wasn't Narshu's target. Seltym Laresk was responsible for dealing with him, and the sword was perfectly positioned to Narshu's left rear.
Yes, he is, the fifty told himself. So why don't you stop worrying about Seltym, and get on with it?
It was, he decided, an excellent question, and his right hand flexed.
Hulmok Arthag's expression never even twitched-he was an Arpathian septman, after all-but he'd felt the tension coiling tighter inside his Arcanan counterpart for the last twenty minutes. The man was good; Arthag had to give him that. Looking at Narshu from the outside, there was absolutely nothing to indicate his spring-steel tension. But Hulmok Arthag was watching the Arcanan from the inside.
He wished, not for the first time, that his Talent had been more amenable to direction. He knew, beyond any doubt, that Narshu was totally focused on some action, some mission, but he had no way of knowing precisely what that mission was until the Arcanan actually acted. Which meant Arthag couldn't act until then, either. Whatever the Arpathian might 'know,' there was absolutely no supporting evidence. The other man's hands weren't even close to his sword, and his body language was relaxed, almost casual.
Whatever Arthag wanted to do, he had to wait. Wait until Narshu gave him something more concrete than the warning of his Talent. Despite his and chan Baskay's suspicions, Narshu-like Skirvon and Dastiri-was part of a diplomatic mission. As such, their persons were inviolable, protected by their diplomat status until and unless their actions, not their intentions, changed that status.
Which hadn't prevented Arthag from briefing his own people about his suspicions. Or from leaving the retaining strap of his holster unbuttoned this morning.
The daggerstone slid cleanly out of the concealing compartment in Narshu's belt.
It didn't look particularly threatening to the naked eye. Aside from the peculiar, glassy sheen of sarkolis, it could have been a quarter-inch thick oval of natural quartz just under two inches across at its widest point. Only someone with at least a trace of a Gift could have used it, and anyone else with a trace of a Gift would have seen something quite different from a hunk of stone. Those were, of course, two of the reasons at least some Gift was required for anyone to qualify for SpecOp duty in the first place. Any Gifted observerwould have seen exactly what Narshu saw-the nimbus of energy glowing around it, reaching out to envelop his hand and forearm-and, if his Gift had been properly trained (like Narshu's), he would have been able to sense the lethality of that energy, as well.
But no Sharonian had that Gift, or that training.
Narshu's hand rose smoothly, without haste, as his thumb nestled into the slight hollow in the daggerstone's upper surface. It rose just high enough to bear on Petty-Captain Rokam Traygan, and Narshu released the first spell charge.
Brilliant, stunning light flashed across the conference table in a solid bar of lightning. The lightning spell was almost silent, compared to the thunderclap a fireball spell would have produced, but it hammered into Traygan with brutal force, and the Voice flew backward, outlined in a dazzling corona of energy, until he slammed into the trunk of a tree ten feet behind him. He hit with bone-shattering force, but it scarcely mattered; he was dead before he smashed into it.
Two more of Arthag's troopers were caught in the fringes of the spell, and both of them were just as dead as Traygan before they hit the ground. Chan Baskay was just far enough away to be unharmed, but the near-silent concussion of arcane energy sweeping out from the spell's impact point was like being hit with a club.
Rithmar Skirvon was almost as stunned as chan Baskay. Unlike the Ternathian, he'd known what was coming, but the actual moment had managed to surprise him, as well. He jerked back from the conference table as the spell's violence hit him in the face like fist. Although the plan had been at least partly his own, it was the first time he'd ever even seen a combat spell used, far less been this close to its point of impact. He'd tried to prepare himself ahead of time for what it would be like, but he'd failed.
Had his brain been up to the task, he would have been astounded by how quiet it was. Surely nothing that violent, that powerful, could make so little noise! 'Quiet' wasn't the same thing as 'gentle,' however
– not by a long shot-and his ears rang, his eyes watered, and he felt as if the breath had been knocked out of him. Yet even so, he knew the most critical part of the mission had succeeded perfectly. They'd managed to identify Simrath's 'Voice,' and Neshok's eavesdropping recon crystals had overheard enough conversations at the swamp portal to know that the dark-skinned Traygan was the only Voice Simrath and chan Tesh had between them. Which meant there was no way now for chan Tesh-or Simrath-to warn anyone else of what was about to happen.
