The Hidden City by David Eddings

‘Since we’re here anyway, we might as well swing over and

burn their supply dump. My knights are getting restless, and a

little exercise might do them some good.’

‘it is rather chilly,’ she observed with just the hint of a smile.

‘A fire would be nice.’

‘Shall we, then?’

‘Why don’t we?’

The Cynesgan supply dump covered about five acres. It lay

in a rocky, treeless basin, and it was defended by about a regiment

of Cynesgan troops in flowing robes. As the column of

armored knights approached, the defenders galloped forth to

meet them. That particular maneuver might best be described

as a tactical blunder. The gravel-covered floor of the Desert of

Cynesga was flat and clear of obstructions, so the charge of the

Church Knights was unimpeded. There was an enormous crash

as the two forces collided, and the knights, after only a nomentary

hesitation, rode on, trampling the bodies of the wounded

and slain under the steel-shod hooves of their mounts while the

squealing horses of the Cynesgans fled in terror.

‘impressive,’ Betuana conceded as she ran along beside

Vanion’s mount. ‘But isn’t it tedious to endure the weight – and

the smell – of the armor for months on end for the sake of two

minutes of entertainment?’

‘There are drawbacks to any style of warfare, your Majesty,’

Vanion said, raising his visor. ‘A part of the idea behind armored

charges is to persuade others to avoid confrontations. It holds

down the casualties in the long run.’

‘A reputation for extreme severity is a good weapon, VanionPreceptor,’

she agreed.

‘We like it,’ he smiled. ‘Let’s go build that bonfire so that your

Majesty can warm her toes.’

‘That would be nice,’ she smiled.

There was a dust-covered hill directly ahead, rising like a

slightly rounded pyramid to block the way to the supply dump.

With simple arm-gestures, Vanion directed his knights to

diverge and sweep around both sides of the hill to swarm over

the accumulated supplies of Cyrgon’s army. They galloped forward

with that vast, steely, clinking thunder that proclaims

implacable invincibility.

And then the hill moved. The dust which had covered it shuddered

away in a great billowing cloud, and the two enormous

wings unfurled their glossy blackness to reveal the wedge-shaped

face of Klael. The beast of ultimate darkness roared, and

the fangs of lightning, jagged and flickering, emerged from

behind snarling lips.

And out from beneath the shelter of those two great wings

came an army like no army Vanion had ever seen.

They were as tall as the Atans and more bulky. Their bare

arms were huge, and their steel breastplates fit them like a

second skin, revealing every knotted muscle. Their helmets bore

exotic-looking embellishments – horns or antlers or stiff steel

wings – and, like their breastplates, their visors fit tightly over

their faces, exactly duplicating the features of each individual

warrior. There was no humanity in those polished faces. The

brows were impossibly wide, and, like the face of klael himself,

they narrowed down to almost delicately pointed chins. The

eye-slits blazed, and there were twin holes in place of noses.

The mouths of those masks were open, and they were filled

with cruelly pointed teeth.

They swarmed out from beneath klael’s wings with his lightning

playing around them. They brandished weapons that

appeared to be part mace and part axe – steel atrocities dredged

from nightmare.

They were too close to permit any kind of orderly withdrawal,

and the knights, still moving at a thunderous gallop, were committed

before they could fully comprehend the nature of the

enemy. The impact as the two armies came together shook the earth,

and that solid, steely crash shattered into a chaos of sound blows,

shrieks, the agonized squeals of horses, the tearing of

metal. ‘Sound a withdrawal!’ Vanion bellowed to the leader of the

Genidians. ‘Blow your heart into that Ogre-horn, man. Get our

people clear!’ The carnage was ghastly. Horses and men were being ripped

to pieces by klael’s inhuman army. Vanion drove his spurs

home, and his horse leapt forward. The Pandion Preceptor drove

his lance through the steel breastplate of one of the aliens and

saw blood – at least he thought it might be blood, thick yellow

blood – gushing from the steel-lipped mask. The creature fell

back, but still swung its cruel weapon. Vanion pulled his hand

clear of the butt of the lance, leaving the beast transfixed, skewered,

as it were, and drew his sword.

