The Rise And Fall Of A Dragonking Part 6

Today I am the Lion of Urik, invulnerable and invincible. In the form Rajaat has given me, the finest steel cannot harm me. With an exercise of whim, I can hide my shape beneath an illusion of any creature I imagine. But when I was a mortal man, there was nothing about me that warranted Bult's respect. I took after my mother's folk: light-boned and slender. From my earliest days I'd learned the tricks of balance and leverage because I never had my father's and brothers' strength. I could carry Jikkana because I knew where to lift; I could fell a troll because I knew where to balance, where to pivot, how to coil my entire body and release its power in a serpent's strike.

Knowledge was my weapon, I told myself as I lay there in the dust, blood and bile streaming from my face. I was smarter than Bult; I was better, but first I had to breathe and protect myself from the kicks that came from all directions. Ignoring pain and blurred vision, relying on instinct-knowledge-alone, I caught a foot as it struck my ribs. I twisted it one way as I rolled the other. Finally there was a groan that didn't come from my throat, and a few heartbeats for me to rise up on my hands and knees.

I choked when I tried to breathe and spat out a tooth or two. My hair dragged in the muck my blood had made of the dust, but my lungs were working again, and my thoughts were clearer. I heard Bult sidestepping, taking aim at my flank. Raising my head, I caught his eye.

"Coward," I named him in a hoa.r.s.e, broken whisper. "Can't fight trolls without the Troll-Scorcher's say-so. Can't fight a puny man unless he's already battered and b.l.o.o.d.y."

I nailed Bult, midstride. He backed off, and his mouth worked silently a moment before he said: "Get up, farm boy. Get up on your feet, if you dare, or crawl away as you are."

We'd heard that trolls could track by scent, that their noses were as good as their night eyes. The way I was bleeding on the ground and clutching my side, Bult guessed I'd be troll-meat whether he hamstrung me or not. And probably he was right: I was a deadman, but I was done running from trolls and wasn't going to start crawling from my own kind. I got to my feet and stayed there. A few of my fellows sucked their teeth with surprise or admiration. I didn't know which. I didn't care. My blood settled.

"Cowards," I repeated, including my fellows in the curse. Bult took a step toward me. I spat out another tooth that left a b.l.o.o.d.y mark on his cheek, and he stayed where he was. "Little children, a little bit afraid of trolls, a lot more afraid of the Troll-Scorcher. Eyes of fire!" I recalled my cousin, five years dead and forgotten in the ruins of Deche. "I've seen the Troll-Scorcher's magic, his eyes of fire, just like you. I've seen them at the muster-nowhere else. I've seen Myron of Yoram burn the heart out of a trussed-up man when we're all camped for muster, but I've never seen his awful magic out here."

I believed what I said, and I hated Myron of Yoram more than I hated Bult or any troll that ever lived. It gave me the strength to take a step in Bult's direction.

"Call him, Bult. Call the Troll-Scorcher. Tell him what I've done. Tell him to come and burn me with the eyes of fire. I'll die for him, Bult, that's what we're here for, isn't it? Call him!"

Once a month, as Guthay's golden face cleared the eastern horizon, we'd all gather around the fire, hand in hand, to shout the Troll-Scorcher's name to the night. When we'd shouted our throats raw, Bult would drop to his knees, his veins bulged and throbbing across his brow, and he'd tell the Troll-Scorcher how many trolls we'd seen since the last time, what they'd done, and what we'd done, which never changed: they ravaged, and we ran.

"Aye, Bult," someone behind me said. "Call the Troll-Scorcher. Let him decide."

"Manu's right. Maybe the Troll-Scorcher listens to us; maybe he don't. We see his mighty-bright officers, an' they tell us he's wagin' war somewhere else, but never near us." Another voice in the crowd.

"Never near no one," a woman added, sweet honey to my ringing ears. "Never met no one at the muster who didn't say the same thing: they seen trolls all year, an' never once seen the Scorcher."

I could feel the power of persuasion around me. "Call him, Bult," I taunted, then reached out for my fellows' hands and shouted our champion's name.

We all shouted as if Guthay were rising. Bult hit the dust with his eyes squeezed shut. Nothing happened-but, nothing ever happened when a poor, mortal human called Myron of Yoram.

When the time came and the dark magic was mine, I gave all my templars medallions-lumps of fired clay for most of them, but hardened with my breath, so they'd never doubt that I could hear them, see them. No less than Jikkana, Bult was my teacher; he taught me that in the field, fear, morale, and discipline are different words for the same thing.

