Silence measured a long, terrifying minute. The centaurs panted for breath and waited, their expressions grim. The larger number of Tarmaks crouched, bows and a dozen spears ready to kill.

“Surrender!” one Tarmak said in clear Common. “Surrender at once or we kill all of you!”

Linsha sagged against Leonidas, numb with defeat.

By the time the fire burned through the flimsy barricade erected by the defenders, the remaining mercenaries caught outside the palace had been eliminated and those trapped inside had been demoralized. As soon as the gate fell, the Tarmaks charged in and captured the throne room. It took most of the day to track down and slaughter the entire garrison of slightly more than four hundred mercenaries, for the old ruin had warrens of tunnels, numerous rooms, and more hiding holes than anyone could count. The mercenaries put up more of a struggle than expected, but in the late afternoon the Tarmak warriors gathered in the forecourt of the palace, confident they had the palace to themselves. Beyond the gates, in the grassy meadow, a huge pyre took care of the final mercenary problem.

An ekwegul, the leader of a Tarmak hundred (or ekwul), that had been assigned to this job, wiped his hands in satisfaction and watched the black smoke rise from the pyre in the nearby field. His warriors moved confidently around him, picking up weapons, kicking dirt over pools of blood, and looking for anything of interest. Their general would be coming soon to inspect the dragon’s lair, and while no one was squeamish about pools of blood and bits of bodies lying around, the mess did tend to draw flies and those vicious ants even the Tarmaks had grown to hate.

A human man, wearing filthy bloodstained clothes, emerged from the open doors of the throne room and strode across the courtyard toward the ekwegul. None of the Tarmaks made a move to stop him. In fact many tilted their heads or touched their chests in gestures of respect when they saw him. The ekwegul watched him come, a lazy smile on his face.

“So, they fell into our trap,” he said when the man stopped beside him.

“We had the right bait.”

The ekwegul looked down at the man. The Tarmak officer was over seven feet tall, a normal height for his people. The human barely reached six feet and did not have the elegantly pointed ears the Tarmaks prized. Yet he was a cunning warrior, an astute military planner, and the adopted son of the Tarmak king’s beloved younger brother. The Tarmaks had long ago forgotten the man’s minor physical deformities.

“Where are they now?” the ekwegul asked.

“The centaurs have been sent to the slave pens. I separated the woman from the buckskin stallion. He is very loyal to her. The lady knight and men are in the cells under the palace.”

The Tarmak nodded. “Good. I’ve seen those cells. A rat could not escape from one.”

The human gave a brief laugh. “Don’t underestimate the talents of that woman. I want a guard on her day and night. Did the owl get away?”

“Mathurra told me it was nicked by an arrow, but it escaped. Into the trees he thinks.”

The man’s mouth and eyes narrowed in displeasure. “Send someone out to scour the grounds under the trees. Be certain. The owl must be undamaged.”

“It will be done.”

They stood for a moment in thoughtful silence, watching the smoke rise into the afternoon sky, before the man said, “The attack is still set for tonight. The 2nd and 4th ekwul will lead the way, but you will be needed to watch the paths and escape routes. Will your warriors be ready?”

The Tarmak did not hesitate. “Of course. We had light casualties. I will see they are fed and rested, and they will be ready to serve.”

“The goddess be with you tonight,” the man replied.

They exchanged salutes, and the man walked back toward the throne room.

Linsha was still awake when the Tarmaks brought down another prisoner. She heard the creak of the door at the top of the stairs and the plod of feet coming down the stone steps into the circular room that had once been an interrogation chamber of sorts. Five stone cells set in the wall opened into the room and could be watched by one man. Several torches in brackets on the walls lit the room and cast some illumination on a bare table, several stools, and the rusted remains of a few chains dangling from the ceiling. Two Tarmaks sat at the table and did nothing but watch the cell doors.

A dim light from the torches lit the cells as well through the barred doors. The bars were in remarkable shape in spite of their age and the dampness in the room, prompting Linsha to test one when the Tarmak guards were not looking her way. As she suspected, the bars had been forged with elven spells and still carried vestiges of that power. There would be no bending or crumbling or snapping of a rusty bar in these cells, even if any of the humans could wield enough magic to try it.

Feigning disinterest, she leaned back against the damp wall of her cell and watched through half-closed lids as two new Tarmaks appeared at the foot of the stairs carrying a litter. The two guards rose to greet them, and one pointed to Linsha’s cell. Linsha tensed. She dropped her pretense of inattention and opened her eyes as the Tarmaks unlocked her cell door.

Linsha made no effort to move. She did not even entertain the notion of rushing these warriors and trying to battle her way out. Besides being skilled warriors, the Tarmaks were all six feet or taller, well muscled, and as graceful in their movements as hunting cats. Up close, without their blue skin paint, they were a handsome people with dark hair usually worn long, fair skin, and eyes of earth colors that often burned with a fanatical zeal. She would have as much luck fighting four Tarmaks barehanded as she would facing four minotaurs.

Her own eyes wary, Linsha watched while the Tarmaks dumped the occupant of the litter to a pallet of straw on the floor and left. One Brute said something to the guards in their guttural language, then the two left. She waited until the door creaked shut at the top of the stairs before she slipped over to the pallet and rolled the man over onto his back. He groaned and opened a pair of vivid blue eyes.

“Lanther.” Linsha couldn’t help but smile. “I thought you were dead.”

He rubbed a hand over his battered face and winced when he hit a large bruise on his temple.

“So did I.” With her help he managed to sit up and prop his back against the stone wall of the cell. “Is there any water in here?”

She brought the small bucket the Tarmaks had left in her cell and gave him a few sips of water. She was bursting with questions, but she waited for him to gather his wits and find the strength to speak. Pale and dirty and splattered with blood, he looked terrible in the half-light of the cell. She could not see any obvious wounds leaking blood onto his clothes, but she could not tell yet if he had any broken bones or internal injuries.

“What happened to your arm?” he asked, staring blearily at the crude wrapping on her upper arm.

“Crossbow. The Tarmaks were kind enough to pull it out. They slathered some of that odd smelling blue paint of theirs on it.” She twisted her arm around to look at it. “When they put it on, the wound started to tingle and the pain eased. I would not be surprised if that paint had some healing properties to it.”

“Maybe that’s why they don’t wear armor.” His eyes crinkled in a slight grimace, and he shifted to get more comfortable. “Where are we?”

“Under the palace. In those prisoner cells Iyesta did not like.”