carried bells—tens, even hundreds of ceramic bells, stone bells, and bells made from rare metals—that announced their passage, and their patron, across the empty land. During Pavek’s ten years in the orphanage and ten subsequent years in the civil bureau, he knew of only one time that Urik’s official messengers had been waylaid.
Lord Hamanu had hunted the outlaws personally and brought the lot of them—a clutch of escaped slaves: men, women, and their children—back to Urik in wicker cages. With his infinitesimal mercy, the Lion-King could have slain the outlaws in a thousand different and horrible ways, but Urik’s king had no mercy where his minion-messengers were concerned. He ordered the cages slung above the south gate. The captives had all the water they wanted, but no protection from the sun or the Urikites, and no food, except each other as they starved, one by one. As Pavek recalled, it was two quinths before the last of them died, but the cages had dangled for at least a year, a warning to every would-be miscreant, before the ropes rotted through and the gnawed bones finally spilled to the ground.
Quraite would deal fairly with its uninvited visitor, or suffer the consequences. Pavek swallowed hard and kept walking.
Ruari saw them first, his elven inheritance giving him better night vision and an advantage in height over his human companions.
“What are they?” he asked, adding an under-breath oath of disbelief. “They can’t be kanks.”
But they were; seven of them spread out in an arrowhead formation. Seven, and all of them bearing travel-swathed riders. And Kashi had sensed only one mind, blaring its intentions as it moved closer to Quraite. That implied magic, either mind-benders who could conceal their thoughts and presence, or templars drawing the Lion-King’s power through their medallions, or defilers who transformed plant-life into sterile ash in order to cast their spells. Then again, Urik’s king had a well-deserved reputation for thoroughness; he might have sent two of each.
Hamanu had definitely spared nothing to make certain his messenger reached her destination. His kanks were the giants of their kind, and laden with supply bundles in addition to their riders. Their chitin was painted over with bright enamels that glistened in the moonlight and, of course, hung with clattering bells.
When they needed transportation, the druids of Quraite bartered for or bought kanks from the Moonracer tribe. The elven herders were justly proud of their shiny black kanks, selectively bred for endurance and adaptivity. Lord Hamanu, however, wasn’t interested in a bug that could run for days on end with nothing but last-year’s dried scrub grass to sustain it. The Lion-King of Urik wanted big bugs, powerful bugs, bugs that made a man think twice before he approached them. And what the Lion wanted, the Lion got.
And Pavek would get, too, if he returned to Urik, because these were the bugs that the high templars and the ranking officers of the war bureau rode. The thought made Pavek’s knees wobbly as he stood his ground in front of the advancing formation.
The kanks chittered among themselves, a high-pitched drone louder than all the bells combined. They clashed their crescent-hooked mandibles, a gesture made more menacing by the yellow phosphorescence that oozed out of their mouths to cover them. There were worse poisons in the Tablelands, but dead was dead, and kank drool was potent enough to kill.
Pavek loosened his sword in its scabbard and wrapped his right hand around its hilt. “In the name of all Quraite, who goes?” he demanded.
The dark silhouettes atop five of the kanks failed to twitch or prod their beasts to a halt. The kanks kept coming. Pavek drew his sword partway. “Halt now, or be run through.”
“I can’t see their faces,” Ruari advised with his better nightvision. “They’re all slumped over. I don’t like this—”
The lead kank—the biggest one, naturally, with mandibles that could slice through a man’s neck or thigh with equal ease—took exception to Pavek’s weapon. With its antennae flailing, it emitted an ear-piercing drone and sank its weight over its four hindmost legs.
“It’s going to charge,” Ruari shouted in unnecessary warning.
“You’ve entered the guarded lands of Quraite! Hospitality is offered. Stand down,” Pavek shouted with less authority than he would have liked to hear in his voice. He had the sword drawn, but he and the other two with him were doomed if he had to use it. “Stand down, now!”
The kank reared, brandishing the pincer claws on its front legs. Pavek’s breath froze in his