And I learned from my younger self, too. If Myron of Yoram had been half a man to begin with, he'd have heard Bult that day. He'd have stirred himself across the netherworld-I know he had the power, what he lacked was will and wit-and he'd have struck me down with the eyes of fire.

It was not a mistake I've I've ever made. When my templars call me, my will is theirs; and when they rebel or rise against me, I reduce them to grease and ash, as if they'd never been born. ever made. When my templars call me, my will is theirs; and when they rebel or rise against me, I reduce them to grease and ash, as if they'd never been born.

Not Myron of Yoram. I killed Jikkana, my solitary troll, and ten thousand others since, but Myron of Yoram killed Bult.

"It's outrage," I said softly while Bult still struggled to catch our champion's attention. "We stand by, human men and women, while trolls ravage our own folk. If we don't run, we howl at the moon, like beasts, hoping, year after futile year, that someone will hear us, that someone cares enough to come and kill our enemies for us. What sort of man do we serve? What sort of man is Myron of Yoram, Myron Troll-Scorcher? It's been ages since he led his army to victory in the Kreegills. Now he h.o.a.rds trolls like a miser h.o.a.rding metal. He doesn't want victory-he wants his eyes of fire to burn slow from now until eternity!"

They heard me; my fellows heard me. They let go of one another's hands, shook their heads, and whispered among themselves. I couldn't hear their words, but-O Whim of the Lion-if only I'd listened to myself! I held every piece of the puzzle in the palm of my hand, but it slipped away. Instead of rallying them all-humans, trolls, and every other race alike-against Rajaat's champions, I took the club they returned to me and smashed it into the side of Bult's yellow-haired head.

CHAPTER SIX.

"It's been ages since Guthay wore two crowns for seven days, and then, a single crown for another three nights. Ten nights together, Omniscience! Not since the Year of Ral's Vengeance in the 177th King's Age," Enver said, reading from a freshly written scroll. "The high bureau scholars have taken half a quinth to research the archives, but they've at last confirmed what you, Omniscience, no doubt, remembered."

Hamanu nodded, not because he agreed, but because when Enver's recitation slowed, it was time for Enver's king to nod his head... and recall what the dwarf had said. Hamanu did pay attention to what his executor told him, and certain words or intonations would p.r.i.c.k him to instant awareness. For the rest, though, Hamanu remembered faster than Enver recited. He listened with an empty ear, gathering words the way a drip bucket gathered water, until it was time to nod, and remember.

Having nodded and remembered, Hamanu's thoughts went wandering again as Enver read what the scholars had dug out of the Urik archives. He had not recalled the exact date when Guthay had put on her last ten-night performance-the systematic reckoning of years and ages meant little to him anymore-but he certainly remembered the event, two years after Borys, Butcher of Dwarves, had become Borys, Dragon of Tyr. That year, whole swaths of the heartland had turned gray with sorcerous ash, but, yes, Guthay had promised water in abundance and kept her promise.

As she'd kept it this year.

Fifty-eight days ago-twenty days after Guthay had shed her last crown-the gullies north of Urik had begun to fill. Ten days later, every cultivated field had received twice its allotment of silt-rich water. At the head of a planting army larger than the first military levy, which Commandant Javed drilled on the southern high ground, the Lion-King had marched into the pondlike fields and with back-breaking, dawn-to-dusk labor, planted a year's worth of hope.

The precious water flowed for another ten days. Gullies overflowed their banks. Walls of sun-baked brick dissolved into mounds of slick, yellow mud. Dumbstruck farmers stepped across their crumbling thresholds into ankle-deep streams of frigid, mountain water. With their newly planted fields endangered by an almost inconceivable threat-too much water-the farmers had turned to the priests of earth and water who, in turn, eighteen days ago, had led an anxious procession through the city walls, to the very gates of Hamanu's palace.

Hamanu had been waiting for them-he could see farther from his palace rooftop than any priest in his temple. He'd known the water was still rising, and after a dramatic hesitation, he'd called a second levy of Urik's able-bodied men, another one from every remaining five. Then, as he rarely did, the Lion-King explained his intentions: The second levy wouldn't march south to drill with the first. It would march north, beyond the established fields, and, digging with picks and shovels, pointed sticks and muddy hands, make new channels to spread Guthay's bounty across the barrens. The newly planted fields would be spared.

