Paul Thompson - Sanctuary

The wall enclosed a large courtyard, paved with creamy limestone. At the center of the courtyard sat the Temple of Elir-Sana. It wasn’t large, but Kerian thought it easily the most beautiful building in Khuri-Khan. It didn’t compare to the great sanctuaries of Qualinost, of course, but it had a certain panache. Built of pure-white marble, the temple, like the courtyard, was partly in shadow flow. When the sun was higher, the pale stone of temple and courtyard reflected the light with neatly unbearable brilliance.

The perfectly square temple was surrounded by a colonnade. The smooth, white columns were narrower at the base than at the top, echoing the odd construction of the city’s houses. Capping the temple was a dome carved of a single block of palest blue marble, a rare color for such stone. At least thirty-five feet in diameter, the dome had been polished until it was no thicker than a fingernail. How the Khurs of old had made such a marvel, much less raised it atop the temple, was a question no one living could answer.

The metal gate was open, and the two elves rode into the courtyard and dismounted. Kerian gave her reins over to Hytanthas, telling him he’d have to wait for her outside. “Males are not allowed inside this temple,” she said. “Neither are weapons, unfortunately.”

She looped her sword belt over the pommel of her saddle and left her dagger, still sheathed, as well. Hytanthas reminded her that they must be out of the city by sunset. She nodded. That deadline was still hours away.

Sahim-Khan had decreed, ostensibly for the elves’ own safety, that no laddad could remain within the city from sunset to sunrise. The Lioness had strong opinions about Sahim and his edicts, but before she could give voice to them, the scrape of iron caused her to whirl, instantly on the alert.

Four men in Khurish attire had darted into the courtyard through the only opening in the wall. Over their linen gebs each wore an affre -the hooded, ankle-length robe favored by nomads of the high desert. Scarves concealed their faces, leaving only their eyes visible. Each man held the nomad’s favorite weapon: along, narrow-bladed sword with no crossguard.

The Lioness had swiftly drawn her sword. “Keep off!” she warned them. “We’ve business with the holy priestess and no quarrel with you.”

“We’ve a quarrel with you, laddad. Today your lives end!” said one of the men, his voice muffled by the scarf. Immediately, all four attacked.

Unlike the city guards at the gate, these humans seemed unfamiliar with their foes. Three of them went for Hytanthas, thinking him the greater threat. Only one was left to engage the Lioness. Her sword flashed up, thrusting at the man’s throat. With unexpected agility, the fellow parried her thrust and riposted. She turned aside his attack, but the slick surface of the limestone betrayed her. She slid—not far, but enough to throw off her balance. She felt the man’s blade nick her left ear.

He chuckled. She distinctly heard him. Quickly, he attacked again, repeating the very same moves as before.

The Lioness’s lip curled. He thought he was toying with her! A smart warrior would have taken advantage of her stumble to drive home a killing thrust. Instead, the nomad was content to repeat his previously successful attack, cutting her right ear this time. He obviously saw her as no real threat.

Fury engulfed her, not just for this stupid human’s lucky hits, but for all the indignities and humiliations she and her people had suffered for six terrible years.

In a blur of motion, she lunged beyond the man, reversed her grip on her sword, and thrust it into his back. Steel punched easily through his desert garb, through skin and flesh, grating on bone. As he gave a shocked gasp, Kerian drove her blade in even further, burying it to its hilt.

Meanwhile Hytanthas had been forced to backpedal frantically, gaining time to draw his own sword. He was surrounded by flickering points and keen edges, all seeking his flesh. One foe landed a hit on his left arm, but the mail Hytanthas wore under his geb turned the blade. The elf made a wide, whirling slash at the men’s faces—even the bravest fighter feared for his eyes—and his attackers drew back. All but one.

This man was too slow, and the elf’s point scored a bloody line across his forehead. With a hoarse cry, the human clapped a hand to the wound. Blood coursed down, soaking the scarf over his face.

The other two men shoved their injured comrade aside and came on again. Hytanthas gave ground, then gave more, and still more, working hard to keep their blades at bay, until he found his back against the temple wall and could retreat no further.

While one masked man attacked, keeping Hytanthas busy, his comrade stooped, gathered a handful of fine sand, and flung it at the elf’s face. Hytanthas had no warning. Suddenly, he found himself painfully blinded. He thrust out his sword in a desperate parry and waited for the feel of iron plunging into his body.

Retrieving her sword from her dead foe’s back, the Lioness rushed to her aide’s defense. By the time Hytanthas cleared his eyes, one of his attackers was dead and the other had fled. Hytanthas would have given chase, but a sharp command brought him up short.

“We have a prisoner.” The Lioness pointed to the man Hytanthas had cut on the forehead. Face awash in gore, the human was groveling on the bloody ground, trying to crawl away unnoticed.

Kerian ordered him to his feet and, when he whined about his injury, growled, “Stand up, you coward, or I’ll hamstring you!”

He made as if to rise, then rolled over abruptly, his hand shooting out to fling a short dagger. Kerian whipped her sword in a half-arc, deflecting the missile. The dagger flew back the way it had come, plunging into its owner’s neck. The assassin gave a gurgling shriek and clamped a hand to the wound, blood pouring over his fingers.

Glaring up at the Lioness, his black eyes overflowing with hate, he groaned, “For Torghan!” Bloody froth bubbled from his lips, and his straining body went slack.

Hytanthas exclaimed over her amazing parry, but the Lioness, looking down at the dead nomad, denied any prowess. She rested her sword on her shoulder and said, “I didn’t want him dead. He could have told us who sent him.”

At her direction, Hytanthas rifled the dead men’s clothes. He found nothing, no coins, no personal belongings, not even the fly whisk most city dwellers found essential. One odd fact: each man bore a scarlet tattoo on his left breast, of a crouching bird with wings folded and head curiously lowered, it seemed a bit familiar to Kerian, but she couldn’t think where she might have seen it.

“What is that? An eagle?” Hytanthas asked.

“Condor.”

The elves around. A woman stood in the shadows of the temple colonnade, stepping into the sunlight, she approached slowly. Her voluminous robes were dazzlingly white. Her long hair was likewise white, braided, and woven through with azure ribbons and tiny brass bells. A wide, flat bat shaded her face, which was brown and smooth as polished wood. Her hands were folded into the sleeves of her robe.

The Lioness bowed her head, something few had seen her do, and sheathed her sword with unusual care, sliding the blade home silently.

“Holy Mistress Sa’ida?” she asked. The woman nodded, and the Lioness gestured at the two dead attackers. “Are these men known to you?”

“No man is known to me, but I recognize the mark they bear. It is the sign of Torghan the Avenger.”

Torghan, Lord of the Wastes, was the Khurish god of vengeance, often represented as a giant vulture or condor. The elves knew him as Kinis, a malign deity not worshiped by their race. To his most devoted followers, the minotaurs, he was the great god Sargas. Kerian wondered if there might be a link between the Khurish cult of Torghan and the minotaurs who had invaded Silvanesti. It was not an alliance she liked to contemplate. In any event, she could not fathom why Torghanists of any stripe would attack her in broad daylight, in the supposedly safe confines of a holy temple.