His disguise in tatters, wrung out by fear and fighting, Hytanthas had no strength left to fence with the Nerakan. “I didn’t,” he said bluntly. “It arrived like that.”
An absent nod, then Hengriff spoke to one of his men. “Goldorf, that lance broke too easily.”
“Time was short, my lord. I had to improvise.”
“What of Faeterus?”
This question was directed at Hytanthas. The elf told the truth: The mage had disappeared when the sand beast arrived.
“I know you,” Hengriff said, eyes narrowing. “I’ve seen you before. Ah, yes! You were in the Speaker’s honor guard, when he had his audience with Sahim-Khan.”
Hytanthas had been only one of fifty elves in the honor guard. Impressed by the Knight’s memory, but striving not to show it, Hytanthas inclined his head, confirming his identity.
“So, you came here hunting Faeterus? You’re triply lucky, elf. Lucky the mage’s wards didn’t get you, lucky his ugly pet didn’t gut you, and lucky we came along to deal with the sand beast”
Hengriff sent his men on to the ruined villa. “I came hunting the mage, too,” he said. “He was pursuing his own course, raising the nomads against the elves and the Khan, sending this creature out to kill that she-dragon Kerianseray. I wonder how it ended up back here.” He shook his head. “Things have a habit of doing that around Faeterus. Appearing or disappearing without warning.”
“Have your men been sent to kill the mage?”
Hengriff didn’t answer, but he didn’t really need to. Hytanthas doubted the Knights would have much luck. Faeterus didn’t seem the sort to linger where danger threatened.
The elf was losing strength, swaying on his feet, exhausted, thirsty, and injured from his battles with manticore and sand beast. It seemed he was always tired or injured or thirsty, these days. Perhaps he’d been that way for years, for all the years of his exile. Stupid not to have planned better, brought food and water. He’d not expected to have to wait so long for Faeterus. Certainly hadn’t expected to battle a human-headed manticore and a wounded, enraged sand beast.
Hytanthas realized Hengriff was speaking to him. He had no idea what the human had said. Worse, he’d completely forgotten the Nerakan was here, had forgotten everything but the miasma of fatigue and privation that enveloped him. He forced his slumping shoulders to straighten and gripped the lead pipe more tightly.
“I’m leaving,” he announced. “Don’t try to stop me.”
A wolfish smile appeared on the Knight’s face. “Go back to your people, elf, before you drop where you stand and another of Faeterus’s creatures has you for dinner.”
Before he departed, honor demanded one last thing of Hytanthas. “Lord Hengriff,” he said with formal precision. “You saved my life. Thank you.”
“That was today. Don’t expect a like outcome next time.” Hengriff mounted his horse and cantered away, heading up the hill to the villa.
Hytanthas went in the opposite direction, beginning the long trek back to Khurinost. The world was indeed a crazy place, when a soldier in the Speaker’s host was saved from death at the hands of a rogue elven wizard by a Dark Knight of Neraka.
Chapter 11
Chanting to synchronize their efforts, a gang of elves hauled away on the ropes. A timber frame rose off the ground, wavered a bit, then climbed higher as the warriors continued to pull.
“Easy! Easy there!” Kerian called out. If they pulled too quickly, the frame would topple forward on them.
The early twilight had come to Inath-Wakenti. By torchlight the scene resembled a nightmarish dream. All the soldiers of the Lioness’s command were mustered around the hole that had opened up when they pushed the monolith over on the sand beast. Some were on horseback, others on foot, but every one was armed and ready. The reason for their increased wariness could be found in their dwindling numbers.
Two nights had passed since the vanishing of the sand beast. The Lioness’s original vow to leave the valley quickly was set aside after this event. She decided they would remain an extra day to search for the elusive monster. They hadn’t found it. Instead, several of her warriors had gone missing. All were sentries, riding guard duty alone on the perimeter of the camp. Then, just past noon on this day, five more elves had vanished. The five were on foot, foraging for roots and nuts, no more than twenty yards from the site of the overturned monolith. When they didn’t return, a search was conducted.
It turned up no signs of struggle, no torn ground, no dropped possessions. The elves were simply gone, together with everything they carried.
As Favaronas was the nearest thing to an expert on the valley, Kerian asked him what he thought was happening.
“I don’t know, General,” he said, shivering with the fear that had become his constant companion.
Glanthon said, “You’ve mentioned ‘strange forces’ at work in the valley. What do you mean?”
“Just that. Strange, unnatural things happen here. I myself have—” Favaronas broke off, coloring in embarrassment. Kerian had no time for niceties of feeling. She insisted he hold nothing back, and he admitted having seen apparitions himself, just the night before. He described them as white shapes, vaguely elven in form, drifting through the stone ruins.
“Patches of mist!” Glanthon scoffed.
“No, they moved against the wind,” the archivist insisted.
The Lioness cut the air with an imperative hand. “We’re not here to collect ghost stories, Favaronas! I want to know who’s taking my people!”
“I don’t know! Perhaps”—he gestured vaguely at the fallen monolith—“the same force that carried off the sand beast?”
After that discussion, with no other conjecture to test, Kerian decided to investigate the hole beneath the stone spire. Rocks dropped into it revealed the bottom to be at least twenty feet down. Their hollow-sounding impacts hinted at a chamber of some size.
As the sun lowered itself behind the western peaks, trees were felled, trimmed, and lashed into a frame to support ropes lowered into the hole. Kerian intended to descend herself, but her officers wouldn’t hear of it. None doubted she was prepared to do anything she might ask of her warriors, but Glanthon reminded her she did not have the luxury of taking such risks. As General of the Speaker’s Army, her life was too valuable to risk unnecessarily.
It finally was agreed that Glanthon would enter the hole. To Favaronas’s dismay, he was tapped to accompany Glanthon.
“Me? Why me?” the archivist said, his face pale even in the firelight.
Kerian said, “You’re the scholar. There may be things down there you can recognize.”
Her phrasing was unfortunate. Favaronas blanched even whiter at the notion of “things down there.” So, Kerian unbuckled her own sword and fastened the scabbard around his waist. “If you see any ghosts, give them steel. If they’re flesh and blood, they’ll feel it.” She smiled. “And if they’re not flesh and blood, they can’t hurt you.”
He did not look reassured.
A pair of stout ropes was tied to the handles of a small round shield that would serve as a platform. Glanthon and Favaronas climbed on, holding tight to the ropes. With the whole command looking on, they were lowered into the hole. The opening wasn’t much wider than the shield on which they stood.
As their feet sank into the black aperture, Favaronas said, “Tell me again why we’re doing this?”
“To find clues to our comrades’ disappearance,” said Glanthon stoutly. “And to carry out the Speaker’s command to learn all we can about this valley. Aren’t you curious?”
“Not any more.”
Their heads disappeared below the surface. They entered a square shaft lined with stone. The air cooled rapidly. Only eight feet below the surface, their breath streamed out as white vapor.