The crowd erupted with a spontaneous cheer for their Lion-King-an infrequent event, though not as infrequent as the floods that inspired it. By the next sunrise, a thousand men stood at the north gate. They'd come peacefully, the registrators said-another infrequent event-and fully half of them were volunteers, which was unprecedented. Fear and worship could sustain a living G.o.d, but nothing compared to the pride Hamanu had felt with them and for them as they marched north to save the fields from drowning.

The second levy dug for twelve days. A moat of dark mud grew beyond Urik's fields, saving the crops, but water still still churned out of the distant mountains. Beneath Urik, the vast cavern lake that slaked the city's thirst had become a roaring maelstrom. It had already flooded its stony sh.o.r.es and rose steadily against walls that had not been wet since the Lion of Urik was a mortal man. churned out of the distant mountains. Beneath Urik, the vast cavern lake that slaked the city's thirst had become a roaring maelstrom. It had already flooded its stony sh.o.r.es and rose steadily against walls that had not been wet since the Lion of Urik was a mortal man.

Hamanu released the second levy to Javed's mercy and called up a third. One in five of men and women, both, and every age, would be levied. Five days ago, four thousand Urikites a.s.sembled in the palace forecourt. While the throng watched, the mighty Lion-King had taken a hammer to the doors of one of Urik's ten sealed granaries, then he'd sent the third levy into the second levy's mud, sacks of seed slung over their shoulders.

The third levy continued its labor in the flooded field; Hamanu could see hundreds of dark dots moving slowly across the mud. Pavek was out there, planting seeds with his toes while knee-deep in muck. His gold medallion was thrown carelessly over one shoulder. Twenty Quraiters worked alongside him. The hidden village had sent more than its share of farmers-of druids, too, though they strove to conceal their subtle renewals of the land.

It was a gamble as old as agriculture: if the granary seed they planted sprouted and throve until it ripened, they'd harvest four sacks for every one they'd risked, a respectable yield for land that hadn't been cultivated in ages. There'd be grain to sell to less-fortunate neighbors, conquering them with trade rather than warfare. There might even be enough to justify laying the foundation for an eleventh granary. If the grain throve- And if the bonus crop failed, if war came to Urik, or some other disaster intervened, there were still nine sealed granaries, each with enough grain to feed Urik for a year. Hamanu didn't make blind gambles with his city's well-being.

"Omniscience, the orators have composed a new encomium." Enver was still reading from his notes. "They name you Hamanu Water-Wealth, Maker of Oceans. They wish to include the encomium in tomorrow's harangue. I have the whole text here, Omniscience; I'll read it, if you wish. It's quite good-a bit too florid for my taste-but I'm sure the people will find it stirring."

"Maker of Oceans," the Lion-King repeated, bringing his attention back to the palace roof.

Ocean was a word his scholars had found in the archives, nothing more. The Lion of Urik doubted there was anything alive that had seen an ocean-except Rajaat, of course, if Rajaat were alive in his Hollow prison. Hamanu had glimpsed the memory of an ocean once in Rajaat's crystal visions: blue water rippling from horizon to horizon, foaming waves that crashed one after the other on sand that never dried. The steamy moat girdling Urik wasn't an ocean, wasn't even the promise of an ocean. All it promised-all a living G.o.d dared hope that it promised-was a green field and an unexpected harvest.

What did an ocean want before it would be born? What did it need? More than ten nights of silver rings around a golden moon. More than one year of muddy water as wide as the eye could see. Borys had taken more than an age to finish the destruction the Cleansing Wars had begun. It had only been a handful of years since a dragon stalked the heartland. How many years before Urik's cavern could hold no more and water began to pool above ground?

Maybe then Hamanu would start to believe in oceans.

"The temples of Andarkin and Ulydeman-"

Temples was a word guaranteed to seize Hamanu's attention. He didn't completely forbid the worship of divinities other than himself-the Lion of Urik was neither a G.o.d nor a fool-but he didn't encourage them. As long as priests of the elemental temples stayed in their time-honored place, the Lion of Urik tolerated their presence in his city. Their place didn't include Enver's daily list.

Patience had never been Hamanu's virtue, but he felt exceptionally generous this morning-exceptionally curious, too-and let the dwarf continue without interruption.

