Sturm faced the steps leading up to the palace roof. Radiz,
Sturm noted, kept one hand on his sword hilt all the way to
the roof.
Four bearded Kernaffi priests stood to one side, offering
up prayers and incense to the Dark Queen. Radiz stopped
and bowed to them, but Sturm thought he detected a look of
disgust on the man’s face when he rose. Artavash shaded
her aching eyes from the brilliant sun.
Ten paces away, Mukhari Ras worked to prepare the
special table for his great experiment. His gaunt, bent figure
scuttled from one side to another, reminding Sturm of the
vultures that haunted the southeast tower of Castle
Brightblade. The alchemist’s wide black robe added to this
impression.
The air was still. The sun burned fiercely over them.
Sturm shivered in spite of the heat. PLEASE, PALADINE,
PLEASE SAVE ME!
“Bring him over. Come, come along,” said Mukhari,
waving his youthful hands. Sturm rubbed his cold, sweating
palms on his pants. He looked to Radiz for some sign of
sympathy. The commander of the SEA RAVEN stared
straight ahead and said nothing.
Halfway to Mukhari, Sturm stumbled. He heard the
snick of a sword being freed from its scabbard. A strong
hand grabbed the back of his vest.
“Pick up your feet, boy,” said Artavash.
Mukhari was waiting, hands folded deep into his
voluminous sleeves. Up close, the table was basically just a
copper funnel flat enough to lie on. The legs were heavy
columns of marble.
“Put him on the table,” instructed Mukhari. The priests
chanted louder and began to beat a brass gong.
Shouts and clangs of metal rose from the open stairwell.
Radiz drew his weapon out of reflex. Artavash shoved
Sturm to Radiz and got her own sword ready. A death-
scream cut the air, and a few heartbeats later, Soren
bounded up the steps, a bloody sword in his chained hand.
“Sturm Brightblade! I am here!” he roared.
“Stop that man!” quavered Mukhari.
Artavash moved out to meet Soren. His stolen blade
thrust in; she parried and beat his sword out of line. Soren
was severely hampered by his bonds. Only with his
extraordinary strength could he even carry on such a fight.
He cut hard at Artavash, one, two, three – right-left-right.
She dodged, fox-quick, and struck home in the guardsman’s
chest. Soren staggered back. Artavash circled, circled;
feinting an overhand cut, she changed direction in the wink
of an eye and thrust through Soren’s weakened guard. The
point of her blade grew out his back.
Eye to eye, she said, “You should have stayed on your
oar.” Artavash recovered, and Soren collapsed.
Sturm broke free from Radiz and ran to his fallen
friend. “Soren! Soren!”
His eyes were open. He said, “My lord . . . sound the
charge.”
“Leave him, boy. He’s dead.” Radiz was standing over
Soren. Nearby, Artavash casually wiped the blood from her
blade.
Sturm was numb. With leaden feet, he walked between
Radiz and Artavash to the alchemist’s killing table. His hope
was gone. Four steps to go. Below the neck of the table’s
funnel was a large iron pot. Three steps. Mukhari was pale
and sweating in the heat. Two steps.
He had nothing left, nothing at all but Graff’s wind
cord. Magic . . . forbidden . . . The last step . . .
Artavash swept Sturm off his feet and laid him on the
table. The metal was warm from the sun. “Lie still,” she
warned. “Remember your mother.”
She backed away. Mukhari Ras loomed above him.
With both hands, Mukhari clasped a long, wickedly curved
dagger. Sturm’s heart missed a beat. His jaw tightened, and
he said the briefest prayer of his life:
“Paladine, help me.”
The dagger wavered in the frail alchemist’s grasp.
Artavash opened Sturm’s vest and shirt. Mukhari Ras
smiled down at him. “Here, then, is your destiny,” he
whispered. “I give you to my Queen!” He closed his eyes
and raised the dagger high to strike.
Down came the blade. Sturm held out the wind cord
taut between his fists. The keen edge of the dagger scraped
the briefest instant against the rawhide. Mukhari felt it and