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 much better spirits.
He had lost sight of the griffon. He hurried back to the Speaker’s tent to tell him of the sighting.
In Gilthas’s bedchamber, healers, courtiers, and captains stood by, poised to do whatever was required of them.
“Great Speaker!” Planchet said, kneeling by the bed. “Did you hear the call of the griffon?”
Blue eyes hazed by fever turned slowly to the valet’s face.
“No, sire. It was real.”
“Is she here?”
“I don’t know. I lost sight of the creature, but we will find out soon.”
Gilthas licked dry lips, and Planchet held a small cup of water to his mouth. Once Gilthas had swallowed a few drops, he asked about Lord Morillon.
Unfortunately the Silvanesti had not been found. Planchet was forced to report they feared the worst.
An elven healer bent and whispered in his ear. The valet nodded. “Sire, Vizier Zunda has come, with priestesses from the Temple of Elir-Sana.”
“Holy Lady Sa’ida? She is said to be wise in her craft. Admit them.”
Planchet turned to relay the order but a bizarre interruption occurred. The air suddenly rushed out of the tent, drawing the roof down violently. The tired canvas split, opening a great rent to the sky. The attendants cried out in alarm.
