city.”
“The Sons of the Crimson Vulture have caused much trouble, for you and for the mighty Sahim-Khan. Consequently many of them have been sent to meet their ancestors.”
“Then the city is open to us?”
“I have no orders otherwise.”
A fresh gust, smelling of the sea, swept over the parley.
Planchet’s truce banner snapped in the wind. Twisting in the saddle, he raised the banner high, and waved it at the horde of elven warriors who watched in silent concern. When Planchet turned back, Hakkam and his escort had their hands on their sword hilts.
“I was merely alerting our soldiers that all was well,’ Planchet said mildly.
“Who’s that coming?”
Two elven riders emerged from the line of heavy cavalry and cantered to where Planchet and Hakkam waited. It didn’t take long to recognize the Speaker and a single escorting warrior, General Taranath. When they arrived, Planchet explained the situation.
“Thank you, General,” the Speaker said to Hakkam. He extended a lean hand. “Your duty has been well served.”
With little enthusiasm the general shook the Speaker’s hand. Gilthas assured him he would withdraw his warriors, then added, “One other matter. My councilor, Lord Morillon, did not return last night. Is he inside the city?”
“He had an audience with Sahim-Khan, then left the palace.”
“Is he well?”
Hakkam frowned. “How would I know? He left the palace. That’s all I know.”
With a curt nod, Hakkam turned his horse around. Planchet was aghast at the human’s rudeness, turning his back on a reigning Speaker without so much as a by-your- leave!
The shaft of sunlight, so long shining on Planchet and Gilthas, at last faded. Gilthas looked up at the roiling clouds. He frowned. A slender object, dark against the sky, seemed to hang in the air over the city. No, not hang. It was moving, falling.
“Arrow!” Planchet shouted.
He threw himself in front of the Speaker, but the missile was plummeting from such a height its path was almost straight down. The broadhead cut Gilthas’s jaw and struck him in the hollow of the neck, on the right side.
Pandemonium erupted. Gilthas was saved from hitting the ground by Taranath, who caught him by the shoulders and bore him up. Hakkam’s guards drew swords, whirling their horses in tight circles to see who had loosed the arrow.
A shout went up from the front rank of elven warriors. They had seen the arrow’s fall and its awful termination. The shout was followed by a hedge of swords sprouting along the line. In ragged order, for the rear ranks did not yet know what had happened, the elves charged up the hill to their monarch’s defense.
The thunder of the oncoming elves sent Hakkam’s escort spurring for the city. The thick-necked general roared, “Come back, you wretches! Stand your ground!” One halted. The rest made straight for the city gate, now swinging shut.
“What treachery is this?” Planchet cried, kicking his feet free of the stirrups and leaping from his horse. The Speaker had collapsed over his horse’s neck.
“It is not by my order!” Hakkam retorted, also dismounting.
He and Planchet took the Speaker from his horse and j lowered him gently to the road. The arrow was still embedded in Gilthas’s neck.
“That did not come from my men,” said Hakkam. “It’s not a Khurish war arrow.”
“What is it, then?” Planchet demanded.
“A hunting arrow. My men aren’t issued such.”
It was fortunate for Gilthas the missile wasn’t a war arrow. Stoutly shafted, with a square or triangular iron head and leather fletching, a war arrow would have driven deep into the elf’s slender body. The hunting missile, lightly made, with a flat broadhead and white pigeon-feather fletching, had struck Gilthas’s collar bone and stopped. The wound was nasty, but with prompt care it would not be fatal.
A wave of shouting elf warriors galloped by the figures kneeling on the road. A handful halted, but most kept going, charging the city gate.
Their angry shouts reached the weakened Gilthas. From somewhere deep within himself, he tapped an unknown source of strength. Face white, he struggled to rise. Planchet holding him down, begged him to be still.
“Stop it,” Gilthas said through clenched teeth.
Thinking he was hurting the Speaker, Planchet felt tears come to his eyes. He whispered, “I’m sorry, sire, but you must be still. Please don’t move.”
“No, Planchet. Stop the warriors! Don’t let them fight! I command it!”
Taranath heard the Speaker’s order. He snatched a trumpet from his saddle and blew “Recall.” He had to repeat it four times before all the hard-riding warriors heard and heeded. The foremost ground to a halt only yards from the city wall.
In between trumpet blasts, Hakkam was shouting at his own soldiers. “Hold! If any man looses an arrow, I’ll have his head!” he roared. None of the Khurish soldiers loosed arrows or threw spears at the elves. Men and elves looked at each other in mutual confusion and alarm until the elves turned and galloped back to Taranath.
Healers from Khurinost hastened through the press of warriors. When they arrived, the Speaker was sitting up, head bowed, his white geb covered with a spreading crimson stain. The first healer to reach him was a Kagonesti with callused hands and dark tattoos on her face and arms.
“Arrow’s got to come out,” she said immediately. Planchet nodded once, face grim. “I’ll do it.”
“Someone must hold him still. If he moves too much, he could rupture an artery.”
Hakkam, nearest, knelt behind the Speaker and gripped his shoulders. “I’ve got him.”
The elves were nonplussed, but the Speaker murmured, “Thank you, General.” Eyes flickering to Planchet’s pale face, he whispered, “Proceed, my friend.”
The valet wrapped his fingers around the blood-slick arrow shaft and whispered, “Forgive me.”
With a single, mighty pull, he freed the arrow. The Kagonesti healer immediately sprinkled the wound with clotting powder and bound it tightly with linen. Too late, she realized she’d not offered the Speaker a leather pad to bite. She apologized, but he didn’t respond.
“He’s passed out,” she said.
Gilthas raised his head. “Not yet.” He smiled weakly at Planchet. “Wouldn’t she be proud of me? I didn’t faint.”
Planchet understood who “she” was. He managed to return the brave smile. “Yes, sire. Yes, she would.”
A litter was improvised, and the Speaker of the Sun and Stars carefully laid upon it. Four warriors hoisted the corners and headed back to Khurinost, leaving Planchet and Hakkam where they were.
“Taranath, disperse the warriors,” Planchet said. The general began to protest, but Planchet cut him off. “Maintain your patrols, but stand down the cavalry!” Taranath saluted and rode away.
As the elves’ cavalry began to disperse, Planchet handed Hakkam the bloody arrow. “This archer is Khur’s enemy as much as ours,” the elf said.
Hakkam gripped the arrow tightly. “Never fear. I’ll see this returned to its owner.” His meaning was abundantly clear; the arrow would likely be “returned” point first.
On a rooftop three miles away, Prince Shobbat lowered his bow. He could hardly believe his miraculous aim. No one could loft an arrow from so far, much less hit their intended target.
“Impossible,” he whispered.
“Magic is the art of the impossible,” replied the ragged, hooded figure behind him.
The Lioness withdrew her shrinking command across the creek Favaronas had given her name, and they
