‘I – I can’t!’ Belton’s sneering bravado crumbled. His face turned deathly pale, and he began to tremble violently. ‘Sparhawk, I beg of you. It means my life if I say anything.’
‘Your life isn’t worth very much right now anyway,’ Ulath told him bluntly. ‘One way or another, you are going to talk.’
‘For God’s sake, Sparhawk! You don’t know what you’re asking!’
‘I’m not asking, Belton.’ Sparhawk’s face was bleak.
Then, without any warning or reason, a deathly chill suddenly enveloped the woods, and the mid-afternoon sun darkened. Sparhawk glanced upward. The sky was very blue, but the sun appeared wan and sickly.
Belton screamed.
An inky cloud seemed to spring from the surrounding trees, coalescing around the shrieking prisoner. Sparhawk jumped back with a startled oath, his hand going to his sword-hilt.
Belton’s voice had risen to a screech, and there were horrible sounds coming from the impenetrable darkness surrounding him – sounds of breaking bones and tearing flesh. The shrieking broke off quite suddenly, but the sounds continued for several eternal-seeming minutes. Then, as quickly as it had come, the cloud vanished.
Sparhawk recoiled in revulsion. His prisoner had been torn to pieces.
‘Good God!’ Kalten gasped. ‘What happened?’
‘We both know, Kalten,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘We’ve seen it before. Don’t try to question any of the other prisoners. I’m almost positive they won’t be allowed to answer.’
There were five of them, Sparhawk, Ehlana, Kalten, Ulath and Stragen. They had gathered in the royal apartments, and their mood was bleak.
‘Was it the same cloud?’ Stragen asked intently.
‘There were some differences,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘It was more in the way it felt rather than anything I could really pin down.’
‘Why would the Troll-Gods be so interested in protecting Krager?’ Ehlana asked, her face puzzled.
‘I don’t think it’s Krager they’re protecting,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘I think it has something to do with what’s going on in Lamorkand.’ He slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair. ‘I wish Sephrenia were here!’ he burst out with a sudden oath. ‘All we’re doing is groping in the dark.’
‘Would you be opposed to logic at this point?’ Stragen asked him.
‘I wouldn’t even be opposed to astrology just now,’ Sparhawk replied sourly.
‘All right.’ The blond Thalesian thief rose to his feet and began to pace up and down, his eyes thoughtful. ‘First of all, we know that somehow the Troll-Gods have got out of that box.’
‘Actually, you haven’t really proved that, Stragen,’ Ulath disagreed. ‘Not logically, anyway.’
Stragen stopped pacing. ‘He’s right, you know,’ he admitted. ‘We’ve been basing that conclusion on a guess. All we can say with any logical certainty is that we’ve encountered something that looks and feels like a manifestation of the Troll-Gods. Would you accept that, Sir Ulath?’
‘I suppose I could go that far, Milord Stragen.’
‘I’m so happy. Do we know of anything else that does the same sort of things?’
‘No,’ Ulath replied, ‘but that’s not really relevant. We don’t know about everything. There could be dozens of things we don’t know about that take the form of shadows or clouds, tear people all to pieces and give humans a chilly feeling when they’re around.’
‘I’m not sure that logic is really getting us anywhere,’ Stragen conceded.
‘There’s nothing wrong with your logic, Stragen,’ Ehlana told him. ‘Your major premise is faulty, that’s all.’
‘You too, your Majesty?’ Kalten groaned. ‘I thought there was at least one other person in the room who relied on common sense rather than all this tedious logic.’
‘All right then, Sir Kalten,’ she said tartly, ‘what does your common sense tell you?’
‘Well, first off, it tells me that you’re all going at the problem backwards. The question we should be asking is what makes Krager so special that something supernatural would go out of its way to protect him? Does it really matter what the supernatural thing is at the moment?’
‘He might have something there, you know?’ Ulath said. ‘Krager’s a cockroach basically. His only real reason for existing is to be stepped on.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Ehlana disagreed. ‘Krager worked for Martel, and Martel worked for Annias.’
‘Actually, dear, it was the other way around,’ Sparhawk corrected her.
She waved that distinction aside. ‘Belton and the others were all allied to Annias, and Krager used to carry messages between Annias and Martel. Belton and his cohorts would almost certainly have known Krager. Pelk’s story more or less confirms that. That’s what made Krager important in the first place.’ She paused, frowning. ‘But what made him important after the renegades were all in custody?’
‘Backtracking,’ Ulath grunted.
‘I beg your pardon?’ The queen looked baffled.
‘This whatever-it-is didn’t want us to be able to trace Krager back to his present employer.’
‘Oh, that’s obvious, Ulath,’ Kalten snorted. ‘His employer is Count Gerrich. Pelk told Sparhawk that there was somebody in Lamorkand who wanted to keep us so busy here in Elenia that we wouldn’t have time to take any steps to put down all the turmoil over there. That has to be Gerrich.’
‘You’re just guessing, Kalten,’ Ulath said. ‘You could very well be right, but it’s still just a guess.’
‘Do you see what I mean about logic?’ Kalten demanded of them. ‘What do you want, Ulath? A signed confession from Gerrich himself?’
‘Do you have one handy? All I’m saying is that we ought to keep an open mind. I don’t think we should close any doors yet, that’s all.’
There was a firm knock on the door, and it opened immediately afterward. Mirtai looked in. ‘Bevier and Tynian are here,’ she announced.
‘They’re supposed to be in Rendor,’ Sparhawk said. ‘What are they doing here?’
‘Why don’t you ask them?’ Mirtai suggested pointedly. ‘They’re right out here in the corridor.’
The two knights entered the room. Sir Bevier was a slim, olive-skinned Arcian, and Sir Tynian a blond, burly Deiran. Both were in full armour.
‘How are things in Rendor?’ Kalten asked them.
‘Hot, dry, dusty, hysterical,’ Tynian replied. ‘Rendor never changes. You know that.’
Bevier dropped to one knee before Ehlana. Despite the best efforts of his friends, the young Cyrinic Knight was still painfully formal. ‘Your Majesty,’ he murmured respectfully.
‘Oh, do stand up, my dear Bevier,’ she smiled at him. ‘We’re friends, so there’s no need for that. Besides, you creak like a rusty iron-works when you kneel.’
‘Overtrained, perhaps, your Majesty,’ he admitted.
‘What are you two doing back here?’ Sparhawk asked them.
