Galdar had lived among humans and fought alongside them for years. He was the perfect choice as ambassador to the humans, and he was made even more perfect by the fact that humans tended to like him and trust him. Galdar wanted to serve the god who had saved him from Takhisis, taken away his arm and given him back his self-respect. Sargonnas was not a patient god. He had made it clear to Galdar that he either came now or he did not come at all.
Galdar had first thought, rather fearfully, that perhaps Sargonnas had grown so tired of waiting that the god was coming for Galdar.
A second look dissuaded him of that notion. He could not make out the features of this person, who was yet too far away, but it was human in shape and form, not minotaur.
But no human was permitted to walk this valley. No mortal, other than the two of them, was allowed here.
The hackles on Galdar’s neck rose. The fur on his back and arms rippled with a fell chill. “I don’t like this, Mina. We should flee. Now. Before this man sees us.”
“Not a man, Galdar,” said Mina. “A god. He comes for us. Or rather, he comes for me.”
He saw her hand go to her waist, saw it close over the hilt of a knife—a knife he recognized. He reached for his own knife and found it was not there.
She glanced at him, half-smiled. “I took your knife, Galdar. I took it from you in the night.”
He didn’t like the way she held it, as though it were something precious to her.
“Who is that man, Mina?” the minotaur demanded, his voice hoarse with a fear he could not name. “What does he want with you?”
“You should leave, Galdar,” she told him quietly, her gaze fixed on the stranger, who was drawing closer. His stride had quickened. He seemed impatient to reach his destination. “This is none of your concern.”
The figure came into view. He was a human male of indeterminate age. His face was what humans consider handsome—cleft chin, square jaw, aquiline nose, prominent cheekbones, smooth brow. He wore his black hair long; sleek locks curled about his shoulders and hung down his back. His skin was so pallid as to seem bloodless. He had no color in his lips or cheeks. His eyes were dark as creation’s first night. Set deep beneath heavy brows, they seemed darker still, always in shadow.
He was dressed all in black; his clothes were rich, which bespoke wealth. His black velvet coat came to his knees. Nipped in at his narrow waist, the coat was trimmed in silver at the sleeves and around the hem. He wore black breeches that came to just below the knee, trimmed with black ribbons. He had black silken stockings and black boots with silver buckles. White lace adorned his shirt, spread in frills over his bosom, protruding from his sleeves, falling languidly over his hands. He carried himself with grace and confidence and an awareness of his own power.
Galdar shivered. Though the sun’s heat was intense, he could no longer feel it. A cold so ancient that it made the mountain young crept into the marrow of his bones. He had faced many terrible foes in his life, including the Dragon Overlord Malys, and he had not run from any of them. He could not help himself now. He began to edge backward.
“Sargonnas!” Galdar prayed to his god. His voice cracked on the name and he tried to swallow, to moisten his throat. “Sargonnas, give me strength. Help me fight this dread foe—”
The god’s answer was a snort. “I’ve indulged your loyalty to this human female thus far, Galdar, but my patience has run out. Leave her to her fate. It is well-deserved.”
“I cannot,” said Galdar staunchly, though he blanched at the sight of the strange man. “I am pledged to her—”
“I warn you, Galdar,” said Sargonnas in dire tones. “Do not come between Chemosh and his prey.”
“Chemosh!” Galdar cried hollowly.
Chemosh. Lord of Death. Galdar began to tremble. His insides crawled.
Mina held up Galdar’s knife. The knife was old with a bone handle. It was a utility knife, one used for a variety of purposes, from cleaning fish to gutting deer. He kept the blade sharp, well-honed. He watched Mina raise the knife, saw the light of the sun reflected in the metal of the blade but not in her eyes. Her gaze was focused on the god.
She held the blade in her right hand. Reversing it, she pressed the blade’s sharp point against her throat. The inner flame in the amber eyes flashed briefly then dimmed. Her lips compressed. Her grip on the knife tightened. She closed her eyes and drew in a breath.
Galdar roared and lunged for her. He had waited too long. He could not reach her before she plunged the blade into her throat. He hoped his roar would distract her before she could destroy herself.
Chemosh lifted his hand in a negligent, almost careless gesture. Galdar flew off his feet, sailed into the air, upheld by the hand of the god. Galdar fought and struggled, but he was in the grasp of the god and there was no escape. No more than if he’d tried to flee from death itself.
Chemosh carried the minotaur—flailing and roaring—away from the valley, away from the mountain, away from Mina, who was receding into the distance, growing smaller and smaller, dwindling by the second.
Galdar reached out his hand to try desperately to grab hold of time and the world as both thundered past him—to seize hold of them, of her. She looked up at him with her eyes of amber and for a brief moment, the two of them touched.
Then the raging waters tore her from his grasp. His bellow of frantic desperation deepened, became a roar of despair. Galdar sank beneath the floodwaters of time and knew no more.
Galdar woke to voices and to fear. The voices were deep and gruff and came from quite near him.
“Mina!” he cried, as he staggered to his feet, grappling for the sword that he had grimly taught himself to use with his left hand.
Two minotaurs wearing the battle armor of the minotaur legions jumped backward at his sudden rise and reached for their own swords.
“Where is she?” he raved, foam flecking his lips. “Mina! Where is she? What have you done with her?”
“Mina?” The two minotaurs stared at him, bewildered.
“We know of no one by that name,” said one, his sword half-in and half-out of the sheath.
“It sounds human,” growled his comrade. “What is she? Some captive of yours? If so, she must have run away when you fell from that cliff.”
“Either that or she pushed you,” said the soldier.
“Cliff?” Galdar was the one bewildered. He looked to where the minotaur pointed.
A steep cliff reared high above him, its rocky face barely visible through the heavy foliage. He looked around and found himself standing in tall grass beneath the shady branches of a linden tree. His body had left a deep gouge in the soft, moist loam.
Far from the sun-baked desert. Far from the mountain.
“We saw you fall from that great height,” said the minotaur. He shoved his blade back into its sheath. “Truly, Sargonnas must love you. We thought you were dead, for you must have plunged over one hundred feet straight down. Yet here you stand with naught but a bump on your head.”
Galdar tried to find the mountain, but the trees were too thick. He could not see the horizon line. He lowered his gaze. His head bowed, his shoulders slumped.
“What is your name, friend?” asked the other. “And what are you doing roaming about Silvanesti alone? The elf scum left in these parts do not dare attack us in the open, but they are quick to ambush a lone minotaur.”
“My name is Galdar,” he said, lifeless, dispirited.
The two soldiers gave a start, exchanged glances.
“Galdar the One-armed!” one exclaimed, his eyes fixing on the stump.