Paul Thompson - Sanctuary

Sahim made a fist and knocked his son to the ground with a single blow.

“Idiot! Dolt! Fool! What are you thinking? I have given the laddad my protection! How strong will our neighbors think me if I allow the elves to be destroyed beneath the very walls of my capital, by those I am supposed to rule?”

When Shobbat was felled, activity in the courtyard and in the gatehouse ceased. Everyone halted to stare at the prince, sitting on the ground, his lips bleeding, his scarlet-clad father standing Over him like an avenging demon. The powerful voice of Sahim-Khan filled the courtyard.

“And Consider this, wastrel! If the nomads lose, more will come to avenge them. If the laddad lose, there will be no one left to pay for our repairs and your pleasures!”

Goaded beyond reason, the Khan drove the toe of his slippered foot into Shobbat’s ribs. “Don’t presume to offer guidance to me again! Get out of my sight!”

Doubled over in real pain, Shobbat got to his feet and slunk away. No one, not Sahim or Hakkam or those in the Courtyard, saw the strange look of triumph that passed quickly over his face.

“Go, General! Take your soldiers and drive the nomads back into the wastes!”

“At once, Mighty Khan!”

Sahim was still shaking with fury when he stalked into his private rooms. His son’s foolish words had given him an outlet for his fears but hadn’t erased them from his mind. His worry over the sudden appearance of the desert tribes so disturbed him that he didn’t notice the figure standing by the wall in the seam of two great hanging tapestries. Only when it spoke did he whirl drawing the short sword concealed in his flowing robes. When he saw who accosted him, he uttered several choice curses.

“Such language!” said his visitor. “And from a king!”

“I’m in no mood for your tricks, Keth,” Sahim said testily. He tossed his sword onto a tiled tabletop and ran fingers through his beard.

Keth-Amesh was a distant cousin, a member of the same tribe as Sahim, and his private woman-of-all-work. While he dropped heavily into a chair, Keth poured herself a cup of his best wine. She lowered the dust veil from her face to drink. Long ago she’d lost an eye, and wore a tan leather patch over the empty socket. Her skin was tawny brown, like that of many nomads, but she had fair hair, wisps of which escaped from her headdress. She was a so-called ‘Yellow Khur,’ from the coastal lands of the extreme eastern part of Sahim’s realm.

“I found the mage, but not the priest,” she reported. She drained her cup then refilled it.

Sahim had set her to find Faeterus and Minok when his legion of soldiers, informers, and spies failed in that task.

“Where is he?”

“Below,” she answered, tapping a foot on the stone floor. She meant the system of caverns, natural and man-made, under the city. They had been enlarged by Sahim’s grandfather for use as cisterns, but the water proved brackish and undrinkable. The empty, noisome caverns were a perfect retreat for the hunted Faeterus.

“If you know where he is, go get him.”

Keth shook her head. “There’s not enough money in the world to get me down there.” When he said he would order her to go, she did something no one else in Khuri-Khan would dare do: She laughed at him. “I’m not one of your soldiers. You can’t order me anywhere.”

Sahim changed tack. “What of Minok?”

“No trace at all. He must be dead.”

“You haven’t earned your pay,” Sahim told her sourly. “I hired you to find both and bring them to me!”

She tossed a heavy purse on the rug at his feet. “Your money. Farewell, cousin. Call me again if you need anything—if you’re still khan, that is.”

Replacing her veil, she went back to the secret door behind the tapestry. Sahim called for her to wait, and she paused, one sinewy hand on the fringed tapestry.

“How can I get to the mage? I can’t leave him down there, hatching plots unhindered,” he said.

“You know assassins. Send some.”

Sahim’s laugh was bitter. “Cutthroats will never take Faeterus’s measure. I need someone better.”

Keth lowered her dust veil again. “There is a man, or rather, not a man. A laddad bounty hunter called Robien. I worked with him once.”

“Well, bring him to me, right away!”

“You’ll find him hard to work with.”

“Why? Is he a drunkard?”

“Worse.” She grinned. “He’s honest and true. Not like you at all.”

Tired of her insolence, he snapped, “Just get him! I’ll overlook his honesty if he can bring Faeterus before me.”

She bowed and went out the hidden door.

Sahim listened to the horns still blowing outside. The whole palace was quivering with marching soldiers and scurrying servants.

Damn all the foreigners! he fumed. They’re as bad as those desert savages.

While the Khan was surrounded by boiling excitement, the Speaker sat alone in his silent tent. Planchet and Hamaramis were out tending to his business. The servants had been given leave to be with their families.

Gilthas had never felt so alone. In all the years of separation from Kerianseray, while she lived and fought in the greenwood and he played the Puppet King in Qualinost, he always had felt close to her. They shared a connection that went beyond love, beyond proximity. During the terrible march into exile, they were apart for weeks at a time, each knowing the other might be killed at any moment, but still they had been connected. Now she was gone, in every sense of the word. Gone from his house, gone from his city, gone from his life.

He knew he had done his duty by removing her. She had no vision, no understanding of the delicate, dangerous path they must tread if their race was to survive. Her way would lead to total destruction. Yet duty was small comfort to him.

It was a good thing to be alone. No one should see the Speaker of the Sun and Stars weep.

Hytanthas brought the Lioness the news from the parley. The nomads were demanding her and the sorcerer Faeterus as their price for peace. The assembled warriors greeted this broadside with shouts of derision.

“Sounds like a good bargain,” Kerian remarked.

“Commander!” Hytanthas cried.

She stared out over the rolling dunes and at the dust raised by the nomad host on the move. A great deal of dust, from a great many horses. “It would be a fair bargain,” she said, “if they meant it.”

Unfortunately, she was certain they did not mean it. Nomads wouldn’t have come all this way just to avenge the camp massacre. That was nothing more than a convenient excuse, a wedge to pry apart the elves and Sahim-Khan. The nomads had no intention of giving up everything for the heads of two elves. They were on a mission to destroy every elf in Khur.

Still, it sparked an idea. She was confident her warriors could defeat the nomad host, but the war thus started wouldn’t end with this single battle. More and more tribesmen would join the fight, until the elves found themselves swamped by fanatics. Her dreams of retaking the elven homelands would founder beneath a horde of unshod hooves.

She studied the officers clustered around her horse. The longest serving among them was a Qualinesti named Ramacanalas. “Take command, Ramac,” she said. “I’m going to the nomads.”

Shouts erupted, and Hytanthas seized her horse’s bridle to keep her from riding away. She broke his grip and silenced them all with a hard-eyed glare.

“I’m going. Remain here. If the nomads move toward Khurinost, hit them as hard as you can with everything we’ve got.”

“They’ll kill you!” Hytanthas exclaimed.

The Lioness favored him with an ironic smile. “Not today.”