naked hunger of a thing damned and roaming. The moon was lost behind the soaring pinnacles, and the eel-bat- shadow descended toward the concentric circles of mens’ fires beside the river.
D’zan shifted restlessly on his cot, sweating, freezing, and could not wake up. He moaned, and the guard outside his tent looked in at him, shrugged, and returned to his post. D’zan saw all of this in his disembodied state, and he saw the dark smoke writhing through the rain above the scattered tents. Along the edges of the camp, the night guards stood oblivious to the terror that floated into their midst, dropping like a black fog from the clouds. D’zan tried to call out, but he was bodiless in the dream, and made no sound.
He saw the black fog fall upon the guard outside his tent, soundless, covering his mouth and eyes with ebony coils. The wings flapped over him, and the guard struggled, convulsed, as the eel-thing tightened about his body. A peal of thunder drowned out the cracking of bones as the eel squeezed the life from him and dropped his pulped organs into the mud. It hungered terribly, but its feeding would have to wait. Now it flowed into the pavilion, and D’zan floated above his sleeping body, watched it crawl across his feet, wrap itself about his legs.
Cold… the chill of the lightless void.
His body moaned and shook, but did not wake.
The black wings spread over him, and his face was lost in their shadow. The creature wound itself about his entire body, then his neck and mouth. Its triangular head rose at last to stare him in the face. Its eyes burned yellow, slits of smoldering flame, and it opened a mouth of purest darkness, hissing something unintelligible. Suddenly, as if fallen from a great height, D’zan was back in his body, dying in the grip of the eel-thing. His eyes opened and stared into its flaming pits.
Somewhere, in some incorporeal netherworld or in the depths of night, he heard the laughter of Elhathym. The same wicked mirth he heard when dream-lost in the royal crypts of Yaskatha. Those flaming eyes, they were the eyes of the usurper. D’zan knew this as he knew he was going to die. The black coils squeezed him tighter, glistening like onyx.
His right arm, which had fallen over the cot’s edge during his delirium, was free of the coils only from elbow to fingers. His fist closed and opened on empty air as the beast constricted.
D’zan gagged, spit, vomited, but could not scream for lack of air. Soon his ribs would splinter, and his legs and arms, and he would be like the guard outside, a mass of torn flesh and shattered bone. Then the beast would devour his steaming remains. s ribs wouheight='0em' width='27'› His grasping right hand brushed against something cool, knocking it from his reach.
The faint glimmer of amethyst caught his eye.
The blade… the ward…
Impossible to break the grip of those black coils, but he shifted the bulk of his and the beast’s body. The cot fell over. His hand closed about the grip of the greatsword. In his mind the Sun God’s sigil gleamed as the world faded.
Thunder seemed to break inside the tent… The black fog exploded from his skin. The creature hissed like water thrown on coals, coalescing almost instantly back into its eel-bat shape, wings tearing at the canvas. D’zan gasped air into his lungs, wrapping both his hands about the grip. He pulled the blade from its scabbard, lifting it with terrific effort to the level of his waist.
The shadow-thing flapped its wings and his brazier toppled, spilling coals and flame across the rugs. The beast lunged at him, but refused to touch him again while he held the blade. It was the sigil – the ward – that it detested. But it would not leave the tent. It hissed, spitting black smoke like poison.
D’zan lifted the blade high above his head like an axe. He brought it down with no finesse, like chopping firewood, yet it clove the smoky beast in two and sliced deep into the rugs. The creature screeched and faded, now only a black fog again. A vicious hissing grew fainter as the black smoke dispersed.
Soldiers ran into the flaming pavilion now, gathering about D’zan and rushing to put out the fire. A babble of voices that meant nothing to his ears. He struggled for an easy breath. They led him outside into the rain. He refused to let go of the blade, so he dragged it behind him. The cold rain on his face was bracing, and he breathed easier as it rushed into his gaping mouth.
They led him into the pavilion of Tyro, who stood bare-chested, sword in hand, surrounded by a cadre of swordsmen. Tyro grabbed D’zan’s shoulders and shouted into his face. D’zan heard him, but the words made no sense. He swooned, and they set him on Tyro’s bed. Someone tried to take the blade from his hand, but his fingers were locked in a death grip about the hilt.
So he lay there, one fist gripping the sword, the other hand lying numb beside him, and they forced him to drink hot brandy. At some point he became aware of Lyrilan and Tyro watching over him. Eventually he slept. His dreams were of a pale sun igniting the darkness, and ice-crowned mountains springing into orange life in the glow of dawn.
When D’zan awoke it was truly dawn. He still lay in Tyro’s grand pavilion, and Lyrilan sat in a chair at his bedside. The sound of pouring rain was conspicuously absent, which made the morning strangely quiet. Tyro was out there somewhere in the early sunlight, giving orders. He heard the Prince’s voice ringing through the crisp air.
D’zan tried to rise, but pain prevented him. He looked down to see his shirt gone and white bandages wrapped about his ribs.
Lyrilan rose quickly. “Don’t try to move just yet,” he said. “You may have a fractured rib or two. Bruised at best. Be kd alan still…”
D’zan asked for water, and Lyrilan brought him a cup.
“The rain… it stopped,” said D’zan.
Lyrilan waved his hands. “The Sun God smiles on us this day.”
D’zan grunted.
“He does indeed.”
10
Tadarus called across the courtyard to Captain Jyfard, “Have you seen Prince Fangodrel this morning?”
The captain took off his winged helm as he approached, tucking it under his arm. Tadarus’ sweat stood in glittering droplets on his forehead, arms, and chest. A few spans away, Andoses stood with hands on knees, catching his breath. The two had been sparring all morning, and Tadarus had gained a new appreciation for his cousin’s skill with the scimitar. Though he could never match Tadarus’ giant strength, Andoses had matched his longblade skills every step of the way. Once the Sharrian even managed to disarm him. Tadarus redeemed himself by later knocking the scimitar from Andoses’ grip a total of three times. A ring of soldiers watched their swordplay, and the yard rang with the metallic songs of a hundred other sparring matches. Jyfard broke through the gawkers and stepped near.
“None have seen him since our arrival,” Jyfard said. “According to the Uduru sentinel, he has locked himself in the King’s Room. His body servant – that smelly Rathwol – attends to all his needs.”
Tadarus frowned. “Does he know about the rider?”
Jyfard shrugged. “Failing to reach the Prince himself, I gave his servant your message, Lord.”
“What are you not telling me, Jyfard?”
The captain looked about at the faces of the men. Andoses drew in closer. Jyfard lowered his voice. “The sentinel spoke of strange smells… and sounds… like the singing of a dirge in Prince Fangodrel’s chamber.”
Tadarus turned his eyes past the towers of Steephold to the frosted peaks surrounding the fortress. “My brother has always indulged in strange proclivities,” he said. “There is nothing to be done about it.” He wiped the sweat from his breast with a soft towel. The morning air was chill and the promise of snow hung in the air. “Send another message. Tell Fangodrel he must attend tonight’s dinner to discuss our embassy. Tell him if he does not attend, I will send him back to Udurum.”
Jyfard paled. “I will tell the servant.”
“No,” said Tadarus. “Have the sentinel unlock Fangodrel’s door if you must. But deliver the message to him in
