The Rise and Fall of a Dragonking - By Lynn Abbey Page 0,61

and die. Lightning paled quickly; thunder faded. Cold black rain pelted the city as the air cooled to a midnight chill. The pounding of countless drops was as loud as thunder. Every wall, every roof, every market square and street would have to be scrubbed clean. The Lion-King’s monumental bas-reliefs that paraded around the outer walls would have to be repainted—an enormous expenditure of labor and wealth that couldn’t be avoided, not even when every army in the heartland seemed to be marching toward Urik.

Hamanu cast his netherworld net beyond the city. The corners of his mouth pulled upward with relief: the Tyr-storm’s fury was so tightly centered above the palace that the fields outside the walls had suffered no worse than a steady rain. The workers were safe in whatever shelters they’d found for themselves, and the seeds they’d planted were safe, as well.

If war came to Urik, nothing would spare the crops, but in the ruins of his mortal human heart, Hamanu remained a farmer. Tomorrow was tomorrow’s problem; today, the crops had survived; tonight he could sleep content… if he slept at all.

His elite templars wouldn’t sleep before midnight. As the storm grumbled to a close, Hamanu crafted orders for his men and women. He’d meet immediately with his war-bureau commandants and a few others in the map room, but most of his elite templars would find themselves with civic duties in the storm’s aftermath. Keeping order was the templars’ responsibility. There’d been casualties—he could feel the Urikite dead and dying—and property damage: collapsed buildings; fires, despite the black rain; and a smattering of mad folk, some pathetically helpless, and others more dangerous than any arena beast.

Hamanu’s yellow-robed templars would see to it all. They’d dispatch the dead to the knackers; the injured to whatever healers they could afford; and they’d keep the city safe from looting, riot, and madmen. They’d organize the work gangs to put out the fires and dig out survivors. They’d get their own hands dirty, if he told them to.

And he would.

“I retire to consider what I’ve learned,” Hamanu announced before any templar had overcome his or her reluctance to ask questions. “You will each do what your office commands in the aftermath of a Tyr-storm.” The individual orders he’d crafted flowed simultaneously from his mind to theirs. “Are there any questions?”

He looked around the chamber, meeting and breaking the stare of anyone who considered a time-wasting inquiry. The templars began departing. As soon as there was a clear path to the corpse, the slaves left the treadmills. They took up the blond Raamin’s body and bore it respectfully from the chamber.

Hamanu picked out one particular dark-haired head among those moving toward the door. Flicking a finger through the netherness, he tapped the man sharply on the shoulder. Pavek’s face slumped forward even as his spine straightened—an impressive physical performance in its helpless, hapless mortal way—but otherwise no one suspected that he’d been singled out for private conversation with his king.

Pavek was learning the tricks of his new trade.

“I gave you no orders,” Hamanu said once they were alone. He narrowed his eyes and got a good taste of common-born fear before Pavek managed to swallow it.

Slowly, Pavek raised his head. Dark mortal eyes, wide with dread, found the strength to defy the Lion-King. “O Mighty King, I was following the commands of my office. There are Quraite farmers planting seed north of the walls—”

“Eight of whom are more competent druids than you’ll ever be! If all of Urik were so well protected, the fiercest Tyr-storm would be tamed to a breeze long before it got here.”

Pavek gulped. Guilty thoughts swirled in his mind. He’d known about six of the druids, but not eight. He was afraid for himself, more afraid for them. It was the latter fear that stiffened his spine. “O Mighty King, you said it was time for Quraite to pay the price of your protection. It was their choice. More would have come—”

“But you thought six was enough. I tell you, Pavek, they sneaked an extra two in without your knowledge.”

The man broke at last. His posture went limp; he stared at his feet and muttered, “It was their choice, O Mighty King. They know their magic is forbidden, but they came anyway. You made them understand that Quraite is as much a part of Urik as the Lion’s fountain.”

Even in defeat—especially in defeat—Pavek spoke the words that formed in his heart. Once, never more than twice, in