‘What are you doing?’ asked Chardyn. ‘How will we get back in?’
‘Trust me, priest, you do not want to go back in.’ Waylander leant in close. ‘I don’t often offer advice,’ he said, ‘but were I you I would leave this place now.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘All exits from the hall have been blocked. The stairs are sealed off. That is no longer a banqueting hall, priest. It is a killing ground.’
Without another word Waylander walked away into the night.
Reaching the western postern gate he paused and glanced back at the palace, silhouetted against the night sky. Anger flared in him, but he quelled it. Everyone in that lower hall was destined for death. They would be slaughtered like cattle.
Is that why you wanted me there, Orien? he wondered. So that I could die for killing your son?
He dismissed the thought even as it came to him. There had been no malice in the old king. Waylander had murdered his son, and yet the old man had given him the chance to find the Armour of Bronze and, at least in part, redeem himself for his past sins. So why had he come to Ustarte? There was no mystical armour to find, no great and perilous quest to undertake. Waylander had attended the gathering, which was all that had been asked of him.
Then why did you want me here?
Into his mind came the face of a frightened youth, a boy who feared crowds and lived in terror of assassination. Orien’s grandson.
With a soft curse Waylander turned and ran back towards the palace.
Within the hall a trumpet sounded, and all conversation ceased. Lord Aric and Eldicar Manushan appeared at the North Gallery rail above the throng.
‘My dear friends,’ said Aric. ‘Now comes a moment you have all anticipated with great relish – as indeed have I. Our friend Eldicar Manushan will entertain you with wonders beyond description.’ Thunderous applause broke out, and the magicker raised his hands.
With all the doors closed the temperature in the great room began to rise. As he had at Waylander’s palace, the magicker created small swirling globes of white mist, which floated and danced above the spectators, cooling the air and bringing applause.
A huge, black-maned lion appeared in the centre of the hall, and rushed towards the revellers. Several screams sounded – followed by a rush of relieved laughter as the lion became a flock of small blue songbirds, which rose up towards the rafters. The audience clapped wildly. The birds circled the hall, then gathered together, merging into the form of a small flying dragon, with golden scales and a long snout with flaring nostrils. It swooped upon the crowd, sending out a roaring blaze of fire, which engulfed the spectators by the western wall. Once more screams were followed by laughter and applause as the victims saw that not a single scorch had blemished the beauty of their satin robes and silken jackets.
On the dais the Duke Elphons clapped politely, then reached out and took the hand of his wife, Aldania, sitting beside him. A tall, slim man to the Duke’s left leant in to his lord and whispered something. Elphons smiled and nodded.
At that moment Eldicar Manushan’s voice boomed, ‘Dear friends, I thank you for your gracious applause, and now offer a climax to the evening’s entertainment, which I am sure will make what has gone before seem trivial in the extreme.’
Dark plumes of smoke began to form in the centre of the hall, twisting and snaking, braiding together like copulating serpents. The braid broke in a dozen places, and huge dark hounds leapt out, snarling, their massive fangs dripping venom. The last of the smoke floated close to the seats of the Duke and his lady. It rose up before them, forming a dark doorway, through which stepped a swordsman. He wore an ornate helm, created from layered strips of black metal, and a black silk, ankle-length tunic, split at the waist. He carried two swords, long and curved, the blades so dark they seemed to have been carved from the night sky. A third sword, scabbarded, was thrust into the black silk sash around his waistv