The red lights glowing above Vashanka’s altar winked out. The ground shuddered;
the altar stones tumbled to the ground. Wonderful, he thought. Just great. He
let his eyes slide over his men, asleep between blinks, and wondered how far the
spell extended, whether they were ensor-celed in their bunks, or in the mess, or
on their horses as they made their rounds in the country or the town.
Well, Vashanka? he tested. It’s your altar they took down. But the god was
silent.
Besides the two coming at measured pace across the ground rutted with chariot
tracks, nothing moved. No bird cried or insect chittered, no Stepson so much as
snored. The companion of the imposing man in the thick, fur mantle had him by
the elbow. Who was helping whom, Tempus could not at first determine. He tried
to think where he had seen that austere face- soul-shriveling eyes so sad, bones
so fine and yet full of vitality beneath the black, silver-starred hair-and then
blew out a sibilant breath when he realized what power approached over the
rutted, Sanctuary ground. The companion whose lithe musculature and bare, tanned
skin were counterpointed by an enameled tunic of scale-armor and soft low boots
was either a female or the prettiest eunuch Tempus had ever seen- whichever,
she/he was trouble, coming in from some nonphysical realm on the arm of the en
telechy of a shadow lord, master of the once-in-a-while archipelago that bore
his name: Askelon, lord of dreams.
When they reached him, Tempus nodded carefully and said, very quietly in a