The Rise and Fall of a Dragonking - By Lynn Abbey Page 0,57
in Andelimi’s mind. She repeated it, triggering the mnemonics he’d forced into her memory. The links between templar and champion, champion and the Dark Lens, were pulled, and magic was evoked. Sparks danced over the waterskins, growing, spreading, until the drab leather was hidden by a luminous white blanket.
After that, it was time for Hamanu to return to Urik, time to tell his exalted templars of the dangers he—and they—faced from yet another direction. He’d done all he could here.
Hamanu blinked and looked out again through his own eyes. His pall persisted in the throne chamber. Two of the templars nearest the dais had not been standing straight on their feet when the pall caught them, and as effects of time could not be easily thwarted, they’d both tumbled forward. One of them would have a bloody nose when awareness returned, the other, a bloody chin. Deeper in the silent crowd others had fallen. One—a woman, Gart Fulda—would never stand up again. She hadn’t been particularly old or infirm, but death was always a risk when Hamanu’s immortal mind touched a mortal one.
The elven pair from Todek had arrived while Hamanu’s attention was on the Giustenal border. They’d been running when they entered the throne chamber, and momentum had carried them several long strides toward the dais before the pall enveloped them. They, too, would tumble when Hamanu lifted his spell. The leading elf would have to take his chances. His companion carried an ominously familiar leather-wrapped bundle under his left arm.
A day that had not begun well and had gone poorly thereafter showed signs of becoming much, much worse.
Before he dispelled the pall, Hamanu carefully took the bundle from the immobile runner. It thrummed faintly as he carried it back to the throne. Cursing Rajaat yet another time, Hamanu considered destroying it while the pall was still in place. There’d be questions—in the minds of the elven runners, if nowhere else—and questions sired rumors. More questions, if he slew the elves, too. He reconsidered. If the templars in this chamber saw the shard’s power before he destroyed it, he wouldn’t have to worry about their loyalty when times got difficult, as times were almost certain to do.
After a sigh, Hamanu inhaled the pall into his lungs. The elven runners tumbled. Others gasped or yelped as words trapped in their throats broke free. None of the commotion held Hamanu’s attention when a trace of blue lightning, such as heralded a Tyr-storm, leapt from the shard’s leather-wrapped tip. The flash grounded itself in the crowd. Hamanu followed it to a strange templar’s mind.
“Raam,” Hamanu muttered, savoring the stranger as his most agile-minded templars became alert again. “Who in Raam would stand against me? With Dregoth marching, it would be better to make common cause.”
Javed, whose mortal mind was among the most agile and alert Hamanu had ever encountered, had heard the thrumming shard. He watched the blue lightning leap from the Lion-King’s arm. As Champion of Urik, Javed was privileged to bear his sword in the throne room. He drew the blade as another templar cried out.
Hands pressed against her steaming cheek, she reeled in agony, knocking over several less-alert templars. In her wake, Hamanu got his first eyes-only view of the Raamin stranger.
The Raamin was a striking example of humanity in its prime, taller than average, well fed, well muscled, with sun-streaked hair. That hair had begun to move as if a strong wind blew upward from the. object he clutched against his ribs.
“Drop it!” Hamanu shouted, a sound that loosened dust and plaster flakes from the ceiling, but had no effect on the Raamin’s bright blue, pall-glazed eyes.
Hamanu put the shard he held behind his back. Lightning danced on his chest, his shoulders, his neck. It penetrated the Lion-King’s human illusion without destroying it or harming him—yet.
“Drop it, now!” he shouted, louder than the first time. He didn’t dare any kind of magic or mind-bending, not with Rajaat’s malice whirling around the chamber.
The stupefied Raamin didn’t so much as blink. From his appearance, he’d been one of Abalach-Re’s templars; the Raamin queen had never been particularly concerned with cleverness when she picked her templars. Fortunately, Urik’s king had other prejudices. Urik’s elite templars were bold enough to take matters into their own hands. A handful of men and women wrestled the crackling bundle from the stiff-armed stranger and deposited it before their king’s throne, where, within a heartbeat, its wrapping had disintegrated.
Rather than the black-glass shard Hamanu had expected,