As he watched the preparations Gilthas ate the tiny meal Truthanar had brought. The Silvanesti healer had touched his king deeply. Arriving at the worksite with the usual dose of unpleasant-tasting medicine, he also brought a surprise: a small pot of kefre.
Gilthas had developed a liking for the Khurish beverage during the exile outside the desert capital. The healer had found the kefre, as well as the white clay pot and tiny matching cup in which it was traditionally drunk, among the Speaker’s baggage where they had been carefully packed away by Planchet before the desert crossing. Truthanar had hoped the drink would help awaken his king’s vanished appetite.
Cradling the cup in his thin hands, Gilthas inhaled deeply. The pungent aroma of kefre enveloped him, even as thoughts of his lost friend and absent wife filled his mind.
The frame slowly rose over the pit.
Chapter 12
When Kerian regained her senses, she was being dragged down a murky lane, her toes bumping over uneven cobblestones. She had wit enough not to struggle, instead using the opportunity to size up her situation.
Two men had her by the arms. Her empty scabbard flopped against her leg, but she felt her concealed knife still in place, hidden in the small of her back. Her upper arm throbbed where the Torghanist dagger had sliced it. A crude bandage had been tied around the wound, and the bleeding had stopped. Her captors smelled of wood smoke, goats, and sour milk, aromas associated more normally with nomads than city-dwelling Khurs.
The tiniest lift of her head gave her a glimpse forward. A pair of Khurs carried the unconscious Sa’ida. Several other men accompanied them. The Khurs’ faces were hidden by scarves and broad-brimmed hats pulled low. The progress of the silent procession could be judged by the sound of slamming shutters and doors that preceded them. The locals had learned to make themselves scarce when the Sons of Torghan were abroad.
She first thought they were bound for the Temple of Torghan, but her surroundings told another tale. This was not Temple Walk, where Khuri-Khan’s important sanctuaries were found. Temple Walk was a broad paved avenue. This was a shadowed, mean-looking lane fronted by tall mud-brick houses. The buildings suggested Arembeg, the city’s southern district, a maze of tight lanes and alleys unrelieved by squares or souks. Arembeg was a good place for cutthroats to hide from the khan’s soldiers and his legion of informers.
Her captors halted at a nondescript door in a dead-end alley. One Torghanist lifted his cudgel and rapped a sequence of knocks on the door. The narrow portal opened inward a few inches.
“We have them,” the Torghanist said, and a voice from within ordered them to enter.
The room was wide. Furniture was scant. Common Khurish chairs were short and three-legged, with a single pole sticking up as backrest. Sa’ida was set onto one, her hands tied behind her back. One of the Torghanists holding Kerian’s arms muttered about ill luck befalling those who mistreated a holy woman.
No such worry affected their handling of Kerian. They did not bother with a chair, but dropped her facedown on the dirt floor. When she hit, she contrived to have her left arm fall limply across her lower back.
“What of the beast?” The voice asked. His accent was foreign to Khur, and his voice was loud in the low-ceilinged room.
“It was too fierce. We didn’t have the proper weapons. It killed two of my men and tore up four more. We threw a net over it and left it there.”
Kerian silently rejoiced. Eagle Eye was alive.
“Are the implements ready?” asked the leader.
Kerian heard the clink of metal, and a grunted remark that the irons would be hot enough soon. She had no doubt who the “implements” were for and what their purpose would be. From beneath slit eyelids, she watched the Torghanists come and go from a brazier heaped with glowing coals.
“You were right to watch the temple, my lord,” said one of the Khurs. “How did you know the laddad would return there?”
“I didn’t. But I marked Sa’ida for a traitor long ago. It doesn’t surprise me the elves would remain in contact with her. She was their ally when they were here. Even now she works to undermine your nation and your gods.”
The Khurs’ replies told Kerian that any squeamishness they’d felt at capturing the priestess was fading rapidly. One man asked what was to be done with the laddad woman. “I doubt we’ll get anything out of her,” the foreigner said coolly. “Perhaps if she sees what the priestess must endure, she’ll be more willing to share what she knows.”
The Khurs engaged in ugly speculation about Kerian’s own fortitude in the face of pain. Their leering laughter steeled her for action. When enough of them were looking away, she’d show them what fortitude really meant.
The foreigner uttered a sharp reproof. “Why is the elf not tied?” he demanded. The Torghanists laughed off his concern. They’d worked her over well. She wouldn’t wake up any time soon.
“Idiots. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.” He ordered the closest man to bind Kerian’s hands and ankles.
The fellow’s rag-wrapped sandals advanced toward her. He bent to grasp her slack arm. Using his body to shield the motion, she drew her concealed knife and buried it in the man’s chest. He gasped and sagged to his knees. Kerian put the blade in her teeth and catapulted to her hands and knees. She shoved the dying man at the next nearest thug. Before he could react, she was on her feet. The knife flashed. A second Torghanist collapsed onto the first, his throat slashed.
The room’s dim lighting kept the men from understanding exactly what she’d done. Not realizing she was armed, they thought she was simply making a desperate attempt to overcome far superior numbers. Only their foreign master was disturbed by her sudden revival. Kerian spotted him for the first time. He was seated at one end of a long table on the far side of the room. A lamp on the table before him illuminated his face. Kerian had never seen him before, but he was easily recognizable as a Nerakan. He was past middle age, bald, with bushy brown eyebrows. His thin cloak did nothing to conceal the armor and bejeweled court sword he wore. All of this she took in with one swift glance before he turned down the lamp’s wick.
“Didn’t you search her for weapons?” he barked.
The Torghanists hefted their cudgels and closed in. Kerian dropped to a crouch. She slashed a third Khur across the chest. He let go his weapon and staggered back, bleeding heavily. Taking up his cudgel, she fended off a hail of blows and attacked again. A Torghanist cried out as her knife opened his gut, and the rest backed off.
She gave them no time to organize but hurled the cudgel at the light. The Nerakan, thinking the blow was meant for him, jerked back. The hard wood struck the brass lamp, knocking it to the floor. Oil poured out and tiny blue flames danced across the spreading spill.
“Kill her!” the Nerakan bawled. “What are you waiting for? Kill her now!”
The Sons of Torghan tried. They were rough and ready fighters accustomed to street brawls, but they were out of their depth against the Lioness. Eight Khurs had entered the room with her. Minutes after the Nerakan ordered her death, only three still stood. Meantime the burning oil pooled around the leg of the table and ignited it. Dull orange flames flickered, giving the scene a wild, distorted look.