"-would proclaim the existence of a demiurge they name Burbote-"

"Mud, dear Enver," Hamanu corrected with a sigh. "The word is mud. mud. Rummaging through their grimoires looking for words that were old when I was a boy won't change matters. They want to sanctify Rummaging through their grimoires looking for words that were old when I was a boy won't change matters. They want to sanctify mud." mud."

Enver's hairless brows pulled together at a disapproving angle. He clutched his scroll between fists that grew white with tension.

After the Dragon's demise, when change had become inevitable, Hamanu had told his venerable executor the truth: Urik's Lion-King had been born an ordinary human man in a Kreegill valley thirteen ages earlier. He was immortal, but he wasn't a G.o.d. The dwarf hadn't taken the revelation well. Enver, the son, grandson, and great-grandson of yellow-robed templars, preferred to believe the lies about divinity-and omniscience-he'd learned in his own youth.

"If you say it is so, Omniscience, then it must be so," he said stiffly, his chosen response when his G.o.d disappointed him. "The priests of earth and water wish to erect a temple to mark the flood's greatest extent, but surely they will dedicate it to whomever you wish, even mud." mud."

"Do they claim to have marked the flood's greatest extent, dear Enver? Have the flood waters begun to recede?"

"Omniscience, I do not know."

Hamanu could not resist baiting his loyal servant. "Neither do I, dear Enver."

"I am at a loss, Omniscience." The dwarf was so stiff it seemed he'd crack and crumble in the slightest breeze.

"What shall I tell them, Omniscience? That they must rename their demiurge? Or should I tell them nothing at all until the floods recede?"

"Nothing, I think, would be the wiser course-for all I know, dear Enver, Burbote might consume all the land between here and the Smoking Crown. He might swell up and drown us all... Burbote is a he, he, yes? A muddy demiurge that is female, as well-the combination is more than I can bear to contemplate." yes? A muddy demiurge that is female, as well-the combination is more than I can bear to contemplate."

"Very well, Omniscience. As you will, Omniscience. I shall instruct the priests of Andarkin and Ulydeman to interrogate their oracles. They've not got the demiurge's name right, and they must be certain of its maleness... or femaleness... before their proclamation can be read or their temple built. Will that suffice, Omniscience?"

Enver was a paragon of mortal diligence and rect.i.tude, and almost completely devoid of humor. But a G.o.d who acknowledged his own fallibility had to tolerate the failings of his a.s.sociates-or dwell in utter isolation.

"It must, dear Enver. It must."

Hamanu's attention began to wander before Enver was three syllables into the next entry on his tightly clutched scroll. Between floods and preparations for war, he'd neglected his minions for the better part of a seventy-five-day quinth. The minions survived, of course-most of them. When he wasn't living their lives, they lived their own, much as they'd done before he'd woven his curiosity into their being. Casting an Unseen net, Hamanu touched them, one by one. A beggar had died. A n.o.bleman had eaten unwisely and suffered the consequences in a dark, befouled corner of his luxurious home. Lord Ursos entertained an unwilling guest. Cissa's daughter had another tooth coming in. Nouri Nouri'son had adopted his beggar and put him to work behind the counter of his busy bakery.

Ewer's recitation progressed from religion to refugees, a subject that did not engage Hamanu's curiosity or require his attention. Though it pleased the Lion-King to think that the suffering citizens of Raam, Draj, and even far-off Balic would choose Urik as their sanctuary, his templars dealt with such strangers. Urik's borders were, of course, legally sealed, but Hamanu trusted his yellow-robes to determine when, where, and against whom his laws should apply.

He went back to his minions, until another trip-word scratched his hollow ear: arrows. The Khelo fletchers were squabbling with the Codesh butchers over the price of feathers for the thousands of arrows the army required.

"Tell the butchers they'll sell their d.a.m.ned feathers at the established rate, or their heirs heirs will donate them in perpet-" will donate them in perpet-"

O Mighty Hamanu! Lion-King, Lord, and Master, hear me!

A distant voice echoed in Hamanu's mind. The totality of his awareness raced backward, along a silver thread of consciousness through the Unseen netherworld, to the source.

Armor! I crave invincible armor and earthquake!

The Gray was charged with acid needles, and Hamanu's vision, when he opened his sulphur eyes above the desperate templar, was streaked with lurid colors. There was powerful magic-someone else's powerful magic-in the vicinity.

O Mighty Hamanu! Hammer of the World! Grant me invincible armor and earthquake!

