‘Yes. Very much.’
‘Then tell me of the forces gathered there.’
‘The forces? The Duke’s army, you mean? I don’t know how many there are. Thousands, I expect. Soldiers.’
A Daroth rose and, taking hold of Avil’s hair, dragged him to his feet. The creature took hold of the young man’s
arm – and suddenly snapped it. Avil screamed. The Daroth released him and he fell to the ground, staring stupidly at the twisted arm. At first there was little pain, but it grew into a terrible burning that made Avil feel nauseous.
‘Concentrate, Avil,’ said the Daroth. Pain flared in his head again, then subsided. ‘Tell me about the wizards.’
In all his life Avil had known no friends, and many nicknames – none of them a source of pride. But Karis had trusted him, and – merely with her conversation – had given him one of the finest evenings of his life. Frightened of pain, terrified of death, Avil was determined not to betray her. ‘I know nothing of . . .’
‘Beware, Avil,’ warned the Daroth. ‘I can inflict great pain on you. The broken wing will be as nothing to what you will face if you lie to me.’
Tears flowed from Avil’s eyes and his lip trembled. He began to weep. Around him there sounded a strange clicking noise. He took a deep breath, and tried to control his fear as the Daroth spoke again. ‘The wizards. Tell me of the wizards.’
‘There are no wizards!’ shouted Avil. I will die like a man, he thought, though I wish to all the gods that I could live to see the fire blast down on these devils!
‘How will this happen?’ asked the Daroth softly. ‘How will the fire come?’
Avil blinked. Had he said it aloud? No, he wouldn’t be that stupid. What was happening? ‘Tell me of the wizard who makes fire from the sky,’ the Daroth repeated.
Avil dropped his head, trying not to look at the Daroth. Then he saw his knife, still in its sheath; they had not bothered to disarm him! Grabbing the hilt, he dragged the weapon clear and plunged it deep into his chest. He fell back to the grass, and found himself staring up at the night sky and the bright stars.
I did not betray you, Karis. The bastards learned nothing from me. The clicking noise sounded again.
Hands pawed at the dying man, tearing away his clothes. Then he was lifted and carried towards a pit of burning charcoal.
Chapter Thirteen
‘You realize the impossibility of what we are planning, don’t you?’ said Ozhobar, as he and Karis sat beside the forge, enjoying the last of its dying heat. ‘You can’t hide secrets from a telepathic race. Every weapon we have tested has been seen by our men. The Daroth will not be surprised.’
‘That entirely depends on the manner in which their mental powers operate,’ she said. ‘Can they read all thoughts, or only those we are thinking as they view us?’
‘We have no way of knowing,’ said Ozhobar, stroking his sandy beard.
‘Exactly. Therefore I will waste no energy in trying to second-guess their talents,’ said Karis. ‘Did you study Tarantio’s swords?’
‘Yes. Remarkable. It seems the spell has – among other things – significantly reduced the friction on the blades. But that is not what makes them so deadly.’
‘Can you duplicate them?’
‘Sadly, no. I am not a sorcerer, Karis. I am a scientist. The blades seem to shimmer in and out of existence. It is not possible, for example, to hold the metal. I tried to put a clamp on one of the blades, but it just slid clear. They will cut clean through stone, wood, and leather. Even iron, though less cleanly.’
‘I would give ten years of my life to have a hundred such blades,’ said Karis. ‘Why did Sirano have to allow himself to be killed?’
Ozhobar lifted a small linen sack and opened it, offering a biscuit to Karis. ‘I do feel honoured,’ she said. He chuckled.
‘They were a gift from the Duke’s chef. They are rather good – though not as fine as my own oatcakes.’