Sanctuary

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, expecting 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