Squinting through the magic, Hamanu made out chaos and bloodshed: a full cohort of his own templars outnumbered by ragtag brigands. Or, not brigands. Another moment's study discerned a well-armed, well-drilled force disguised for brigandage. In the midst of the Urikites' impending defeat, a militant, a human man with tears of panic streaming down his face, raised his bronze medallion and entreated the Lion-King for the third time: O Mighty Lion, grant me invincible armor and earthquake, lest I die!

A wise invocation-in its way. An earthquake, if Hamanu empowered the spell to create one, would swallow everything on the battlefield, friend and foe alike, except for the invincibly armored militant. Though sacrifice was necessary in battle, the Lion-King of Urik was not in the habit of rewarding militants who'd save themselves and doom the lesser ranks and mercenaries they led. He'd have considered granting the earthquake while withholding the invincible armor-and savored the militant's death-if the netherworld turbulence wouldn't have negated any spell he granted.

There were only a handful of mind-benders capable of disturbing the netherworld enough to disrupt the bond between a champion and his templars. The champions themselves were foremost in that small group. Hamanu knew the hallmarks of their spellcasting intimately.

Inenek, Hamanu loosed an enemy's name to the Unseen wind. It was her spoor he scented in the netherworld and her disguised Gulgan templars winnowing his own. Hamanu loosed an enemy's name to the Unseen wind. It was her spoor he scented in the netherworld and her disguised Gulgan templars winnowing his own. Ogre-Naught. Ogre-Naught.

The turbulence ebbed, replaced by a sultry voice, full of seduction and, though Inenek tried to hide it, hate. You tricked me once, Manu, but never again. Rajaat chose you for your strength, not your brilliance. You're not as clever as you think you are. Surrender to me, and Urik will survive. You tricked me once, Manu, but never again. Rajaat chose you for your strength, not your brilliance. You're not as clever as you think you are. Surrender to me, and Urik will survive.

A wind-driven fist shrieked through the Gray with the power to smash a mountain into gravel.

Your promises are as empty as your threats, Inenek, Hamanu replied, dispelling her a.s.sault with a roar of laughter. Hamanu replied, dispelling her a.s.sault with a roar of laughter.

Inenek had always been vulnerable to mockery. The netherworld shone with futile lightning; she'd never learned to control her temper, either. Hamanu dispelled the bolts as he'd dispelled the shrieking fist. Inenek-the Oba of Gulg, she called herself now-was arguably the least among the champions. How she'd annihilated the ogres was a mystery Hamanu had never taken the time to solve. He suspected she'd disguised herself as an ogress and slain every male after taking him into her bed.

The Ogre-Naught couldn't harm him, but his besieged templars were doomed if he didn't intervene. With his eyes still glowing, Hamanu turned to Enver, who'd sensed nothing amiss until that moment.

"I go," he told the dwarf. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Enver's widening eyes before he slit the rooftop air with a talon and stepped into the Gray.

Hamanu departed Urik as a black-haired man. He emerged on the battlefield as the black-maned Lion of Urik, taller than a half-giant, stronger and far more deadly. A gold sword gleamed in his right hand. It sliced through the warrior weapons raised against him, and through the warriors as well. Hamanu wielded his sorcery-laced sword with the skill gained in a very long lifetime of practice, inflicting precise slaughter among his enemies.

He didn't bother to guard his back or slow his attacks with parries; the Lion of Urik was only another glamour, hiding his true form. A calm and sharp-eyed observer-had there been any on the field-would have noticed the discontinuity as metal weapons pa.s.sed through the Lion's ephemeral form before shattering against otherwise invisible dragon flesh. Wooden and bone-crafted weapons met a different fate. They burst into short-lived flames when they breached his infernal aura.

With their king wreaking havoc among their enemies, the Urikite templars rallied. They surged forward in a score of close-fought skirmishes. Hamanu welcomed their renewed courage; he'd reward them with their lives. And as for the militant who led them...

His leonine ears flicked as the golden sword brought death to another five fighters. He listened for two particular sounds: the militant's pulse, and the clang of his metal sword.

One lapse of leadership might be forgiven-if the militant's panic hadn't been stronger than Inenek's Unseen interference, Hamanu wouldn't have known that his templars needed him. A second lapse would be unforgivable, unsurvivable. Hamanu strained his hearing. He found half of what he listened for: a mortal heart pounding hard beneath a bronze medallion.

