This gate was known to city-dwellers as “Malys’s Anvil” because the red dragon had crushed so many foes against the stout iron portcullises. When Sahim-Khan’s guards arrived the gatehouse had appeared undefended, but as they broke ranks to open it, stones and timbers rained down, thrown by Khurs concealed inside. A squad was sent up each side of the battlement, to storm the gate in unison and trap the attackers inside. Unfortunately, the fanatics proved to be armed with more than brickbats; they produced swords and spears and, in the narrow confines of the parapet, Sahim’s guards had a real fight on their hands. Soon the ground around the gatehouse was littered with bodies. Most wore nomad gebs, but more than a few wore the scale armor of the khan’s royal guard.
Hengriff halted his horse some distance away to watch the unexpected fight. His men pulled up respectfully behind him. Silent at first, the bodyguards soon were offering a running commentary on the progress of the battle and bellowing advice to the outmaneuvered guards.
“Cut at their legs! Civilians are terrified of that-keeps ‘em from running away!”
“Look at those shields, dangling from their wrists like a lady’s nosegay. Get your shields
“I’ll bet you wish you had a score of archers just now, don’t you?”
“Shut up,” Hengriff growled and the bodyguards subsided, merely shaking their heads at the display before them.
Below, the guards breached the flimsy barricade around the gate. Leaping over baskets filled with brickbats, they quickly routed the Torghanists on the ground. In hours, the remaining eight portals were likewise free of “malcontents.”
Long before that, Hengriff had led his men back into the city. The Knight had other falcons to fly during the coming night.
Hytanthas arched his back, stretching. He was tucked inside an angle of broken wall, on the grounds of a once-beautiful villa. Through a chink in the wall he’d been watching the ruined house for half a day He’d begun to think he was on a kender’s errand.
Disguised again as a human, he had lurked in wine shops and low inns seeking clues to the whereabouts of the elusive sorcerer Faeterus. He’d learned nothing of note until he overheard a merchant complaining to his fellows about a peculiar order he’d received.
“I am a poulterer,” the merchant declaimed proudly, “not a trapper. Who orders a dozen live pigeons? Nobody eats those filthy birds!”
His colleagues mocked him mercilessly. Apparently this was not the first time he’d received such an order, nor the first time he’d complained about it.
“Then why didn’t you refuse?” taunted one of his colleagues.
“Because of the money!” put in another.
There were guffaws around the table, and the poulterer joined in. The money was indeed good, good enough to convince him not only to procure the despised pigeons, but to deliver them to the city’s ruined northern district. He’d stopped here for a refresher before venturing into that cursed area. His comrades agreed the Harbalah was home to ghosts—and worse.
At this point Hytanthas insinuated himself into the conversation. Posing as a Delphonian down on his luck, he offered to deliver the pigeons. The chicken merchant was eager to shift the duty to another. He paid Hytanthas two silvers-insulting wages, which the elf accepted with fawning gratitude—then gave him directions, and a warning.
“Remember, leave the cages outside the old garden wall. Don’t go any closer to the house.”
“Why so much fuss? It’s a ruin, isn’t it?”
“Just don’t, if you value your life’s blood!”
Hytanthas heeded the warning. He had placed the caged birds where he’d been told, then took up a position in one of the wrecked outbuildings to see who claimed them. He was certain it would be Faeterus. The shattered mansion was the perfect setting for a renegade wage. And Hytanthas had heard unsavory stories about dark magical rites involving the sacrifice of animals, like pigeons.
The land rose slightly from Hytanthas’s position up to the villa proper. As the sun set, the shadows swelled like a dark sea, claiming first the grounds, then the decrepit house. Blocks warmed all day gave up their heat by night, so Hytanthas had a snug place from which to watch the pigeon basket. Too snug, in fact. After so many hours of inactivity, he began to nod.
The clatter of broken stones jerked him from sleep. Gripping his sword hilt, he peered through the chink in the wall. The wicker basket was where he’d left it, its avian cargo asleep.
He heard another small avalanche of disturbed masonry. Someone was moving in the ruins. A low, breathy growl penetrated his hiding place, then a voice, hoarse with age, pitched slightly high.
“What is it, Talon? Intruders?”
