Clouds appeared in the east, high and solid looking. The desert air usually was so dry no clouds could penetrate this far from the sea, so their appearance caused much comment as the elves settled into camp. When flickers of lightning flashed beneath the clouds, the elves knew they were seeing something extraordinary, but not even that could keep the weary warriors awake long.
Favaronas labored far into the night, trying to unlock the secret of the stone cylinders. He gathered dry desert grasses and built a small fire by a stand of saltbush, whose grayish- green leaves had served as his dinner. He laid one of the cylinders in the flames, but fire had no effect on it. He tried pouring water, then oil, on the cylinders, to soften them, but again met with failure. The ends of the cylinders bore tight spiral patterns. They looked like nothing so much as ordinary vellum scrolls turned to stone, perhaps by age or magic. If the former, it might be possible to separate the books using mechanical means, but if magic was involved, his efforts were pointless. The Speaker would have to find skilled mages to unravel the guarded cylinders.
Sometime past midnight Favaronas fell asleep, the cylinders arranged before him. His fire had died to a bed of shimmering coals.
The soft crunch of footfalls woke him. He had spent too many fearful days and nights in the valley to ignore such noises.
“Who’s there?” he hissed. Likely the noise was innocent, caused by one of Glanthon’s soldiers. Favaronas called out again, by turns nervous and angry. The fellow could have the courtesy to answer!
He tossed a handful of dry grass on the coals of his fire. Flames blossomed. To his heart-thudding shock, they illuminated a cloaked figure standing a
Favaronas shouted, getting quickly to his feet. Glanthon had given him a Weya-Lu mace because it required little skill to wield. He clutched it now. He was terrified, but certain his cry would rouse the warriors and they would protect him.
Strangely, none came. The warriors around him remained still. Despite his continued shouts, he heard snores and deep inhalations as they slept on, undisturbed.
The cloaked intruder joined several similarly clad figures at the foot of the hill. Favaronas could make out four distinct I forms, and in the night’s deep folds, he spied the movement of many more. Instead of fleeing, the four came closer and surrounded him.
He waved the mace, shouting at them to stay back. With an enemy at each point of the compass, he found himself whirling in a circle, trying desperately to keep them all in view.
“Stranger.”
The whisper brought him around to face one of the four.
“Give back what you have taken.”
He knew immediately what was meant: the stone cylinders. “Who are you?” he demanded.
Slender hands turned back the dark hood. A lovely face appeared, that of a young female elf with eyes and hair the color of sunlit gold.
The other three uncovered their heads, revealing themselves to be elf maidens, too. One had hair and eyes of darkest onyx; another was copper hued, and the fourth silvery white. All four were beautiful, with flawless, milky skin and crimson lips, but their expressions were somber.
“Give back what you have taken,” repeated the golden- haired maid.
Favaronas lowered the mace. “These relics are important to us,” he replied. “Can’t you spare them?”
In unison, the four advanced a step toward him. Golden Hair once more repeated her command, with the others echoing it.
These weren’t phantoms. Unlike the translucent ghost he’d encountered in the tunnel, these elves were flesh and blood. Even in the poor light he could see the tracks left in their hair by combs, hear the rustle of their robes, see how their thin sandals pressed into the gravelly sand.
“Please, we didn’t mean to steal anything,” he said, addressing Golden Hair. “I’m an archivist, an expert on documents. These cylinders are very old, and I’d like to read them. You’re elves; you must know how important these cylinders could be to our people. Do you know how to open them?”
She unclasped her cloak and let it fall, exposing bare flesh. The others followed suit. Before Favaronas could digest this development, one of the maidens sprang on him from behind. Another snatched the mace from his hand, and a third struck the backs of his knees, toppling him to the ground.
His head hit the ground with such force that the stars overhead vanished in a sunrise of pain. A terrible weight settled on his chest. When his head finally cleared, he saw the golden-haired elf sitting on his chest. Although she looked so slight a strong breeze would sway her, she was extremely heavy. He could hardly draw breath against the crushing weight of her body. He pleaded for air.
She leaned down, grasping his head between her hands. As she moved closer, her lovely face shattered. Instead of a radiantly fair elf maid, Favaronas found himself eye to eye with a wolf, one with golden eyes and matching pelt.
“Give back what you have stolen!” the wolf snarled.
He couldn’t understand why the creatures didn’t just take the stone cylinders and go. They had certainly defeated him. He couldn’t move, could barely breathe.
“Take them!” he wheezed. “Why don’t you. -.just take them?”
“You shall have no rest until you return what you have taken!”
So saying, the wolf lifted one paw high. Favaronas couldn’t draw breath to scream before the claws slashed across his throat.
The uneasy calm continued at Khuri-Khan. Slate-colored clouds piled higher and higher over the city until they no longer flowed with the wind. For the first time in living memory, the desert sun vanished completely. Khurs and elves sweltered despite the unexpected shade. No breath of wind stirred, and the heat was stifling. Brief, unpredictable showers of rain fell, keeping everyone sodden, steamy, and uncomfortable.
The murder of Lord Morillon fanned the flames of fear and distrust already smoldering from the attempt on the Speaker’s life. There were no clues to his death. No evidence pointed to anyone in particular, but the view in Khurinost was that Morillon had been slain by fanatical Torghanists.
Sahim-Khan agreed. His fierce captain Vatan and one hundred elite palace guards cleared the Temple of Torghan. The entire college of priests was dragged away in chains, along with two dozen scruffy nomads hiding in the temple grounds, and a handful of terrified servants. High priest Minok could not be found.
The elves kept close to their tents. They saw conspiracies every time more than two Khurs appeared on the city street amp; Planchet and Taranath quickly organized water collection for the entire colony. Warriors, rather than ordinary citizens, were sent to purchase the life-giving liquid. Even without their chargers, and dressed in regular attire, the warriors cut an unmistakable profile as they stood watch over their comrades.
During one of these expeditions Hytanthas Ambrodel learned of the death of Lord Hengriff. He sought out Planchet on his return from the city. The Speaker’s guard commander, Harnaramis, was with the valet.
“Hengriff’s corpse lies in the palace yard,” Hytanthas announced grimly. “Wearing a placard that says ‘Traitor.’”
“A suitable end for a Dark Knight,” Hamaramis opined.
“He saved my life that night at the ruined villa,” the captain insisted. “He may have had a nefarious purpose in mind, but the truth is, he saved me. He seemed an honorable man.” Hamaramis snorted, and Hytanthas added stubbornly, “He deserves better than to feed the flies!”
Planchet understood. He went to a chest standing against the wall of the Speaker’s tent and removed a small sack from one of its drawers. He tossed it to Hytanthas.
“Bribe the guards and secure the Knight’s remains. See to it he gets an honorable burial.”
Head held high under Hamaramis’s disapproval, Hytanthas departed to repay his debt to the Dark Knight of Neraka.
“That money could be better spent.”
The two elves turned to see the Lioness standing in the doorway leading to the Speaker’s bedchamber. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. She’d been up all night, nursing her injured husband.