It took a long time. The thing absorbed blows which would

have dismembered a human. Eventually, however, Vanion

chopped it down – almost like a peasant chopping out a tough,

stringy thorn-bush.

‘Engessa!’ Betuana’s shriek of rage and despair rang out above

the other sounds of the battle.

Vanion wheeled his horse and saw the Atan Queen rushing

to the aid of her stricken general. Even the monstrous creatures

klael had unleashed quailed in the face of her fury as she cut

her way to Engessa’s side.

Vanion smashed his way through to her, his sword flickering

in the chill light, spraying yellow blood in gushing fountains.

‘Can you carry him?’ he shouted to Betuana.

She bent and with no apparent effort lifted her fallen friend

in her arms.

‘Pull back!’ Vanion shouted. ‘i’ll cover you!’ And he hurled

his horse into the path of the monsters who were rushing to

attack her.

There was no hope in Betuana’s face as she ran toward the

rear, cradling Engessa’s limp body in her arms, and her eyes

were streaming tears.

Vanion ground his teeth together, raised his sword, and

charged.

Sephrenia was very tired when they reached Dirgis. ‘i’m not

really hungry,’ she told Xanetia and Aphrael after they had taken

a room in a respectable inn near the center of the city. ‘All I

want is a nice hot bath and about twelve hours of sleep.’

‘Art thou unwell, sister mine?’ Xanetia’s voice was concerned.

Sephrenia smiled wearily. ‘No, dear,’ she said, laying one

hand on the Anarae’s arm. ‘i’m a little tired, that’s ‘all. This

rushing around is starting to wear on me. You two go ahead

and have some supper. just ask someone to bring a small pot

of tea up to the room. That’ll be enough for right now. I’ll make

up for it at breakfast time. Only don’t make too much noise

when you come up to bed.’

She spent a pleasant half-hour immersed to her ears in steaming

water in the bath-house and returned to their room tightly

wrapped in her Styric robe and carrying a candle to light her

way.

Their room was not large, but it was warm and cozy, heated

by one of the porcelain stoves common here in Tamuli.

Sephrenia rather liked the concept of a stove, since it kept the

ashes and cinders off the floor. She drew a chair close to the fire

and began to brush her long, black hair.

‘Vanity, Sephrenia? After all these years?’

She started half to her feet at the sound of the familiar voice.

Zalasta scarcely looked the same. He no longer wore his Styric

robe, but rather a leather’ jerkin of an Arjuni cut, stout canvas

trousers, and thick-soled boots. He had even so far discarded

his heritage that he wore a short sword at his waist. His white

hair and beard were tangled, and his face was haggard. ‘Please

don’t make a scene, love,’ he told her. His voice was weary and

devoid of any emotion beyond a kind of profound regret. He

sighed. ‘Where did we go wrong, Sephrenia?’ he asked sadly.

‘What tore us apart and brought us to this sorry state?’

‘You don’t really want me to tell you, do you, Zalasta?’ she

replied. ‘Why couldn’t you just let it go? I did love you, you

know – not that way, of course, but it was love. Couldn’t you

accept that and forget about the other?’

‘Evidently not. It didn’t even occur to me.”

‘Sparhawk’s going to kill you, you know.

‘Perhaps. To be honest with you, though, I no longer really

care.’

‘What’s the point of this then? Why have you come here?’

‘I wanted to see you one last time – hear the sound of your

voice. ‘ He rose from the chair in the corner where he had been

sitting. ‘it all could have been so different – if it hadn’t been for

Aphrael. She was the one who took you into the lands of the

Elenes and corrupted you. You’re Styric, Sephrenia. We Styrics

have no business consorting with the Elene barbarians.’

‘You’re wrong, Zalasta. Anakha’s an Elene. That’s our business

with them. You’d better leave. Aphrael’s downstairs eating

supper right now. If she finds you here, she’ll have your heart

for dessert.’

‘In a moment. There’s something I have to do first. After that,

she can do anything to me she wants to do.’ His face suddenly

twisted into an expression of anguish. ‘Why, Sephrenia? Why?

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