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, Hamaramis, 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.
“It could be used to find Morillon’s killer, or the spineless fiend who tried to kill the Speaker,” she said.
Planchet poured a cup of raw wine and handed it to the Lioness. “They might be the same person,” he said evenly. “Barring a new player, the roster of our foes is shrinking. Sahim-Khan, for all his grasping ways, has shown he’s not our true enemy, and Lord Hengriff is dead.”
“Who does that leave?” she asked.
“The mage Faeterus, for one. We don’t know much about him, but he tried to kill Captain Ambrodel, evaded the Nerakans, and is still at large.”
“What about the Torghanist high priest?”
Planchet shook his head. “A pawn in the game, not a player, I think. Sahim-Khan’s been hunting him for days. He dares not show his face anywhere in Khuri-Khan.”
“Prince Shobbat?” Hamaramis suggested.
Here, Planchet frowned without replying. The heir to the throne of Khur was a cipher to the elves. He had little to do with the running of the country and spent most of his time overseeing repairs to the palace or pursuing his personal pleasures. It was rumored he was involved in Hengriff’s fall, but the elves found this hard to credit. No one in Khuri-Khan took the spoiled, pleasure-loving prince seriously as a threat.
