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
“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
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
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
