“Never!” answered Sadira. “I won’t send a thousand peope to such a gruesome death.”
“Then what will you do, if the Dragon cannot be stopped?” demanded Rikus.
“Call all of Tyr to arms,” Sadira answered. “We’ll stand as one.”
“Then we’ll die as one,” snapped Rikus. “Some evils can’t be destroyed with force-I learned that in Urik.”
“So you would surrender?” Sadira asked bitterly. “The man I remember from Tithian’s gladiatorial pits would never have considered such a thing.”
“Because he fought nothing but men and beasts-and if he lost to them, it was only his own life that was forfeit,” Rikus countered, his voice booming sharply through the kank’s-and Tithian’s-body. “Now we have a greater responsibility, one that cannot be taken so lightly.”
“That’s true, Rikus,” agreed Agis. “But neither can we sacrifice a thousand lives without a struggle. If we have even the faintest hope of saving them, we must try.”
With that, the noble used a small switch to tap his mount between its antennae. The beast broke into a trot, its sticklike legs clattering over the rocky ground as it continued toward Kled.
When it became clear that the conversation had come to an end, Tithian withdrew most of his attention from the beast’s mind and focused on his own antechamber.
“By Ral!” he cursed, his angry voice echoing off the stone walls. “I should have them all killed!”
“So we have told you many times,” said Sacha, the bloated head.
“It isn’t difficult to arrange,” added Wyan, a light of anticipation burning in his sunken eyes.
The two disembodied heads drifted around to face Tithian, staying at eye level as he returned to his feet.
“What have they done to bring you to your senses?” asked Sacha.
“They know about the Dragon’s visit,” Tithian reported.
“Hardly surprising, when you let them plant agents in your palace,” hissed Wyan.
“Better to suffer spies you know than those you don’t,” countered the king. “Besides, it’s not what they’ve learned that angers me, but what they intend to do with the knowledge.”
“Which is?”
“Deny the Dragon his levy,” the king answered.
“Let them try,” suggested Wyan, baring his yellow teeth. “They’ll all die, and no one will hold you to blame.”
“No,” Tithian answered, shaking his head. “I’ve my own plans for the Dragon-and they don’t include having him angered by such foolishness.”
Tithian’s chamberlain interrupted the discussion by stepping into the room. She was a blond woman, with a stately form that could not be hidden beneath her uniform of priceless chain mail.
“Excuse the intrusion, Mighty King,” she said, bowing.
“Who summoned you, wench?” demanded Sacha.
“Leave us, or you’ll pay a high price for your impudence!” snarled Wyan.
The chamberlain raised an eyebrow at the threat, then cast a steely gaze at the two heads. After a moment, she turned her attention to her king. “The halfling chieftain Nok requests the honor of an audience,” she said.
Tithian recognized the name, for Nok had supplied the weapons that Rikus and Sadira had used to overthrow Tyr’s last monarch, the sorcerer-king Kalak. “What is the nature of his visit?”
“He refused to say,” answered the chamberlain.
Tithian pondered the breach of courtesy for several moments, trying to decide whether the halfling had meant to insult him or simply did not understand civilized protocol. Finally, he said, “I’m unavailable for social calls until tomorrow evening.”
“I’ll suggest he return at that time,” the chamberlain said, bowing.
Tithian dismissed her with a wave of his hand. He did not believe Nok had come so far to make a casual visit, but he never received visitors without knowing what they wished to discuss. It was not so much a habit of arrogance as one of political acumen. A man who thought about his conversations beforehand was less likely to say something he regretted later.
As the chamberlain stepped beneath the archway leading from the room, she reached for the sword on her belt. “I said to wait in the vestibule,” she snapped, speaking to someone outside the room.
Before she could say anything else, a surprised scream erupted from her lips. A bloody splinter of wood sprouted from her body, shredding her chain mail as though it were cloth. She stumbled back toward the center of the room, gurgling in pain and feebly clutching at a burgundy-colored spear piercing her chest.
At the other end of the spear stood a halfling covered in greasy green paint and dressed in a cape of feathers. A crown of fronds encircled his tangled mass of hair, a golden ring hung in his nose, and a ball of obsidian dangled from a silver chain around his neck. Behind him were a dozen more halflings, adorned in simple breechcloths and carrying small bows with tiny, black-tipped arrows.
“An intruder and a murderer!” hissed Wyan, fixing his narrow eyes on the halfling leader.
“Kill him!” cried Sacha, licking his lips with a long red tongue.
The two heads split up to approach from different sides, but the king quickly waved them off. Even if he had not already guessed the halfling’s identity, the weapon in the chieftain’s hands would have warned Tithian to be careful. It was the Heartwood Spear, the magical javelin that Nok had loaned for the purpose of killing Kalak. In addition to penetrating any armor, the oak shaft would protect its wielder from the Way-which meant that Sacha and Wyan would be as ineffectual as gnats against him.
Turning his attention to the halfling, the king demanded, “How did you get past my sentries?”
“The same way I passed your chamberlain,” answered the halfling, pulling his spear from the woman’s body. She collapsed to the floor and did not move. “Do you truly believe your guards strong enough to prevent Nok from going where he wishes?”
“Of course not. But I did expect you to show me the courtesy of not murdering them,” Tithian replied. Though it hardly surprised him that the halflings had dared to kill his guards, it was that they had done so in such silence that amazed the king. Apparently, the legends regarding their hunting prowess were not exaggerated.
When Nok made no reply, Tithian said, “Now tell me why you invaded my privacy.”
“The woman Sadira,” the halfling said, scowling at the king’s tone. “You must give her to me.”
“And why must I do that?” Tithian demanded.
Nok swung the Heartwood Spear around and pressed it to Tithian’s rib cage. The tip passed into the flesh with unnatural ease, sending a small runnel of blood trickling down the king’s abdomen.
“Because I demand it!” the halfling hissed.
Tithian reached down and guided the spear gently away. “You have much to learn about diplomacy,” he said evenly, meeting the halfling’s scowl with steady eyes. “But as it happens, Sadira is making a nuisance of herself. I’ll let you have the woman-providing you capture her.”
“I would not trust you to do it for me,” the halfling said, regarding Tithian disdainfully. “Where is she?”
The king gave Nok a condescending smile. “In the desert. A hunter of your skill should have no trouble tracking her down.”
ONE
THE CLOSED GATES
“Er’stali can’t be disturbed,” said the ancient dwarf, leaning over the balustrade atop Kled’s gatehouse. “Get back on your kanks and return to to Tyr.”
Save for his great age, which had etched dozens of furrows into his brow and left his jowls sagging like a beard, the man appeared typical of the dwarven guards flanking him. He had a squat build, with dark hairless skin and a rocklike bearing. A ridge of thickened skull ran along the top of his head, and harsh, jutting features dominated his face.
“Who are you to speak for Er’Stali?” Sadira demanded, placing both hands on the obsidian pommel of the cane.
“I am Lyanius, Kled’s uhrnomus!” the old man bellowed.