he fetched up against a sizable date palm. Shedding sun hat and shredded robe, the elf hefted several fist-sized stones and hurled them at the creature. They thumped against its chest, eliciting grunts, but barely slowed the manticore. Hytanthas turned and ran, Khurish sandals flapping.

He vaulted nimbly over ruined fences and broken walls, but was forced to detour around larger obstacles. His adversary simply bulled straight through everything in its path, thereby gaining steadily on him. As he leapt for the top of a stout pile of stone masonry, the creature was so close behind he felt the rush of air as it swiped at his legs. He hauled himself up and over the pile.

The manticore crashed into the pile, but the masonry was too thick for it to break through. With a human-sounding scream of frustration, the monster reared up, rested its paws atop the pile, and looked over. Frustration turned to unholy triumph, and it grinned. Its quarry was trapped!

Hytanthas stood with his back against the estate’s outer wall, designed to enclose the villa like a miniature fortress. Whole sections had been toppled, but it was his misfortune that this portion, a good twenty yards long, was intact. Fifteen feet high, its surface was smoothly plastered, allowing for no handholds, even for a nimble and highly motivated elf.

With evident relish and terrifying slowness, the manticore scaled the masonry pile. Its pale blue eyes never left Hytanthas’s face, and the elf stared back, afraid if he looked away it would pounce.

Suddenly, the manticore froze, right foreleg in the air. Hytanthas hadn’t heard or felt anything, but the creature obviously had. It waited several long seconds, tail twitching, gaze flickering upward, then resumed its advance.

On the veranda, Faeterus felt something, too. He released the pigeon he’d been stroking, moved to the edge of the gallery, and stared out into the night.

A deep vibration suddenly shook ground and air. Gradually Hytanthas discerned a new sound: heavy footfalls, and the noise of something weighty being dragged. It was coming from his right, a part of the estate he hadn’t explored.

As he tried to make sense of the noises, the manticore began behaving oddly. Attention fixed in the direction of the approaching footsteps, it shrank down, belly against the rubble pile, as if trying to make itself small. Its thin lips parted and it hissed like a frightened cat. The hair along its back stood up.

The heavy footfalls and dragging sound drew nearer, bringing with them the metallic reek of blood. The warm wind carried the stench of putrefaction, as of a large wound gone black with gangrene. The manticore howled loudly then rushed away, keeping itself close to the ground.

Cautiously, Hytanthas followed. He’d spotted his sword, glittering faintly in the rubble. It was a long way away and the manticore, departing or not, was between the weapon and him.

He was sizing up his chance of reaching it when something loomed up out of the darkness. At first he thought it was the manticore, but the sheer bulk of the thing was too great, at least three times the size of Faeterus’s deadly pet. He made out a pair of green eyes, each at least ten inches across, with large vertical black pupils, and a huge face ringed by horns. Hytanthas screamed.

His cries were answered. Faeterus tossed a small globe into the air. It exploded, flooding the scene with brilliant white light. The light was painful to Hytanthas, but bearable. By its illumination, he finally realized what it was he faced, though he could hardly credit his eyes.

During his exile in Khur, the young elf had tried to learn all he could about the dangers his people might face here.

Never had he thought to see a sand beast. Especially not in the middle of a city.

Fortunately, the creature did not seem overly interested in him. Head lowered against the glare, the sand beast continued its advance toward the ruined villa. Someone had hurt it. It hauled itself forward by its forelimbs, its hindquarters dragging lifelessly behind. Where left hind leg joined sloping back, a great festering wound spread.

The elf never considered running away. His mission was to bring Faeterus before the Speaker; he could hardly do that if he left the mage at the mercy of this monster. Faeterus, hampered by his bulky disguise, was descending the stone steps from the veranda.

“Talon!” the sorcerer panted. “Attack!”

The manticore came galloping over the debris-strewn ground, its earlier fear of the sand beast overcome by the will of its master. In the last few yards its strides stretched to great bounds, and on the third leap it threw itself on the sand beast’s back, wrapping its legs around the scaly hide. The greenish-gold scales covering the sand beast’s throat resisted the manticore’s teeth, but the mage’s pet kept trying.