Bakheer! Hamanu seized the militant's disarrayed thoughts and rattled them. Hamanu seized the militant's disarrayed thoughts and rattled them. Fight, Bakheer. Fight, Bakheer.

Hamanu didn't enjoy killing his own templars. At the very least, it was a waste of mortal life. At the worst, because of the medallion-forged bond he shared with them, their deaths brought his darkest appet.i.tes to the fore. Fight the enemy, Bakheer. Fight to the death... or face Fight the enemy, Bakheer. Fight to the death... or face me. me.

A sane man would have listened, would have understood and thrown himself at Inenek's minions, but Bakheer was no longer sane. What Inenek had begun, Hamanu inadvertently finished. Bakheer's mind shattered. His heart beat one final time, and his spirit flared in the instant before Rajaat's last champion savored it.

The tiny morsel of mortality tantalized Hamanu's much-denied appet.i.tes. For a moment, there were neither Urikites nor enemies on the field before him, only aching need, and the motes of life that would sate it.

The Lion of Urik roared words too loud and angry for mortal ears to interpret: "d.a.m.n you!"

Hamanu turned away from temptation, away from the battlefield. Abandoning his templars, he cast himself into the netherworld... where a whirlwind awaited him.

Inenek had guessed his choice-his predictable weakness-and caught him in a mind-bender's trap. Stripped of all his glamour, reduced to a spindly shadow of his unnatural form, Hamanu, was sucked away from his templars. He wasn't surprised when a black maw appeared suddenly, far below his feet, growing larger with each howling spiral.

Inenek was sending him toward the Black, toward the Hollow beneath it, and into Rajaat's grasp. Hamanu could imagine what rewards Rajaat had promised her.

But, truly, the Oba of Gulg couldn't harm the Lion of Urik. Her powers, though awesome, were no match for his, when he chose to use them. Radiance blossomed from Hamanu's long, skeletal fingers, wrapping him in a coc.o.o.n of light. Inenek's whirlwind lost its hold over him, and he began to rise, slowly at first, then faster, until the whirlwind dissipated in his wake.

Time flowed erratically in the Gray. Days, even years, of sunlit time could vanish during a netherworld sneeze, or time could twist the other way, and a champion could reappear on the battlefield-as Hamanu did-a heartbeat after he'd left.

Hamanu took advantage of his enemies' astonishment and confusion. Two of them died from a single, decapitating sword stroke. Another two tried to run; he took them from behind.

Drubbed in the netherworld, unable to deliver Hamanu to Rajaat, and besieged on the battlefield, Inenek withdrew her support from her templars who, feeling the tide of battle shift away from them, tried to escape a now-inevitable defeat. A few, on the battlefield's fringes, might have succeeded; they were hardly the lucky ones. Inenek wouldn't take them back for fear Hamanu had tampered with them, and ordinary folk made certain that the life of a renegade templar was neither pleasant nor long.

The Gulg templars who fell into Hamanu's hands knew what their fate would be: a quick death, if they were lucky, a drawn-out one if they weren't. They didn't know who the sorcerer-kings truly were or why they despised one another. They only knew that a templar's life was over once he stood before another sorcerer-king. Two or three of Inenek's templars fell on their knees, renouncing their city; they offered oaths to Urik's mightier king. But there was no hope in their hearts or useful knowledge in their heads-and he would never spare a templar who denied his city.

He offered them the same opportunity he offered his templar prisoners-death by their own hands instead of his. Without exception, they took the easier, safer course: running onto the swords and spears the Urikites held before them.

"O Mighty One, your will is done," a young adjutant informed Hamanu when the deeds were finished. The elf's bright yellow robe and metallic right sleeve were torn and stained. The thoughts on his mind's surface were painfully clear. His name was Kalfaen, and this had been his first campaign. He hadn't risen through the war-bureau ranks, but had been given an adjutant's enameled medallion on the strength of his family's connections. "The Oba's templars are all dead, except-except for the wounded-"

Kalfaen's voice trailed. His thought-shapes shifted. He imagined himself on a less fortunate day, wounded, in dire pain, and waiting for some other living G.o.d to unravel his memories.

Hamanu ignored the young man's distress. He tolerated nepotism in the templar ranks because it gave the likes of Kalfaen no real advantage. "Wait here," he commanded, and insured obedience with a frigid thought that held the youthful elf where he stood. "When I am finished with the wounded, you shall recount what happened here, from the beginning."