future, but soon. Very soon.
She got to her feet, dressing quickly in her dirty garments. It was obvious that talking to Gilthas and his advisors would be pointless. She would make her case to the warriors. Like herself, they understood the realities of life. With them behind her, Gilthas would be forced to listen to her. He could be made to see the logical perfection of her plan.
It was fully dark outside, and the wind rushed through the lanes, first one way, then back the other. Rosy haloes glowed inside the clouds overhead. The strange sight halted Kerian, despite the fervor of purpose burning in her breast. Lightning was white or bluish. Even in the gods-blasted wastes of Khur, lightning wasn’t red.
As she navigated the twisting byways on her way to the warriors’ quarter, she encountered no one. However, she quickly knew she was not alone. A hundred yards from Hamaramis’s tent she glimpsed shadows moving behind her. Senses honed by years on the run warned her. The next time there was a flash of scarlet lightning, Kerian whirled abruptly. She saw no one, but had no doubt she was being followed-and by more than one person.
She shucked the scabbard from her sword.
Cooking smoke drifted through the lane. Small black shapes flitted overhead, making faint chirping noises. She’d seen bats in Khur just one other time, the night the ash leaves had fallen on her. Recent events had driven the omen from her mind. Now that memory returned full force.
She continued her march up the alley, making as much noise as she could without being too obvious. Reaching a three-way intersection, she sprang to her right and sprinted down the winding path, taking long strides and landing only on her toes. An old Kagonesti trick, to foil trackers.
She ran far enough to lose her breath, then ducked behind a cloth merchant’s stall, its flaps closed for the night. The bats still flickered overhead, dodging between the canvas rooftops. When they had passed, silence descended. No sounds of pursuit reached her ears. She stepped out of hiding to continue on her way, and her bare feet trod on soft, green leaves.
Without looking, she knew they were ash leaves.
Fresh air teased her back. Turning, she glanced back along the twisting lane. The overlapping edges of the fabric roofs flapped lazily, then settled again. Wind puffed down the path, making the tents belly in and out like the breathing of enormous animals. All but one. One tent didn’t flex-because someone was pressed against it.
Kerian set her feet firmly and gripped her sword hilt in both hands. She didn’t have long to wait.
Four figures dashed into view. The leader held a hooded lamp, and when he saw Kerian he opened the shutter wide. Bright light dazzled her, so she lunged forward and swatted the brass lamp away. It landed in the sand, flickered, and kept burning, but less brightly.
Recovering from her lunge, she heard her attackers draw swords, one after the other. The first, the one who’d held the lamp, thrust at her, throwing himself off balance in his zeal to reach her. She bound up his blade in a parry and drove him back with a punch to his nose. A second attacker came at her, point first. She swung up at him in a wide arc. Their blades met, and the force of her swing sent his sword flying. Completing the circle, she beat aside the blade of the first attacker and repaid him in full, shoving the tip of her sword through his collar bone, deep into his chest. Blood welled.
Her attackers were strong and fast. Dressed in gebs, they wore gray cloth masks that completely covered their heads. They carried Silvanesti-style swords, but that meant little. Local artisans had taken to making such blades to peddle to the elves, who did not care for the guardless Khurish swords. The craftsmen’s ingenuity had sparked a fad for laddad-style weapons among the youths of Khuri-Khan.
As she held them off, she shouted for help. No one answered. This part of Khurinost seemed deserted. The Lioness was on her own.
She snatched up the fallen lamp and used it like a shield, fending off sword points. One of her three remaining foes got too close, and she clouted him with the lamp. He went down, but his hard head broke the oil reservoir off. The lamp died. She dropped it, and a blade found her empty hand. It scored a deep cut along the back of her left wrist.
Rapid footfalls told her that at last someone was coming. Her hope of assistance died quickly when she saw the new arrivals wore gray hoods. Having whittled her attackers to two, they now swelled to eight.
She flung herself at a tent wall, sword outthrust. She sawed the stiff canvas and dove headfirst through the opening.
The tent was used for storage. Only baskets and sacks greeted Kerian’s eyes. She dodged around them, slashed through the opposite wall, and found herself back outside, in a parallel street.
Scarlet lightning danced above her, and the wind played down the lanes in gusty waves. Tents flapped. Somewhere nearby a metal bucket got loose and clanged end over end, driven by the freakish wind.
From the noise they were making, Kerian knew her attackers had split up. Some were coming through the holes she’d made in the tent while others were circling the tent to try and cut her off. She saw no glory or purpose in dying just now, so she took to her heels. Her hand was bleeding, leaving a distinct trail in the sand. Even a goblin could track her.
A single set of rapid footfalls closed in behind her. When they got close enough, she threw herself on her face and let the assassin overrun her. In a flash she was up, and had run him through. He dropped to his knees. She dodged in front of him and tore the hood from his head.
He was an elf, a Silvanesti!
Placing her bare foot on his chest, she shoved him onto his back. With her sword tip at his throat, she cried, “Why are you doing this? Who put you up to it?”
He writhed in agony. His comrades were coming fast behind them. Kerian repeated her question, letting her blade draw blood.
“The prince!” he rasped. “The prince of Khur!”
Thunderstruck, she dropped to the sand beside the dying elf. She took hold of his geb and dragged him up till they were nose to nose.
“Why? Why does Shobbat want me dead?”
“For the throne of his father.”
That made no sense, but he was past answering any other questions.
The rest of the murderous band was upon her. She snatched up the dead elf’s sword. In the weird light of windblown torches and red lightning, the Lioness went through the remaining assassins like a reaper through hay. One of her early teachers was a master of two-sword fighting, which he always claimed was superior to any other type. The secret, he said, was to let your opponent parry, then counterstrike while his blade was engaged. On this night, she put his teachings to the ultimate test.
The assassins were nimble and capable fighters, but they had never faced a warrior like the Lioness. One by one they fell, stabbed or slashed by one of her whirling blades. None fled. Their orders were clear.
The last fellow fought best against her, slicing a bloody line on her right arm and another on her left cheek, before she broke through and impaled him with both her swords at once.
He collapsed, and she released her blades, allowing his dead body to carry them to the ground. For a moment she stood, covered in their blood and her own, breath coming in gasping gulps, then the strength left her legs. She dropped to her knees, then fell facedown onto the bloody, hard-packed ground.
Chapter 15
The cavalry spent fruitless hours sweeping the dunes for Favaronas. Worried, but unable to delay further, Glanthon resumed the trek southwest.
The sun was touching the western dunes, painting the broad desert in shades of gold, when Glanthon rode to the top of a sand ridge overlooking the caravan trail to Kortal. It was always a busy trail, thick with long trains of plodding donkeys burdened by panniers of goods, or herds of goats and shaggy desert sheep. Hundreds of Khurish nomads plied the caravan route every day, carrying goods from south to north and back. Trade had never ceased, even during the most terrifying days of the late war.