The sand beast shook its horned head from side to side, hoping to dislodge its attacker. The manticore climbed up and hooked its foreclaws on the beast’s lower jaw. Mouth opening wide, the manticore worried the beast’s throat. The sand beast gave up trying to remove its tormenter. Lowering its head, it ran itself against the nearest standing wall. Blocks burst apart, and the manticore finally was knocked loose. It rolled, got its feet beneath it, and sprang again. With lightning precision, the sand beast’s head came around, its jaws opened, and it caught the manticore in mid-leap. The manticore yowled in high-pitched rage, but only for a moment. The sand beast’s jaws closed on its neck. A sickening snap, and the human-looking head dropped to the ground.

Faeterus had reached the arena of battle. The mage extended his left hand toward the furious sand beast and uttered a string of mysterious syllables. An invisible concussion drove the beast backward a few feet, but that was all. Metallic lids narrowed over its eyes, a throaty growl rose from its throat, and the beast advanced again.

“You’re only making it angry!” Hytanthas yelled. “Keep it busy, and I’ll help you fight it!”

The mage’s hooded head turned toward him. “Yes, perhaps you can be a help, at that.”

Faeterus spoke a word, and the globe of light overhead went out. Hytanthas, his attention focused on getting to his sword, was suddenly astonished to find himself not only plunged into darkness, but dragged backward as if in the grip of an invisible band. He protested, flailing futilely against the force that held him. Faeterus waited until he was nearly in range of the sand beast’s claws, then released him. With the beast thus distracted, the mage made his escape. He vanished into the outer darkness.

Hytanthas wasted no time. As soon as the magical force let him go, he hurled himself to one side, rolled, and came up running. Clad only in mail shirt, leggings, and sandals, he was unarmed and helpless. Once determined to take Faeterus back to the Speaker, he would have to settle for bringing word of the mage’s whereabouts. If he survived!

Behind him, he could hear the creature’s advance. Chunks of masonry flew, date palms snapped, and broken walls burst apart as the sand beast kept coming. Its aim was uncanny. Either it could see very well in the dark or it had some other way of sensing Hytanthas’s whereabouts.

The elf turned to see where it was. In that brief pause, the sand beast jumped at him.

Hampered by injury, the creature came up short, but one foreclaw swiped across his mail shirt. Once more his armor saved Hytanthas from death, but even the glancing touch of the metallic claws was enough to tear through the mail as though it was linen.

The sand beast was thrown off balance. It crashed to the ground and rolled down a short slope.

While the monster floundered in a rocky, weed-choked area that once had been a stone-lined pond, Hytanthas made good his escape. He clambered up the shell of the gatehouse and dropped inside. Loose rubble shifted beneath his feet and he landed awkwardly, slicing his leg on a sharp limestone block.

Swallowing a groan of pain, he listened for sounds of the sand beast’s pursuit. Instead he heard human voices, men’s voices. A tiny ember of relief flickered inside of him. Perhaps Sahim-Khan’s soldiers had heard the uproar in the Harbalah and come to investigate.

A new fire burned in the air over the villa grounds. No magical orb, it was a flaming arrow. Its light fell on the sand beast, dedicatedly gnawing off its own wounded leg, and something else: five mounted men. They cantered through an opening in the villa’s outer wall. One had a long lance couched under his arm. The rest carried swords or bows. Their armor was Nerakan, not Khurish.

Hytanthas had no intention of cowering in safety while others battled that horror. He hunted through the debris in the gatehouse and found a length of lead pipe, corroded but heavy. With his makeshift weapon in hand, he slipped out to wait for the riders to reach him.

The sand beast gave up trying to sever its injured leg and dragged itself onto the cracked payers of the road to wait for the oncoming riders. It was breathing hard, its nostrils sending clouds of white vapor into the cooling night air.

The five riders drew abreast of Hytanthas and rode on by. The one in the center, carrying the lance, was Lord Hengriff, the Dark Order’s emissary to Khur. The five charged the wounded sand beast. Hengriff’s lance pierced its broken hips. The monster roared in pain and whirled, snapping the lance shaft but leaving its head buried. One foreclaw raked through the air, and a horse went down. It and its rider had been shredded; neither rose again.