Tharian Narshu felt an intense satisfaction as his target went down. Later, he knew, it might be different.
The only difference between this and an act of murder, after all, was that he'd been ordered to do it by his superiors. But any regrets were going to have to wait unti-
Hulmok Arthag's right hand had started to move one thin fraction of a second after Narshu's. The H amp;W
single-action revolver came out of its holster while the daggerstone was rising into position. The hammer came back as the muzzle rose, and the pistol's bellow was the thunderclap of the daggerstone's lightning.
Tharian Narshu's head exploded under the sledgehammer impact of the hollow-nosed .46 caliber bullet, and pulverized bone, blood, and tissue sprayed over Rithmar Skirvon as a stunning cascade of violence swept the clearing.
Narshu's Special Operations troopers had been fully briefed. They were primed, waiting only for their commander's attack on the Sharonians' Voice as the signal for their own attacks. Like Narshu himself, they had recognized the tough professionalism of their Sharonian counterparts. But, also like Narshu, they'd known the Sharonians had no way of detecting a daggerstone, no way of guessing what was coming.
Unfortunately, they'd had no way of recognizing Hulmok Arthag's Talent.
Sword Laresk and his men had been focused on Narshu, watching him, waiting for his attack, but Hulmok Arthag's men had been watching him. The instant his gunhand began to move, theirs did the same.
Skirvon was just beginning to realize Narshu had succeeded in his primary mission when the entire world went mad about him. The sibilant hiss of daggerstone bolts was abruptly punctuated by the thunder of Sharonian revolvers. Men shouted in terrified surprise, others screamed in sudden agony, and Skirvon's head snapped around just in time to see the undischarged daggerstone fly from Sword Seltym Laresk's hand as Chief-Armsman Rayl chan Hathas' revolver bullet struck him just below the left armpit from a range of fifty-two inches. The heavy lead projectile, as big around as chan Hathas' little finger even before expansion, disintegrated a two-inch section of rib, drove straight through the Arcanan sword's heart and lungs, and blew a fist-sized hole out of his right side.
Three of Narshu's twelve Special Operations troopers managed to activate their daggerstones, but none of them got off more than a single spell. They'd ordered themselves to take their time, to avoid rushing those first, critical shots in order to make sure of their initial targets, because they'd expected to be the ones with the advantage of surprise, only to discover that their intended victims had been waiting for them all along. Thanks to Arthag's warning, his men were actually quicker off the mark, and the sudden, stunning reversal of advantage knocked even the highly trained and motivated SpecOp troopers back on their heels. Thirteen more Sharonians died in the short, cataclysmic exchange, but then every man of Laresk's squad was down and dead … along with nine of the other twelve Arcanan troopers who'd never had a hint of what was coming.
Skirvon started to lurch up from the conference table as he realized just how terribly wrong the plan had gone. He didn't know where he thought he was going to go, and it didn't matter. Even as he gripped the edge of the table to lever himself out of his chair, a pistol materialized in 'Viscount Simrath's' hand from the shoulder holster Skirvon had never suspected was hidden under his civilian jacket. It was a much smaller weapon than the ones every single one of Hulmok Arthag's men had drawn, but the hollow eye of its muzzle gaped like a cavern as Skirvon abruptly found himself staring straight down it.
The Arcanan froze, mouth gaping open, and the gray eyes watching him over the revolver's sights were colder than sea ice.
'Sit back down.'
Dorzon chan Baskay's voice was even icier than his eyes, and the .35 caliber Polshana in his hand was rock- steady. Skirvon stared at him for just an instant, then half-fell back into his seat.
The senior Arcanan diplomat's face was the color of cold, congealed gravy. His eyes were sick, stunned
– not by the carnage, but by who the victims had turned out to be. At that, he looked better than Uthik Dastiri.