Circling away, Hengriff drew a two-handed sword. Hytanthas couldn’t imagine wielding such a weapon with only one hand while on horseback, but the big Knight handled the sword with practiced ease. With his three surviving men guarding his flanks, he galloped straight at the sand beast. He rose in the stirrups and swung the sword, using all his size and strength to drive the blade in up to its hilt behind the monster’s shoulders. His men loosed arrows at its head from only a few feet away. Two pierced its eyes before the beast shuddered and fell like a poleaxed steer. The ground shook from the impact, nearly knocking the approaching Hytanthas off his feet.

Hengriff, dismounted, leaning against the sand beast’s ribs. He was slumped forward over the pommel of his sword, which he still gripped in both hands. His eyes were closed, his head bowed, and Hytanthas thought the breath had been driven from his lungs. The elf cleared his throat to speak.

“Shh,” Hengriff said. “The heartbeat is fading.”

Understanding came, and Hytanthas shuddered. The Knight wasn’t recuperating from the mighty blow he’d landed, he was listening to the creature’s life slip away. The young elf said nothing, conscious of the three other Dark Knights sitting on horseback around him.

“That’s it.” Grunting, Hengriff worked his sword free of the monster’s carcass. Cleaning the blade on a scrap of leather, he angled a considering look at Hytanthas. “The kill would’ve been more satisfying had it been at full strength. How did you manage to wound it, elf?”

His disguise in tatters, wrung out by fear and fighting, Hytanthas had no strength left to fence with the Nerakan. “I didn’t,” he said bluntly. “It arrived like that.”

An absent nod, then Hengriff spoke to one of his men. “Goldorf, that lance broke too easily.”

“Time was short, my lord. I had to improvise.”

“What of Faeterus?”

This question was directed at Hytanthas. The elf told the truth: The mage had disappeared when the sand beast arrived.

“I know you,” Hengriff said, eyes narrowing. “I’ve seen you before. Ah, yes! You were in the Speaker’s honor guard, when he had his audience with Sahim-Khan.”

Hytanthas had been only one of fifty elves in the honor guard. Impressed by the Knight’s memory, but striving not to show it, Hytanthas inclined his head, confirming his identity.

“So, you came here hunting Faeterus? You’re triply lucky, elf. Lucky the mage’s wards didn’t get you, lucky his ugly pet didn’t gut you, and lucky we came along to deal with the sand beast”

Hengriff sent his men on to the ruined villa. “I came hunting the mage, too,” he said. “He was pursuing his own course, raising the nomads against the elves and the Khan, sending this creature out to kill that she-dragon Kerianseray. I wonder how it ended up back here.” He shook his head. “Things have a habit of doing that around Faeterus. Appearing or disappearing without warning.”

“Have your men been sent to kill the mage?”

Hengriff didn’t answer, but he didn’t really need to. Hytanthas doubted the Knights would have much luck. Faeterus didn’t seem the sort to linger where danger threatened.

The elf was losing strength, swaying on his feet, exhausted, thirsty, and injured from his battles with manticore and sand beast. It seemed he was always tired or injured or thirsty, these days. Perhaps he’d been that way for years, for all the years of his exile. Stupid not to have planned better, brought food and water. He’d not expected to have to wait so long for Faeterus. Certainly hadn’t expected to battle a human-headed manticore and a wounded, enraged sand beast.

Hytanthas realized Hengriff was speaking to him. He had no idea what the human had said. Worse, he’d completely forgotten the Nerakan was here, had forgotten everything but the miasma of fatigue and privation that enveloped him. He forced his slumping shoulders to straighten and gripped the lead pipe more tightly.

“I’m leaving,” he announced. “Don’t try to stop me.”

A wolfish smile appeared on the Knight’s face. “Go back to your people, elf, before you drop where you stand and another of Faeterus’s creatures has you for dinner.”

Before he departed, honor demanded one last thing of Hytanthas. “Lord Hengriff,” he said with formal precision. “You saved my life. Thank you.”

“That was today. Don’t expect a like outcome next time.” Hengriff mounted his horse and cantered away, heading up the hill to the villa.

Hytanthas went in the opposite direction, beginning the long trek back to Khurinost. The world was indeed a crazy place, when a soldier in the Speaker’s host was saved from death at the hands of a rogue elven wizard by a Dark Knight of Neraka.